Murder on the Mont

By Ann Port

What I hoped would be my great adventure has become more exciting than even I could have imagined, Sydney Blanchett ponders as she stands outside the magnificent abbey of Mont Saint-Michel in Normandy France. I joked that while I studied the history and architecture of the monastery, I would solve the Mont’s many ancient unsolved mysteries. How could I have known I’d be helping to solve a real-life mystery, one that’s complicated and possibly life-threatening?
After a murder occurs on the Mont, Sydney, along with the monks and nuns who inhabit the monastery; her professor, Armand Toussaint; and a police inspecteur, Marcel Caron; set out to identify the killer. As they uncover clues, Sydney faces terrifying encounters that could make her the next person to be murdered on the Mont. From beginning to end, Ann Port’s ninth novel, Murder on the Mont, is a page-turner that challenges the reader to figure out “who done it.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663219497

Ann Port

Ann Port was born in Macon, Georgia and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. In 1965, after graduating from Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois with a major in English and a minor in history, she moved to San Diego and earned a master’s degree in social sciences at California Western University in San Diego, California. For the next twenty-four years, she taught English literature, American literature, and Advanced Placement English in the San Diego area. In 1992, when her husband accepted a job with the Boston Red Sox, he and Ann moved to Southborough, Massachusetts, a lovely New England town thirty-seven miles west of the city.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 Ann Port.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from New King James Version of the Bible

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1948-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1949-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021905325

iUniverse rev. date: 03/15/2021

Contents

Also by Ann Port

Dedication

Le Mont Saint-Michel, Normandy, France

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Ann Port

It’s all in the Title

The Bernini Quest

A Fair Exchange

The Iznik Enigma

Full Circle

Unforeseen Paths

Without Reason

Last Resort

Dedication

57419.png

Murder on the Mont is dedicated to a dear ninety-nine-years-young friend, Mary Dale Fairbanks. When I first had the idea to write about Mont Saint-Michel, Dale presented me with a framed etching of the island created in 1946, that she had purchased during her visit in 1977. Her message, I hope this picture will inspire you as you write your novel. Indeed it has, Dale. Thank you for your love and support. You are an inspiration to many who want to be just like you when we grow up.

Le Mont Saint-Michel,

Normandy, France

Picture%20%232%2c%20Le%20Mont%20Saint-Michel.jpg

I had first seen it from Cancale, this fairy castle in the sea. I got an indistinct impression of it as of a grey shadow outlined against the misty sky. I saw it again from Avranches at sunset. The immense stretch of sand was red, the horizon was red, the whole boundless bay was red. The rocky castle rising out there in the distance like a weird, seignorial residence, like a dream palace, strange and beautiful—this alone remained black in the crimson light of the dying day.

The following morning at dawn I went toward it across the sands, my eyes fastened on this gigantic jewel, as big as a mountain, cut like a cameo, and as dainty as lace. The nearer I approached the greater my admiration grew, for nothing in the world could be more wonderful or more perfect.

As surprised as if I had discovered the habitation of a god, I wandered through those halls supported by frail or massive columns, raising my eyes in wonder to those spires which looked like rockets starting for the sky, and to that marvelous assemblage of towers, of gargoyles, of slender and charming ornaments, a regular fireworks of stone, granite lace, a masterpiece of colossal and delicate architecture.

The Legend of Mont-Saint Michel,

Guy D’ Maupassant

59272.png

Chapter 1

59289.png

T wo long years of study, a master’s degree in hand, and I’m two weeks away from an adventure of a lifetime in France, Sydney Blanchet pondered as she returned to her seat at Nickerson Field on the campus of Boston University, her home away from home for the past two years. She could hear a smattering of applause, she was sure, from her mom and dad. They, like the other 9,000-plus attendees who had filled the stadium, had ignored the warning from the dean of the college to hold the clapping until the end of the graduation cere mony.

So much has happened over the past three weeks, Sydney mulled as the other graduates made their way to the stage to receive their diplomas. I aced my orals and my written exams in French history and literature. And I received a letter confirming my acceptance to the joint Ph.D. program in French Studies at NYU beginning in the fall. Most exciting was the email I received from Professor Swisher, my soon-to-be advisor, informing me that the flexibility in the curriculum would allow me to focus on my ultimate objective. In two weeks, I’ll be off to Normandy to begin my studies at Le Mont Saint-Michel.

As she watched row upon row of her fellow graduates leave their seats and parade across the stage, Sydney thought back to the conversation she had with her mother over the past Christmas break. The tree was up. The shopping was done. The presents were wrapped. Finally, with time to relax, she and Charlotte were enjoying a few moments of girl-time over a cup of afternoon tea. It had been an unusually cold day in Raleigh, so her dad had built a fire in the family room fireplace before heading out, he said, to do a little shopping for my girls.

From talk of the holiday celebration to follow, the discussion had turned to Sydney’s post-graduation plans. Why Mont-Saint-Michel? Charlotte had asked. Your dad and I figured you’d want to continue your studies somewhere in France. You speak French like a native, and French history is obviously your passion. But in our wildest dreams, we never thought you’d choose to study in Normandy.

I’m not sure why I’m so eager to return to the Mont, Sydney said pensively. But my decision was definitely influenced by the two trips you, Dad, and I made to Normandy.

Our visits were that important? Charlotte queried.

They were, Sydney said. Especially the one we made with Grandpa when I was eight years old.

You never said—

Because I didn’t fully understand the impact that special excursion made on my life until I read the letter Grandpa wrote several weeks before he died. What I didn’t realize then became clear last year when I took a course on the history of Normandy from 1066 through 1946. While listening to the professor talk about the effect of the German Occupation on the Norman people, I recalled Grandpa’s poignant stories as if he had told them earlier that morning. That’s when I knew I wanted to return to the region to study.

I’d forgotten about Grandpa’s letter, Charlotte said. Do you still have it?

I would never part with it, Mom. It’s in the lovely cherry-wood box that Dad gave me the morning of my eighteenth birthday to house the missive he knew you’d be giving me later in the day.

I remember when Grandpa wrote the letter, Charlotte said. "We had been home from Normandy for about two weeks. Like your dad and I had feared, the trip had sapped much of Grandpa’s strength. He was weak and getting weaker, but he was a happy man. He had fulfilled his greatest wish. He had shown you the beaches of Normandy.

"One rainy afternoon he was resting on the couch. Your dad was at work. I hated leaving Grandpa alone, but I needed a few things at the grocery store. As soon as I got home, I came in to see how he was doing. Obviously waiting for me to return, he was sitting up. I had barely entered the room when he said he wanted to write a letter, but he had no stationery. I found a half-filled box in your father’s desk. I gave him what remained and a pen. A few minutes later, as I left him to complete his project, I paused at the door and glanced back. He had a different look about him. His face was no longer drawn. His eyes were bright. He was already writing.

"When I called him to dinner several hours later, he handed me a thick, sealed envelope and the now-empty box that had contained the stationery. On the front of the envelope was your name and the words, To my darling Sydney on the occasion of your eighteenth birthday. He told me to put the letter in a safe place and be sure you received it on your special day.

After that afternoon, he went quickly downhill. I believe he gave up. He had accomplished his task. There was nothing more to do. He died six weeks later. You know, I never read that letter, Sydney.

You didn’t? Sydney asked. I would have gladly shared, Mom. I don’t think you mentioned the letter again after you and Dad gave it to me. Let’s read the letter together. I’ll go upstairs and get it while you pour fresh cups of tea.

By the time Sydney returned to the family room, Charlotte had stoked the fire, and a steaming cup of tea was waiting. Shall I read aloud, or would you like to read the letter yourself, Mom? she asked.

Neither, Charlotte said. We never sat down to talk about the trip—at least after you were older, and I never asked to read Grandpa’s letter because I felt that what he wrote was better left between the two of you. Now, if you’re willing to share, I would love to hear about the trip from his perspective.

Of course, I’m willing to share, Sydney said. What Grandpa wrote was never a secret, Mom. It’s just that I never thought to ask if you wanted to read it. Every year on his birthday, I reread what he wrote. To this day, I can close my eyes and see his smiles and his tears as he relived those days of long ago. I can still feel his eager anticipation as he recalled his experience at one place and then the next. I still can feel his trembling hand as he squeezed mine, I’m sure praying that I could understand what he was trying say. So, let’s talk.

Let’s begin with how our special journey with Grandpa came to be, Charlotte said. But first, let me say that I’m so glad we went. When Grandpa first broached the subject of taking you to Normandy, your dad and I felt the trip would be a waste of time—that you were too young to remember what you’d see and hear. But Grandpa was sure he could make the experience one you would never forget.

He was right, Sydney said. Until now, I’d forgotten that, initially, you and dad adamantly refused to go. What made you change your mind?

In the end, we felt we had no choice but to consent. Grandpa was seventy-eight years old. Until three months prior to our departure, he had been a healthy, active senior citizen. Shortly after Christmas, he caught what we assumed was a bad cold. When he began to have trouble breathing, we thought he might have developed pneumonia. After much arguing, he finally agreed to see a doctor. He didn’t have pneumonia. He was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. We took him for a second opinion. That doctor agreed with the first. Both men gave him less than a year to live.

Was that when the subject of the trip to Normandy came up again? Sydney asked.

It was, Charlotte said. Dad and I couldn’t deny Grandpa his final wish. We agreed to make the trip to Omaha Beach so he could share one, if not the most important story of his life, where it took place.

I vaguely recall the argument that sealed the deal, so to speak, Sydney said. I had never seen Grandpa angry, but when you suggested it would be best that he stay in Raleigh, that a trip to Europe would be too difficult for him, his eyes flashed, and his face turned purple. At the time, I didn’t understand. Years later, when you told me how weak he was and how he struggled to mask the effects of his disease, our time together and the stories he told about his experience on D-Day made the trip more meaningful. Before then, I only knew that he had joined the army right after he graduated from high school. I had no idea that he had been a part of one of the most historic and important battles of World War II.

What exactly do you remember about the trip with Grandpa, Sydney?

I recall that we landed in Paris, rented a car, and drove directly to Normandy. Though it didn’t rain, the sky was cloudy, and it drizzled, particularly during the last part of the drive. I also remember how special I felt when you let me sit up front with Dad.

Laughing, Charlotte said, It wasn’t that you were special, Sydney. You got car sick when you sat in the backseat for any length of time. We knew we’d be driving for at least three hours, and your dad didn’t want to pay extra to have the car cleaned and detailed before we returned it to the rental company.

A happy thought shattered, Sydney jested. I also remember that Grandpa, who was usually a talkative guy, was unusually quiet during the drive. Once or twice he muttered something to the effect that tanks and armored vehicles had once passed along the very route we were taking, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask him to explain. When we got to Bayeux, he didn’t want to stop. He wasn’t interested in seeing the famed tapestry, but then neither was I.

A point you made clear, said Charlotte. But your dad and I prevailed. When we came out of the exhibit, Grandpa was sitting at a table in the square. He didn’t ask us what we’d seen. In a trance-like state—as if he were somewhere else—he mumbled, ‘You know, Sydney, Bayeux was one of the first cities to be liberated after the invasion.’

I remember that, Sydney said. At the time, I had no idea what he was talking about, but for some reason—as so often happened during the trip—I sensed it wasn’t the time to ask questions.

Do you remember the tapestry?

Vaguely, Sydney said. But I vividly recall the look on your face when, at Grandpa’s insistence, you tasted Calvados, the apple cider brandy that he told us had been produced in the region for over five centuries.

It’s interesting that you’d think of that particular incident, Charlotte said. I haven’t thought about Calvados for years. Before I took a gulp, I figured I’d be drinking strong apple cider, but Calvados was more than that. The liquid burned my throat.

You drank my lemonade to stop coughing, Sydney said. But that isn’t why the incident was memorable. Grandpa’s eyes brightened, and he laughed. That was the only time during the trip when he found something humorous enough to laugh about.

He was rather glum during most of the time, wasn’t he?

I wouldn’t say glum, Mom. True, he brooded a lot, I’m sure because the memories he was sharing were so powerful. Thinking back, I wonder how he knew about Calvados. I doubt he stopped at a farmhouse to enjoy a celebratory drink after the landing.

I asked him to explain, Charlotte said. Evidently, as the men of his unit passed through the town, an old woman carrying an American flag came out to greet them. As Grandpa marched by, she handed him a shot glass filled with Calvados. Her enthusiastic welcome stuck in his mind, as did the memory of the strong brandy he said made him choke. Besides my choking episode, what else do you recollect about Bayeux?

To be honest, not much about the town, but I think our original plan had been to visit Omaha Beach that afternoon.

That’s right. But we’d had a long day, and though he wouldn’t admit it, Grandpa was fading. He wasn’t pleased when we said we would make one more quick stop before driving to the Château Du Molay, our hotel for the next two nights.

Now I remember, Sydney said. We ended up going to Arromanches. You and Dad must have figured I wouldn’t get car sick during the short drive because I sat in the back with Grandpa. As soon as we left Bayeux, he removed an old map from a worn briefcase he’d brought with him from home, opened it carefully, refolded it, and pointed to a spot he’d highlighted in green. ‘Arromanches was nicknamed Gold Beach,’ he told me. Let me find the place in the letter, Mom. His written words echo what he said back then.

Did Grandpa begin his story with mention of Gold Beach? Charlotte asked as Sydney skimmed the letter.

No, Sydney said. He began with several paragraphs about the joy he had felt when he was finally able to share his story with me, his ‘precious granddaughter.’ I cried when I first read those words. I’m teary now. Shall I read, or would you rather I summarize what Grandpa wrote?

Let’s keep the personal parts of the letter between you and Grandpa, Charlotte said. Begin summarizing when he wrote about Gold Beach.

Okay, Sydney said a minute later. I’ve found the spot. I recall this part of the trip so well. Pointing to the green marks on the map, Grandpa explained that Gold Beach was where the British 50th Infantry Division landed on that fateful June morning. I remember how patient he was when I interrupted him before he could finish that part of his talk. I asked him to explain the red marks near the green. He told me he had marked the location of Omaha Beach in red because it was there where many brave Americans soldiers left their red blood in the sand. He then explained his primary purpose for bringing me to Gold Beach. He wanted me to see the mulberries.

You remember the mulberries? Charlotte asked. I’d forgotten.

I do, Sydney said. "But only because when Grandpa first mentioned them, I thought he was talking about trees. I remember the look of surprise on his face when I asked whether the mulberries that grew in Normandy were the same type of trees that grew in our backyard in Raleigh.

"To remember exactly what Grandpa said next, I have to refer to his letter. He wrote that mulberries were portable harbors used by the British to bring two and-a half million men, five hundred thousand vehicles, and four million tons of supplies ashore. Years later when my professor recited those numbers, I realized that Grandpa referenced them because he wanted me to understand the magnitude of the invasion.

"We paused at the top of the cliff before we made our way down the narrow trail to the beach below. I wanted to run down and put my feet in the water, but Grandpa insisted we wait until he’d finished his explanation.

The tide was out, so the giant harbors were clearly visible. As we looked down at the wreckage on the shore, I asked him why the junk hadn’t been removed. He didn’t seem pleased when I referred to the mulberries as junk, but instead of scolding me, he patiently explained that the so-called junk had been left as a memorial to the thousand-plus brave men who had lost their lives on Gold Beach.

Picture%20%233%2c%20Mulberry%20on%20Gold%20Beach.jpg

A Mulberry on Gold Beach

I remember watching Grandpa wipe tears from his cheeks when we paused to look at a moss-covered German defense bunker smattered with bullet holes, Charlotte said.

I do too, said Sydney. "I now realize that, to him, the old structure, like the mulberries, wasn’t merely a wreck that hadn’t been removed. It was a symbolic reminder of what he and so many others had once endured.

As we strolled along the Digue, the coastal walk, we watched boys and girls playing in the water. Grandpa commented somberly that there were no children on the beach that horrible day. It wasn’t until the next day when we visited Omaha Beach that I understood what he meant. He wasn’t picturing a peaceful spot where life was pleasant, and joy abounded. He was remembering a battlefield where brave men had died by the droves.

Looking back, I wish that Dad and I had been more sensitive to Grandpa’s feelings,’ Charlotte said. At the time, we were more concerned with his physical wellbeing than his state of mind."

I was young, but I could see that you were worried, Sydney said. So much so, that Dad and Grandpa had an argument after we returned to the car. I remember because I was shocked. Until then, except for that one time when you initially refused to make the trip to Normandy, I had never heard Grandpa raise his voice. He was such a gentle, calm man.

That’s right, Charlotte said. Grandpa insisted our next stop should be the German battery at Longues-sur-Mer. He wanted to see the German guns that had once fired down on the troops storming the beach. Apparently, the guns, like the mulberries and the German bunkers, had been left in place. That time, Dad put his foot down. It was evident that Grandpa was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The climb to the battery would have been too much.

I believe in the end, you compromised.

We did, Charlotte said. We visited the Musée du Débarquement, a museum built to chronicle the events of June 6, 1944 and the days following. Grandpa never acknowledged that we made the right decision, but we could tell he was glad to sit while we watched archive footage of the landings. By the time the film ended, he had obviously had enough. He didn’t argue when Dad insisted that we drive from there directly to the hotel.

I remember how excited Grandpa was when you told him we’d be staying at the Château Du Molay, Sydney said. I didn’t understand why the hotel was a such big deal, but to make him feel good, I pretended I did. After I read his letter, I decided it wasn’t the hotel itself that was appealing. It was what hadn’t happened there. In detail, he wrote about how the Germans had planned to use the château as a base for launching V2 rockets toward London. The invasion had prevented that from happening. It was the fact that the Germans had failed in their endeavor to destroy London that caused his excitement.

What do you remember about the château itself? Charlotte asked.

Not much other than I had a big room on the third floor with the tallest windows I had ever seen. When we arrived, one window had been left wide open, and the room was chilly. I also recall how irritated I was when you made me take a nap.

Despite sleeping for over an hour, you nodded off at dinner while Dad, Grandpa, and I sipped our coffee, Charlotte reminded. It was ten o’clock, well past your bedtime.

I remember it was raining when we returned to the room, Sydney said. "You hadn’t closed the window tightly before we went down to eat. The sheer curtains were blowing in the gentle breeze. I could smell the rain and hear the drops pattering on the roof.

It was misting when we went to breakfast in the morning. We were seated at a table by a window. I looked out and saw ducks waddling on the grass. I had to see those ducks up close and personal. I’m sure to stop my incessant pleading, Dad took me outside. The ducks were quacking, and the birds were chirping.

The air was the freshest I’d ever smelled, Charlotte said. When I mentioned that to Grandpa, he grimaced. ‘How times have changed,’ he said, a faraway look in his eyes. I suppose he was remembering the smoke, fire, gunpowder, and screams of wounded and dying on the beaches just sixteen kilometers from where we were sitting. As he slid into the backseat of the car, I heard him take a deep breath. Though it’s impossible to know what was on his mind, I imagine he was feeling a mixture of anticipation, excitement, and dread as we began our drive to Omaha Beach.

Looking back, I’m sure he was, Sydney said. "Like I had the day before, I sat with him in the backseat. While Dad drove along the narrow roads, Grandpa mumbled from time to time, though his sentences were often inaudible. As he looked out at the cows grazing, the open fields, and the stands of tall trees, he was probably thinking how different the countryside looked in June of 1944.

"For some reason—perhaps because I sensed his distress—I snuggled against him. He put his arm around me and pulled me so close that I could feel him tremble and shudder when Dad opened the front windows. He took a deep breath, taking in the pungent aroma of burning wood coming from fireplaces in farmhouses we passed along the way. Until I read this letter years later, I didn’t understand the depth of his reaction. He was remembering a smell of a different kind of fire—gunfire. So many questions were running through my mind, but, as before, I kept quiet, leaving him to his reflections.

"When we reached the end of the narrow road, Dad parked the car. We got out and walked to the edge of a cliff that dropped down, at first sharply, then more gradually, to the sparkling blue sea and windswept beach below. ‘You’re looking at Omaha Beach, Sydney,’ Grandpa said. I took his hand and gently tugged, pulling him toward the path that would lead us down to the sand. I was surprised when he resisted. After all, this was what he wanted me to see. Why wait?

Because I was only eight years old, I don’t remember many of his Grandpa’s exact words, but I do recall a few. ‘Be patient!’ he insisted. Perhaps realizing he’d been a bit too sharp with me, he went on to explain that he wanted to tell his story of that dreadful day from the top of the cliff, the place where he finally felt a glimmer of hope that he might survive the nightmare that was still playing out on the beaches below.

I remember that Dad took Grandpa’s arm to help him walk across the rough ground. After we’d settled on the bench, once again, as he had so many times during the drive, he inhaled and exhaled deeply. His voice trembling, he slowly and deliberately began to tell his story. I can’t find words to describe the look on his face. Understandably, he was filled with emotions that, to this day, I can’t begin to imagine. I’ll read directly from the letter.

A strong nudge coming from her left interrupted Sydney’s musings, bringing her back to the moment at hand. Did you hear your name mentioned? asked Anne, a fellow graduate student sitting beside her. You seem miles away. The clapping you hear is for you.

I guess I was miles away, Sydney said. Why would anyone clap for me?

Clearly, you haven’t looked through the entire program. You won the award for the outstanding graduate student in the French Studies Department. Congratulations.

Thanks, Sydney said. Turning to the final few pages of the booklet, she looked up and said, You’re right, Anne. Who knew? Honestly, I might not have for years. I doubt I’ll open this program again until I’m an old lady showing my granddaughter mementoes of my youth.

I may not keep mine, Anne said. I’m not the sentimental type. Doctor Tate’s is about to take the stage. Following her speech and a few congratulatory remarks by our beloved president, this long, boring ceremony will finally be over. If we don’t’ have a chance to talk before we leave the stadium, it’s been a pleasure knowing you, Sydney.

You too, Sydney said. I wish we’d had time to get to know one another better, Anne. It seems studying has been my life for the past two years. What’s next for you?

I’m off to Paris, Anne said. I landed a job in the American embassy. I’ll be working for the Deputy Chief of Missions. I’m thrilled. What about you?

That’s great! Sydney said. Good luck. As for me, next week I’m heading to Normandy for the summer.

For pleasure? Anne asked.

I hope for a little pleasure. I’m taking two classes on Mont Saint-Michel. In the fall, I’ll continue my studies at NYU. I’m what you might call a professional student.

You’re getting your PhD?

I am, Sydney said. In French history.

Good for you, said Anne. If you ever get to Paris, look me up. You have my email address.

I’ll do that, Sydney said. Good luck, Anne.

59272.png

Chapter 2

59289.png

S ydney clapped as Doctor Tate approached the podium. She’d never taken one of the brilliant professor’s classes, but she knew students who had. The doctor had a stellar reputa tion.

Congratulations to the class of 2019, Doctor Tate began. For you, today is not an ending, but a beginning.

Five minutes into the professor’s speech, though she tried to concentrate, Sydney’s mind began to wander. Once again, she remembered the conversation she and her mother had begun that cold December day. Once again, she was transported back in time. Her dad was out shopping. The fire in the living room fireplace was blazing. She and Charlotte were sipping tea. She was holding Grandpa’s letter in her hand. Grandpa begins his letter with the landing on Omaha beach she had said. "I’ll read his words. They tell his story much better than I could. He wrote,

In 1944, this calm, peaceful place I showed you, Sydney, was a hellish inferno of noise, smoke, and slaughter. There along the five-mile stretch of shoreline before you, I, and thousands of other soldiers began what commanding General Dwight Eisenhower called the Great crusade to liberate Western Europe from Nazi domination.

Dad and I were standing behind you, so we didn’t hear much of what Grandpa told you, Charlotte had said. After saying that, he got rather technical. Once again, I didn’t understand what he was talking about until years later when my professor lectured about the battle. Then it clicked. I remembered Grandpa mentioning that the men of his division, the American 1st, supported by members of the 29th Division— engineers, and the Rangers—had battled their way through the fierce German defenses along the beach.

Sydney continued, "As we sat on that bench listening to the wind rustle the leaves on the trees and the birds chirping, I couldn’t comprehend that these wooded hills were once packed with men firing down at my Grandpa. I remember asking him how old he was at the time. He told me he was eighteen when he enlisted. He said he’d tell me why he joined and a little about his training another time. He never did, but I eagerly waited to hear what he would say next. I moved even closer so I wouldn’t miss a word.

"He said he would like to begin with a few general comments. He repeated in the letter what he had told me then. I’ll read what he wrote.

Sydney, there was more blood spilled on Omaha Beach than on all the others. When the battle was over, about 2,400 of my comrades in arms had died, were wounded, or had turned up missing as we came ashore and chased the enemy inland.

"I sometimes wonder if he knew he was talking about things an eight-year-old couldn’t understand. If so, he didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps realizing he hadn’t made sense, he later wrote to explain.

The problem the men faced was that Army intelligence units had underestimated the number of soldiers defending the beaches. To make matters worse, the aerial bombardment had done little damage to the strongly fortified German positions, and the rough surf had wreaked havoc on the landing crafts. Only two of twenty-nine amphibious tanks launched at sea reached the shore.

"I vividly recall the next part of Grandpa’s story. When I looked up, I saw that his face was red. Though the day was cool, sweat poured off his brow. Ten years later, I understood why. As I read his words, I could hear his voice crack when he explained,

When we got to within a thousand yards of the beach, I could hear the machine-gun bullets hitting off the front ramp of our boat. When the ramp went down, we were in water over our heads. Some of my buddies drowned. Others were hit by bullets fired by enemy soldiers from the cliffs above. Still others died from friendly fire generated by panicked men who were shooting wildly while they fought to reach the shore. The boat next to mine blew up. I saw men I had known engulfed in flames. They were burning to death.

When he said that, you were crying, Charlotte reminded.

"I’m sure I was, Mom. Grandpa was shaking. I instinctively took his hand as he pressed on. He described the scene in his letter.

As soon as we made it to the beach, Corporal Duffy, my buddy from the ship, shouted, If there’s a hell, this must be it. Minutes later Duffy fell, blood flowing from a bullet hole in his forehead. I looked to my right where another buddy lay face up on the sand. John, get up! Run! I yelled over the deafening gunfire. But John would never run again.

Driven on by the sight of bodies falling around me and hoping to be a smaller target, I crouched and raced across the body-strewn sand toward the cliff. Move! I yelled to one of the fallen. Get the hell off the beach! Few heeded my plea. Some were too exhausted to stand. Some were dead. Some were paralyzed with fright as the bullets flew over their heads or made indentations in the sand near where they lay. I was later told that only twenty men from my boat, which had held 120 when we launched, made it to the beach.

Exhausted and terrified, though I don’t know how, I finally reached the base of the cliff. I can’t go on, I cried out to my platoon sergeant as I fell to the sand. You will! You must! he yelled back. Get up! Move!"

Following his orders, I and the others inched our way to the top of the cliff. Again on flat ground, I stood and staggered to a hedge in front of what appeared to have been a farmer’s house. In front and to the left, was a stone well that had survived the shelling. Attached to a bar above, was a bucket and a handle that turned the rope. My throat was parched. I needed water. I was reaching for the bucket when the sergeant grabbed my arm. The well may be booby-trapped, he warned. That instant we heard German small-arms fire and grenades popping. I looked back at the sea. There were no reinforcements coming. All I could think was that I would soon be dead or a prisoner of war. When I had all but given up, a lieutenant from the 29th moved to my side. We’re going to be okay, he assured. D, E, and F companies are on the point. Your division and the 29th are off the beaches. You’ve done your job.

What still keeps me awake at night, Sydney, isn’t the sound of gunfire or the fear that a German soldier would suddenly emerge and blow my head off. What haunts me is the sight of dead bodies and shattered equipment floating in water that ran red with blood on the beach below. I know the facts. The landing led to Hitler’s eventual demise, but for me, there was little joy in knowing that.

Years later, I read an article written by Ernie Pyle, a correspondent for the Scripps-Howard newspaper chain. Pyle was one of a handful of correspondents embedded with the assault troops on D-Day. He didn’t go ashore until June 7, but one of his colleagues, a photographer named Robert Capa, landed with the first wave. When Pyle eventually reached the beach, he reported a grim site, a shoreline covered with the litter of battle and the personal effects of men already dead. He called the scene A long line of personal anguish. The guns had stopped firing, but the wreckage was still smoldering. As he made the grim tour of Omaha Beach, Pyle wrote, The strong swirling tides of the Normandy coastline shifted the contours of the sandy beach as they moved in and out. They carried soldier’s bodies out to sea, and later they returned them. They covered the corpses of heroes with sand, and then in their whims they uncovered them.

I remember holding Grandpa’s trembling hand as we made our way down from the cliff, Sydney said. "I was worried he would fall. I hung on tightly while we walked along beach and explored half-destroyed yet still-intact bunkers that remained as silent reminders of what had happened there those many years ago.

Picture%20%234%20a%20bombed%20bunker%2c%20Omaha%20Beach.jpg

A Bombed-out Bunker on Omaha Beach

"Grandpa cried as we stood on the sand looking down into deep craters made by the shells fired from ships and dropped by planes before the landing. We looked to our right at the barbed wire that shut off parts of the beach that hadn’t been cleared of unexploded ordinance. Grandpa never uttered a word. There was nothing to say. The debris remaining on the beach said everything.

"When we reached the path where we had begun our journey, he asked me if I would like to visit the cemetery. He wanted, he said, to look up a few old friends. As we drew near, he asked if I could see the Stars and Stripes peeking out high above the trees.

"I couldn’t see, so Dad lifted me to his shoulders. I still couldn’t see over the treetops, but I knew Grandpa would be disappointed if I said no. At that point, I figured a little lie wouldn’t hurt. In the letter, he related exactly what he had said as we approached the cemetery. He wrote,

Most of the approximately 2,000 men killed that June morning were buried in temporary cemeteries. Many of them were later brought to their final resting place here on this high point overlooking the sacred space below. Over nine-thousand Americans are buried in that cemetery, Sydney. There is no order to the graves. Each name is carved into a kind of Italian marble known for its purity. Of this number, some 307 are unknowns. The inscriptions on their crosses simply read, ‘Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms, known but to God.’

When we finally reached the bluff overlooking Omaha Beach, Grandpa again wiped tears from his eyes. I don’t have to read to remember what he said next. He choked out the words, ‘These were my comrades who died to defend your freedom, Sydney.’ He continued, saying that the several times he’d returned to Normandy for the anniversary of the invasion, he’d been stunned by the quiet orderliness of a place that, so long ago, had been the site of unimaginable chaos and brutality. I stood there quietly, letting Grandpa have his moment. Young as I was, I could feel his raw emotions.

I remember you, too, were teary, said Charlotte. I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t ask. I figured you needed your moment of solitude.

"I did, Mom, but something changed when we left the cemetery. As we journeyed from small town to small town, following the route that Grandpa had taken as the Americans moved inland, he seemed at peace.

"I particularly remember our visit to the town of Saint-Lô. Grandpa was clearly moved, but he no longer seemed sad. He told me that his sergeant had ordered him and several other men to search for German stragglers they thought were hiding in the bombed-out church. He admitted that he had been terrified to go inside, fearing that he would be shot by an enemy soldier who had sought safety amid the piles of rubble. Fortunately, there were no German’s waiting.

As we entered the church, he took my hand and led me over to a display of photographs that chronicled the destruction that had been caused by allied bombs in the days prior to the invasion. We spent over thirty minutes looking at those photos. Dad was pacing. I knew he was eager to leave, but he waited while Grandpa did his thing. As soon as we left the church, smiling for the first time in days, Grandpa said, ‘Sydney, come with me. I’ll show you where I took my first sip of Calvados.’

I remember the Calvados episode, Charlotte said. Though I never thought you’d remember the church. I assumed the chocolate éclair you had at the Pâtissier Chocolatier down the block would be your most vivid memory of Saint-Lô.

"To this day, when I think about Saint-Lô, I can shut my eyes and smell the aroma of baking bread wafting from the open door of the bakery. Yes, that’s a pleasant memory, but it was Grandpa who made the visit memorable.

But I’ve wandered off topic without answering the question that began this conversation. You asked me why I want to study at Mont Saint-Michel. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind when I began my master’s program. Truthfully, Mom, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I knew I wanted to spend time in France after I graduated. First in Paris. Then in Brittany. Then in Normandy. Thinking back, no doubt the trip to Normandy with Grandpa and the excursion that you, Dad, and I made nine years later greatly influenced all of my academic decisions.

That, I can understand, Charlotte said, But I still don’t know why suddenly, after all these years, you find the Mont so fascinating. Combining both trips, we only spent four days in the town.

I’m not sure I can explain, Mom. I remember almost nothing about what we saw during the two days we spent on the Mont with Grandpa. By the time we arrived, he was worn out. He didn’t venture far from his room. He expressed a desire to see the abbey, but there was no way he could have climbed the steep staircase to see the church.

He wanted to do more, but his body wasn’t cooperating, Charlotte said. But back to your impressions of the Mont. If I recall, you weren’t thrilled to be there.

You’re right, Sydney said. Certainly, nothing we saw or did sparked a desire for me to see or do more. In fact, I can honestly say that my first impressions of Mont Saint-Michel were largely negative. The town was overcrowded, and the monastery was huge and, at times, terrifying. I was eight, so we had dinner and immediately returned to our rooms. We didn’t experience the town after the tourists had left for the night. It wasn’t until our second visit nine years later that the island caught my attention.

Interesting, Charlotte said. As your dad and I planned our two-week excursion, you made it abundantly clear that you weren’t interested in spending ten days in Brittany while I explored my ancestral roots. Nor did you want to end the trip on the Mont. You wanted to fly to Paris, drive to Normandy, scatter Grandpa’s ashes, and come right home. You had just graduated from high school and wanted to spend time with your friends before you left for college in the fall.

True, Sydney said. "I fought you every step of the way. Ironically, the two days after we scattered Grandpa’s ashes brought me to where I am now. I fell in love with Mont Saint-Michel. After the hordes of tourists had left at night and the gates were closed, the town seemed magical. As we strolled the almost-empty streets lined with medieval buildings that seemed frozen in time, I pretended I was a pilgrim who was visiting the Mont hundreds of years before.

Early the first morning we were there, Dad and I climbed up to the monastery. I don’t remember why you didn’t join us, but later in the day, when I begged to see the abbey again, you tagged along. Again, my imagination took hold as we explored the crypts below the abbey church, the ancient chapels, and the massive rooms of the fortress-like Merveille, that Dad explained, was another name for the monks’ living area.

Clearly, you were fascinated, Charlotte said. But that still doesn’t explain why you decided to study on Mont Saint-Michel. It can’t be your youthful imagination that prompted your decision. To want to visit again for a few days, I could understand, but why you would want to spend the entire summer in Normandy I find baffling.

I suppose my final decision was prompted by an article I read in an archeology magazine about six months ago, Sydney said. The author of the article, Louis Allard, a professor of medieval art history at the University of Bordeaux, wrote that until the early 1900s, scholars and historians believed they knew all there was to know about the history of the Mont. However, when the French government began an extensive effort to restore the ancient buildings that were being ravaged by time, archeologists working on the site discovered evidence that literally changed the history of the Mont as it had been recorded. When I read about their discoveries and the continuing work of archeologists today who are equipped with modern technological devices, I knew I wanted to be part of the latest endeavor to reveal the Mont’s many secrets. I wanted to learn everything I could about the fascinating place that had made such a vivid impression on me years before.

You said the article was the primary impetus for your decision, Charlotte said. That must mean there’s more than one reason.

One more, Mom. In a word, Grandpa.

Suddenly, the sound of loud applause for the speech she had missed while thinking of Grandpa, brought Sydney back to the moment at hand. In moments, thoughts of the future replaced memories of the past. When I leave this stadium, I’ll embark on a path towards a dream that’s been lurking in the back of my mind since our emotional and often poignant trip to Normandy with Grandpa, she mulled. Hopefully, he’s looking down and approving.

59272.png

Chapter 3

59289.png

W hile she waited for the clapping to end, Sydney looked down at the program on her lap. The ceremony was almost over. After a few concluding congratulatory comments from the university president, she stood, let out a shout of joy, and like the others graduates, tossed her cap in the air. She was through—at least with this phase of her education. Now on to bigger and better things—she h oped.

She was about to leave the stadium when a ding on her phone signaled an incoming text. It’s from Dad, she noted, opening the message.

Sydney, Ed wrote. It’s a madhouse out here. I think everyone in the stadium had the same idea we did. Stay where you are. Once most of the graduates have left the field, we’ll find you.

Sydney looked around. Ed hadn’t exaggerated. Some parents had joined their sons or daughters on the field, while others waited for them on the edge of the grass. Sydney took off her black robe and velvet stole and sat down. She removed a folded sheet of paper from her pocket, opened it, and began to look at her itinerary for the weeks ahead. Throughout the ceremony, she had remembered the past. Now it was time to look toward the future.

Her original plan had been to spend three days at home in Raleigh before flying to France to begin her great adventure. However, when the previous tenants who had occupied the farmhouse she was renting for the summer decided to stay an extra week, she was forced to make a different plan. Instead of leaving Raleigh on an early morning flight to New York on Tuesday, May 21. She would leave a week later.

Once on her way, life would be a whirlwind—at least for the first few days. She would land in New York and immediately take a cab to NYU to meet with Professor Robert Swisher, the advisor who would shepherd her through her studies for the next two years. The two of them would discuss her fall schedule and how her summer classes would fit into the coursework needed to complete her degree. That meeting complete—she hoped successfully— she would return to the airport and relax in the first-class lounge until six o’clock when she would board Air France flight 4577 for an overnight flight to Paris. The luxury lounge and the business-class ticket had been graduation gifts from her parents, who had enthusiastically supported her summer plans—had being the operative word.

Two weeks before graduation, Sydney had emailed her dad, attaching her itinerary for the week following her arrival in France. Five minutes after she pushed send, her phone rang. This isn’t good, she realized when Ed Blanchet’s name popped up on her caller ID. Dad never calls.

Sighing, she pushed talk. Hi, Dad, she cheerfully said.

Her instincts were quickly confirmed. Ed wasn’t pleased. Sydney, her usually soft-spoken and obliging dad said crossly, "There’s no way you’re going to land in Paris, take an early morning train to Rennes, and then make the hour and thirty minute drive from there to Mont Saint-Michel. When you land, you’ll be exhausted and no doubt suffering from jetlag. Your mother and I won’t have you falling asleep on the road. And before you tell me you’ll sleep on the plane, neither that nor any other lame excuse will fly with me. You’re twenty-four years old. You’re smart. You’re educated. But you’re not being sensible. You’re so impatient to begin your great adventure that you’re not considering how tired you’ll be when you land in Paris. Unless Normandy experiences the largest and most powerful tsunami on record, I’m sure Mont Saint-Michel and its monastery will still be there Wednesday afternoon.

Are you listening? Ed had continued when Sidney didn’t respond.

I am, Dad, Sydney said realizing, as always, that when her dad made up his mind, it would be futile to argue.

Good, said Ed. Make a reservation at a hotel near the Montparnasse train station. Ask for early check in. As soon as you land at Charles de Gaulle take a cab to the hotel. Rest during the day. Get a good night’s sleep. Then be on your way.

Sydney had not protested, and Ed, having made his point, again became her affable, easy-going father. The rest of the short conversation had been pleasant. Before hanging up, Sydney promised to text when she landed in Paris and again when she checked into the hotel.

Not happy, but thinking her folks could be right, Sydney had immediately opened her laptop and googled hotels near the Montparnasse station. Searching through the websites and reading customer reviews, she finally chose the Lenox Montparnasse Hotel. She made an online reservation requesting an early check in, which minutes later was confirmed by return email.

Next, she had emailed Les Terrasses Poulard, changing her planned three-night stay at the hotel on the Mont to two. Still planning to spend Friday night at Maisons de Bricourt in the nearby city of Cancale, the fabulous hotel where she and her parents had stayed after their trip to Brittany, she confirmed that reservation as well. Now back on track, at noon on Saturday, she would finally be able to move into her home for the summer, a quaint farmhouse on the Brittany/Normandy coast, fifteen minutes from Mont Saint-Michel.

Those changes complete, only two tasks remained. She had changed her reservation on the high speed train from Paris to Rennes from Tuesday to Wednesday and arranged to pick up her Mercedes SUV immediately after the train arrived.

Accounting for the time she would spend picking up the car and considering traffic going toward the Mont, she figured she’d arrive at the parking lot outside the town gate sometime between twelve-thirty and one o’clock Wednesday afternoon.

Usually a planner down to the last minute detail, Sydney surprised herself when she decided not to plan Wednesday afternoon. I will, she thought, play it by ear and see how I feel. After a good night’s sleep—she hoped—she would begin her great adventure Thursday morning over an early breakfast with Professor Armand Toussaint.

In an email she had received the day she was accepted into the summer program, the professor had expressed his desire to get together before class began. His purpose was threefold. First and foremost, he wanted to introduce himself. Secondly, he thought a walk through town without hordes of tourists hindering their progress would help Sydney get her bearings. And thirdly, as they climbed the Grand Degré, the steep staircase that led to the Western Terrace outside the abbey entrance, he would describe the layout of the monastery.

Just before graduation, the professor had sent a second email. Ms. Blanchet, he began. I’m afraid that our Thursday morning schedule must be modified. An unexpected meeting off Mont has thwarted my best intentions. We will still meet for breakfast and walk through the town as planned, but I will not have time to show you the monastery. Instead, I will give you into the capable