“Deportations?”
She shrugged.
“If ye like. No-one suspected a thing, until these kids from the camps never came back. All pretty clever, don’t you think?”
My coffee suddenly tasted foul inside my mouth. It was hard to keep my fingers from her bobbing throat, while the gale outside intensified, battering the office’s walls, bringing those loose down-pipes clanging to the ground.
“Like I said,” she continued, regardless, “we in White Light see a bigger issue than Yids, and by that I mean a frigging global Caliphate.”
She drained her coffee cup, stood up and pulled her skirt over her knees.
“There’ll be no jobs, seizure of bank accounts, and ‘omes. Gradually takin’ away their power... it’ll ‘appen all over again. It must.”
“You speak with such authority,” I flattered, repulsed. “Did you happen to find any leftover material, documents whatever, when you took over here? Anything on the AEJ or Opération Anges for example? Even a monthly mag called Sanctum?”
Her made-up eyes brightened.
“Yeah, we did. But X wanted to burn all that shit. Said we ‘ad enough of it waitin’ to hit the fan as it was. Didn’t stop Peridot, the publishers hassling us for a few months, mind.”
“And just supposing the AEJ had dropped money for their willing workers to continue, would they want proof it had been collected?”
“Four million?” She looked at me. “Sure. By return.”
No sign of that in the Rue des Coquelicots...
Just then, above the buffeting wind, a phone’s ring filled the office’s bare shell. Karen my first thought.
It can’t be. No-one knows I’m here...
Sharon Palmer kicked off her shoes and ran into the kitchenette. With her back turned towards me, her sharp reply suddenly lowered in tone, I knew the signs all too well. I’d probably been traced here, and certainly wasn’t going to wait until that warning call ended...
Chapter 57. John.
As my two-hour flight back to Perpignan wasn’t until 17:20 hours, I had to choose between Karen’s former home near the Cathedral, or another’s. I picked up a cab
by a café whose Reggae throb almost drowned my shout for a road named Mistenlaan in the Schipvroom district. House number 122, to be exact.
“Nice, quiet part,” the Aussie driver shouted back. “Got rellies there?”
“Could say that,” as we left the teeming harbour behind and headed for the city centre via an unspectacular ring road. “We may be being followed. Can you keep a look-out?”
“No worries.”
The cab swayed from side to side as it overtook one cagoule-clad cyclist after another, each clearly out of control amongst the tram lines.
“Bloody morons,” he said, sounding his horn. “Haven’t a clue.” He then eyed me through his rear-view mirror. “Business or pleasure? Mind me asking?”
“Pleasure. One hundred per cent.”
*
Finally, having been dropped off in a residential street of modest, red-bricked houses, lined by still-bare trees, I paid with the guilders I’d bought at the airport, adding a generous tip. I then asked if he could pick me up again in fifteen minutes.
“Sure. And no-one’s been tailing us. OK?”
“Thanks,”
But I kept a look-out all the same as I took in this staid, middle-class neighbourhood. However, what had once been Eva Ryjkel’s small house couldn’t be more different from where she’d moved to with her family all those years ago. Safe suburbia to the wild country. As neat-looking as she’d probably once kept it, bordered by a low, clipped privet hedge, with pretty curtains hanging in both double-glazed windows. I found myself wondering if she’d missed Mas Camps and whether the possibility had occurred to her that had she stayed put there with her daughter, her menfolk might have returned.
“Goed dag, Mijnheer,” came a woman’s voice from its nrighbouring doorstep. Her thin, dyed hair straining from her head in the wind. “Do you look for someone?”
“I’ve met a friend whose mother lived here after the war,” I began, speaking slowly. “I’m helping her find what happened to the rest of her family down in south-west France.”
Small, mascara-coated eyes widened.
“You mean Eva Ryjkel?”
Christ, that was quick.
“Yes.”
“And you are?”
I held out my own kosher passport and saw a smile of relief creep along her
erratically lipsticked mouth. In close up, her seventy-odd years hadn’t been kind to her, as if something was eating at her soul. Perhaps, just perhaps, she just might be able to help.
“Do enter, Mr. Lyon. Tuesday is housework day, but never mind. And please excuse my English too. My schooldays are long past. I’m Tusia Schenken. Eva and I weren’t just neighbours, we were big friends. Never have I got over her death. October 10th it was, just eighteen months’ ago, although it seems like yesterday.”
A radio murmured from another room and, despite the warm, carpeted hallway, I still felt cold. In company with my favourite thriller writer, John le Carré, I didn’t like coincidences,
“Are you sure?”
“How could I forget? I was the one who found her at the bottom of the stairs. She’d died instantly. A tragic accident, said the Coroner. I had to deal with everything.”
“Where was her daughter?”
“Liesbet? Busy at the Dijkzigt hospital, I suppose.” She paused, pushing open a door leading into a cosy front parlour. The kind my Gran kept for visitors and special occasions. Not that there’d been many of those after her only daughter and son-in-law died so suddenly and terribly. “May I take your coat?”
“Thank you, but I can’t stop long.”
“Well at least sit down.”
The brown, buttoned armchair I chose would be hard to leave, but leave I must, and soon. I couldn’t put my hostess in danger. “When you said you thought Karen might have been at the hospital...” I reminded her.
Tusia Schenken frowned. “Karen?”
Damn.
“Liesbet, of course. She had to take another name, to protect herself. She’s back down in south-west France, trying to solve the mystery about how her father and brothers simply vanished.”
A pause, during which a road sweeper bustled by, its driver looking shamelessly our way. Tusia Schenken had either been distracted by it or too fixed on her own train of thought. “I’m not sure how well you know her, Mr. Lyon,” she began. “But in my book, Liesbet was the last person to need protecting. I’d never met anyone so confident, so…”
I waited for the rest, but it never came.
“Brave?”
She shook her head. “Selfish, I’m sorry to say. Anyhow, I swear till my last
breath I saw her here in the local shop, that very morning her mother died. Of course, I thought no more about it, until...”
The neighbour studied her wide, pale nails.
“Even then, it was three days later that she finally made the effort to sort out a funeral.”
“She must have called in here, next door?”
“I cannot say. I had to visit my sister.” She pointed up at the ceiling. “The old chef who lived in the apartment above, was also away. Isn’t it always the same when something bad happens?”
Just then, her dated floral wallpaper was too choking. That gas fire too warm and red. I stood up, went over to an antique bureau and a framed, black and white photograph of the three Ryjkel siblings. I picked it up. June 1940. As I stared at their faces, my mouth felt dry. Liesbet, no more than six years’ old seemed even more mischievous and, for her age, more knowing than in that newspaper cutting in Villedieu. Quite different to the two serious-looking older men standing protectively on either side of her.
“She never returned here after the funeral. Not even to clear the house,” added Tusia Schenken bitterly.
“Perhaps she couldn’t. After all, she was severely disabled.”
“Did Eva ever say exactly what happened to her daughter?” I asked. “Because on the 10th October 1969, Karen - I mean, Liesbet - was in England, and fell off her horse while jumping a fence. I’ve seen photos of the fall. It looked awful. Apparently, she broke her back.”
Tusia Schenken frowned.
“Did she tell you that?”
I nodded.
“Well, I remember there was some talk locally, but nothing in the papers which I’d thought odd at the time. And certainly, Eva never mentioned it.”
“Perhaps she liked to pretend everything was normal. Defence mechanism, that’s what they call it. Did you see much of Liesbet while she was working here?”
Tusia Schenken shook her head. “No. She and her mother had grown apart and she was busy, busy. You know how it is. However, when I saw her in the chemist’s last year, using a walking stick, I thought it such a shame, especially for someone so pretty.”
“Not a wheelchair, then? Are you sure?”
“Mijnheer Lyon, I’d have remembered if I’d seen one. They’re something to dread.”
*
Rather than dwell on this puzzling discrepancy, I pushed ahead with my next question.
“Excuse my asking, but did she inherit anything after her mother’s death?”
“Lord, no. Eva had never got over her pestering for Mas Camps to be sold She’d hated her school there, and France, so she’d said, but Eva really wanted to stay, believing that if she did - Germans or no Germans - Maurits and the boys would realise how stupid they’d been to just disappear. To give everything up. That they’d one day come home.”
So Capitaine Serrado had been right. This one daughter had been left empty-handed.
“In fact,” the neighbor went on, “I have a letter from Eva to prove that everything of hers went to UNICEF. You see, she loved children.”
Not exactly Karen’s opinion...
My companion turned down the fire. The gas spluttering as she did so. “Mind you, she was so proud of her daughter going back to her consulting job, but never forgave her stubbornness.”
“And Liesbet managed to hold down this top medical job while partially disabled?”
A mean laugh followed. “Well, she had a good reputation. And was attractive.”
“I believe she employed someone called Herman Oudekerk, originally from Antwerp. Any gossip there?”
The Dutch woman’s eyes flickered with more than interest.
“That funny, little dwarf? Plenty. Apparently,” she then whispered, “they’d sleep together and he, you know, pleasured her. Even though I’d heard he was the other way.”
I wished I’d not asked and switched off that unwelcome imagery as I drew the group photograph even closer.
“Tell me, Mevrouw Schenken, which of these young men is Joop and which his younger brother?”
She peered at it. Her nose against the glass.
“Oh dear. It was always so hard to tell them apart, especially as they grew older. Even Eva said so.”
“This is important.”
She tried again, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you. It must be my age.”
“Please.”
At last, she pointed at the guy with the more tousled hair. The slightly larger eyes. The only visible differences between the two males. “I think that’s Joop.”
My trip had been worthwhile…
*
“I’m very grateful,” I smiled, moments later.
“But Christian was always Eva’s favourite,” she went on, as if warming to her task. “The gentle one. He wanted to take over the domaine from Maurits, whereas Joop couldn’t make up his mind between the army or the church. She never recovered from what might have happened to them. Never.”
“You mentioned the church?”
“Oh, just a phase, maybe. I mean, there wasn’t a lot of choice of work then, and he was restless. Eva mentioned that when she wrote to me, just before that dreadful evening...”
My watch showed 15:05 hours. The clinic in Perpignan an hour behind.
“Please excuse my next question, but it might be useful to know if the Ryjkels got along with each other. Liesbet does seem to be hiding a lot of memories from me and others trying to help her.”
Tusia Schenken struggled out of her chair. Tears made those crinkled eyes glisten. Their mascara to move. She gripped hold of a nearby sideboard and turned to face me.
“It was Eva I felt sorry for. I was the only one who seemed to care about her. Who travelled three times Mas Camps even though there was growing danger of enemy occupation. And who was it tried to get justice for her after she died? Me.”
“Justice?”
The old friend wiped her eyes with a lace doyly from the sideboard. “I’m afraid I can’t speak about it now.” She glanced at what I assumed was a door to the kitchen. “I’ve not offered you any lunch, Mijnheer Lyon. Not even a drink.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” I said, touching her arm then making for the front door, all appetite gone. I stopped by her hall table, wrote out my Nottingham details and, ignoring my sister’s recent telling-off about Mireille Petsha, her phone number too.
“By the way, I’ve got Joop’s passport,” I added. But saw no point in showing it after my alterations. “Issued two years ago.”
Shock made her mouth fall open. Kept her mute, while I let myself out.
Chapter 58. John.
That same taxi and its relentlessly chatty driver who’d asked if I’d ‘scored,’ dropped me off at the airport with forty minutes to spare before checking in. Its international flags still flew horizontally in the wind, and litter spun around my feet as I emerged from his cab, still checking no-one was following.
“Give your Mrs Thatcher a smackaroo from me,” he grinned, pocketing my fare. “You lucky Poms.”
When he’d gone, I made for the row of public telephones, dug out my few remaining guilders and, still wary of being followed, dialled Mireille’s number.
She answered after the first ring as if she’d been waiting. Bach in the background, reminding me of my second morning at Les Pins.
“How’s your friend doing?” Her first question above other sounds of travellers passing behind me. “I’ve been really worried.”
‘Friend’ seemed such a strange word just then, but how was she to know?
“It’s kind of you to ask,” I said, before giving an update.
“Tell her I’m thinking of her, won’t you?”
“Of course. And thank you again.” Then I paused. “About your call to my sister...”
“I’m sorry, but had to tell you what I’d found out while I was at Saint-. Polycarpe’s - or rather - and get this, Monsieur Lyon - their Centre for World Peace.”
“Go on...”
“You mentioned an Alize Saporo, and those poor children in Dansac. Well,
apparently, she was very friendly with a Dutch man who’d been a helper and later a priest at L’Église St.Luc.in Villedieu. He also did odd jobs at a house called Les Chanterelles.”
Good news indeed.
Was it possible to feel excitement and dread? Because just then I did.
“Who told you?”
“My Papie, Brishen Petsha. One of the Roma children kept there, but ran away after helping harvest this young man’s father’s vines. He warned the other children, but none listened. Well fed, you see, with plenty of toys. Better than a hard life of travelling.”
“Mas Camps?”
“That’s it. Then, after they perished, this Dutch man goes to the Abbaye Saint- Polycarpe training to be a priest. He used to sometimes black out. Bad headaches, that kind of thing. Papie kept track of him for a while, until finally moving away from the area, marrying, and having my Papa.”
Could her grandfather be the same lad Sophie Blumenthal had mentioned? To whom she owed her life? His name was unusual enough.
“Joop Ryjkel.”
Hell…
“Are you quite sure?”
“Yes. And he later became the priest at the Église de St. Luc...”
I then remembered all those medicaments stored at his Villedieu house. But how come Karen hadn’t mentioned headaches?
Stay focussed...
“When was all this?”
“Papie thinks 1947. Like I’ve said, he’s since had his own family to protect, but he’ll speak out if he must. Now that you’re doing things.”
I wish…
“Did he ever mention a Maman and Papa P from Les Chanterelles?”
“Many times. Her and the owner.”
“Who?” I had to hear it.
“Ricard Suzman and Alize Saporo.”
‘The ‘Angel.’
“In the end, they showed what heartless beasts they really were. Abusers. Torturers. Murderers.”
Beyond my phone booth, passenger announcements took over. The word ‘Perpignan’ in particular. “I have to go,” I said. “But I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“There’s something else, Monsieur.”
“Quick.”
“I’ll try. This Joop Ryjkel and Alize Saporo weren’t the only ones paid to kill. That’s what earlier money was for. To cover up the tunnel’s botched job. Get rid of that group of children and seal it up. The four million francs was for future deportations to follow. Papie used to sneak into the study at Les Chanterelles, and when they discovered him, sent him to live with other bad kids in the attic at a place called Les Pins. He nearly starved to death there, but before the tunnel massacre, managed to make a hole in the floor to the next window down, and jump out.”
At last.
*
I hurried from the booth towards the departure lounge, wondering how that other survivor fitted into all this. The girl who’d attracted Christian Ryjkel and given Karen that special souvenir. More than ever, I checked no-one was following and once I’d boarded the plane along with families and children looking forward to a pleasant holiday in France, made plans for tomorrow that couldn’t be delayed any longer.
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