by Andy Marino
When the sound of the Škoda faded, Benat led them back out onto the path. Following close behind, Max studied the man’s style of dress: oversized dungarees, a sun-faded shirt, and that lopsided beret. He looked very comfortable, and his easy stride helped put Max at ease.
Soon they passed through the farming village. Benat tipped his cap at one or two villagers, but other than that no one paid them any mind. Distant seabirds made great lazy circles above the beach, and the wind carried their cries up into the hills.
Benat led them down a narrow cobblestone street that curved out of the village, past two rows of trees that grew in perfectly straight lines to form a tunnel of leaves overhead, and into a second village on a bluff overlooking Saint-Jean-de-Luz. They crossed the street. Benat stopped at a neat two-story house, opened a green door, and ushered them inside. An old woman greeted them in broken French and gestured for them to be seated at a rough-hewn wooden table, which had already been set with bowls of stew and hunks of black bread.
Ravenous from his train trip, Max dug in. The stew was delicious. If there was one thing this mad journey west had taught him, it was that food was much better in the country than in the cities. Out here, the natural rhythms of farming defied the Nazis’ wartime rationing.
The old woman watched them shovel food into their mouths with bemusement while Benat busied himself in another part of the house. While the old woman cleared their bowls—refusing Mutti’s help—Benat dumped a pile of new clothes out onto the floor next to the table. Well, Max thought, not exactly new. More like worn, faded garments in the Basque style—dungarees and rough shirts.
“Sleep here,” Benat said in French. “Tomorrow, mountains.”
Max turned to his mother and sister. “He says we’re to sleep here tonight, and then—”
“We got it, Max!” Gerta said.
Benat rummaged in a canvas bag and came up with a set of curious items dangling from his fist by thin coarse rope. They looked like someone’s misshapen knitting projects, bits of cloth joined with coils of rope.
He set them on the table. “Alpargatas,” he said.
Grinning at the blank looks on the Hoffmanns’ faces, he sat down in a chair, kicked off his right boot, then grabbed one of the alpargatas and fastened it deftly around his bare foot, tying the rope around his ankle. Then he looked up, beaming. “Shoe!” he said.
Gerta laughed. “We’re crossing the mountains in those? I’d be better off in heels.”
“Remember what Marie told us,” Mutti said. “The Basques have been living here for centuries. If Benat wishes for us to hike to Spain in these … shoes, then I think we ought to trust him.”
Benat nodded, though Max was pretty sure he didn’t understand a word. Then he untied the “shoe,” placed it on the table, exchanged a quick word with the old woman, and left the house.
With a smile on her wizened face that was almost apologetic, the old woman pointed up the narrow, winding staircase to the second floor. The Hoffmanns gathered up their packs, their clothes, and their alpargatas, and headed upstairs. There was a small open landing, a bedroom, and a door that led to a second staircase, this one barely wide enough to accommodate them. The old woman insisted with her gestures that they go up, up, up, and the Hoffmanns obeyed, with Mutti in the lead. The topmost room in the house turned out to be an attic with sloped ceilings and a tiny porthole window that looked out upon the sea. There were two thin mattresses on the floor. To Max, it felt like a ship’s cabin.
Gerta plunked down on one of the mattresses and sighed. “Looks like we’re gonna have to share, Maxi. If you snore, I’ll kill you.”
Mutti laughed. “Like father, like son.”
“I remember I used to come downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water, and you’d be on the couch, reading,” Max said.
Mutti smiled sadly. “Your father could wake the dead.”
Max stretched out on his half of the mattress and rolled up a pair of dungarees to use as a pillow. At first he thought it was ridiculous to try to sleep while it was still light outside. But his belly was full of warm, hearty stew—the best meal he’d eaten in days—and he soon found himself drowsy. The voices of his mother and sister faded to distant echoes, and he was asleep before the sun slipped into the sea.
Max dreamed of a knight on horseback galloping along the crest of a lonely hill. There was a country churchyard with chipped and weathered gravestones. Try as he might, he could not read the names. Then there was a flutter of paper wings, and he was moving slowly among wondrous creatures. A voice drifted in, calling his name, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to leave this place.
“Max.”
He turned away from the voice and started to run, but a hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder.
“Max!”
He opened his eyes. It was very dark. Gerta was shaking him awake.
“Get changed. Benat’s here. We’re leaving now.”
Max groaned and sat up. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know. The middle of the night. It doesn’t matter. We have to go now.”
Gerta left the room. As soon as she was gone, the sharp crack of a pistol shot sent him scrambling up off the mattress. It sounded like the shot had come from somewhere close, but it was hard to be sure. Footsteps hurried along the street outside. Quickly, Max changed into the shirt and dungarees that Benat had given him. Then he grabbed his knapsack and raced downstairs.
The kitchen was lit by a single candle the old woman had placed on the table, and Benat’s massive shadow stalked the walls as he knelt to fasten Mutti’s alpargatas, then moved over to Gerta.
Benat glanced over his shoulder as Max arrived and spoke a single word in a low voice: “Nazis.”
Max looked at Mutti. “There’s a roundup,” she said grimly. “I’m not sure if it has anything to do with us, or if it’s just bad timing. But the Nazis are on the prowl. From what little I can gather, this village is known for being one of the stops along the network that smuggles downed Allied airmen out of France.”
She stood up and paced to the staircase and back to the table, practicing her strides with the strange Basque shoes.
Max sat down, and Benat slid the fabric of the alpargatas over his feet, then deftly tied the ropes around his ankles. The guide spoke quickly and quietly to the old woman in a language that Max didn’t recognize.
She bustled around a dark corner of the kitchen, then returned with an armful of glasses. She set one down in front of each of her guests. Max leaned close to his glass. It was full of white liquid—milk, he guessed, judging by the smell. The old woman gestured with her hands—drink!
He watched Gerta down the liquid in one swallow and make a sour face.
“For energy,” Benat said, shouldering a small pack.
Mutti drank hers down and wiped her mouth. Max took a deep breath and swallowed the liquid. It was thick and cold, with a strange bite that he felt in his throat, then in his stomach.
“Goat’s milk and brandy,” Mutti said.
Max felt woozy. Then, despite the urgency of the moment, a mild, calming fog filled his head.
Somewhere outside, the Nazis were shooting. Max counted six POPs in rapid succession. Benat eyed the front door. His face, craggy as a cliff in the candlelight, betrayed his anxiety. Max supposed the man had lots of friends in the village, probably involved in the resistance.
They sat, listening in silence, while the old woman gathered up the empty glasses. Engine noise drifted up into the hills from the village proper. There were no more gunshots, but Max could hear shouting in German. The voices, at least, sounded far away.
Benat stood up, put a finger to his lips, and opened the front door. They followed him out into the night.
The Nazi patrol caught up with them in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains.
Behind them, the long horseshoe bay was a dark blot at the edge of the sea. Even this far south, French towns were blacked out. Ahead, farm roads curled
toward another small village nestled among sparse trees on a hilltop, where neat houses were lightly brushed in moonlight. Benat set a brutal pace, and despite the mild night air, Max was sweating through his dungarees. Sheepdogs barked in the distance. The voices of unseen shepherds called to each other in the Basque tongue.
Suddenly, Max heard an automobile engine. In the pastoral dark, man-made sounds were harsh and unmistakable. The vehicle sounded far away, but Benat ushered them off the road and into the underbrush. Less than a minute later, headlights cut through the darkness and swept across the patch of road where they’d just been walking. A Škoda came roaring into view and skidded to a halt about a hundred meters up the road. Max felt the last bit of the calmness brought on by the brandy milk evaporate. In its wake, his heart pounded.
As he listened to Benat’s shallow breathing, his thoughts turned to Hans Meier. The Becker Circle had trusted Hans, and he had betrayed them all. How did the Hoffmanns know that Benat wasn’t cut from the same cloth? Their guide could be delivering them straight to the Nazis to save his own skin. They didn’t know this man at all—they could barely even communicate with him!
Was it one of those strange wartime coincidences that brought the Nazis to this particular escape route, or had they been betrayed?
Max tried to remember the breathing exercise Papa had taught him to help him relax when his mind began to spin out of control. But trying to recall the technique only made him wish desperately that Papa were here.
Meanwhile, an army truck roared up the road to halt alongside the Škoda.
The two vehicles cut their lights. A dozen dark figures piled out of the truck, moonlight glinting off their rifles. Soldiers, Max thought. Wehrmacht.
The soldiers divided themselves into smaller squads and began to fan out up and down the road. They clicked on small electric torches attached to their rifles, and thin beams of light pierced the darkness. Benat muttered something under his breath. They were well hidden here in the thick foliage beside the road, but if the search was meticulous, the Germans would find them sooner or later. They could not stay here.
He felt a gentle pressure at the small of his back. Benat whispered “Follow” in French. For a brief moment, Max imagined the guide standing up and walking straight out into the midst of the soldiers. Hysteria was gnawing at the edges of his mind, and he almost giggled at the thought of hurling a rock, Kat-like, at the patrol.
Get it together, Max.
Bending impossibly low for such a big, broad-shouldered man, Benat led them away from the road, across a wide, mossy field dotted with lavender. The flowers looked otherworldly in the moonlight. As they embarked upon a steep climb to a tree line that never seemed to get any closer, Max felt like he was barefoot—the alpargatas were durable and lightweight, but the thin fabric didn’t provide the support of a good pair of boots. Max felt light-headed. A lucky sweep of a soldier’s light would expose them all. He willed the Germans to stay focused on the farm roads.
They were moving uphill in a low crouch, legs pumping in an awkward imitation of running. Max’s back began to hurt. He was sure he had never contorted himself into quite this position, and his knapsack just made it worse.
Suddenly, lights stabbed into the night in front of them. The pair of beams were weakened by the distance, but it didn’t matter. Gerta couldn’t stop her momentum and ran straight through a pool of light as it played along a vivid burst of lavender.
The cries came immediately: “HALT!”
Benat darted off to the right, sprinting nearly parallel to the tree line, and the Hoffmanns followed as best they could. Max could feel adrenaline battle with exhaustion as his legs moved robotically. A web of light closed on them as the soldiers shouted excitedly, zeroing in on their targets.
Benat cut back the other way, and Max nearly slipped trying to negotiate the sharp turn.
The first shot echoed across the field. Max’s body tingled, anticipating the bullet. He’d heard that getting shot was like being smashed with a hammer—dull, bruising pain. Then, after the initial shock began to subside, the dreadful searing burn set in …
At the sound of the second shot, Benat began to zigzag madly up the incline. Max lost sight of Gerta and Mutti, but their ragged panting assured him that they were close by. His feet plowed through lavender and churned up dirt and moss. His throat felt like it was on fire.
The third shot thudded into the hillside nearby—Max could sense the impact. He risked a glance back over his shoulder and saw a mad scramble of lights. At least ten soldiers were pursuing them up and across the field. Somewhere, a dog barked shrilly.
Just as he thought his lungs would burst, they crested the hill and crashed through the tree line into dense woods. Benat slowed down to allow them a moment to adjust to the new terrain: an overgrown path. Trying to catch his breath, Max looked around for his mother and sister. His heart surged—they were right behind him.
The path wound uphill through dark trees. There was no relief from their ascent, no time to stop and rest. The Germans plodded and crashed clumsily in pursuit. Benat and the Hoffmanns began to outpace them, and the thick foliage swallowed up the soldiers’ lights. Still, they could not shake the Germans entirely. Nobody spoke. Nobody had breath to spare.
After what felt like an hour of fighting snapping branches and tripping over gnarled roots, Max noticed a gentle predawn light was making its way across the sky.
Soon it would be morning. Then they would be exposed.
Benat picked up the pace. After another punishing climb, he halted. Max rubbed his tired eyes. Just ahead, the forest path ended at a clearing. The waning moonlight glittered along a muddy expanse. He was aware of the low murmur of rushing water. They had come to a river.
Benat pointed across to the opposite bank. “Spain,” he said. He made a show of rolling up the legs of his dungarees. Max, Gerta, and Mutti did the same. Then he held up a hand—wait here—and stepped out of the shelter of the forest. He moved swiftly along the riverbank, back and forth, almost all the way to the waterline. He’s making himself a target, Max realized. It was either a very brave or very foolish way to see if the Germans were in shooting distance. Then, satisfied, Benat beckoned for the Hoffmanns to join him.
Gerta went first, scampering through the muck to the edge of the river. Mutti and Max went next, their alpargatas skimming along the mud without getting bogged down. The sky was a pale orange glow, and the moon had almost faded entirely. The river’s current was stronger than Max had imagined, flowing downstream from its source high in the mountains.
Without hesitation, Benat stepped into the water and began to wade across. After a few steps, the water swirled about his knees.
“Okay,” Gerta said quietly. She sounded exhausted. “We can do this.”
Mutti followed Benat, her steps halting and strange as she quickly sank down to her thighs.
Gerta plunged in after her, and Max brought up the rear. As soon as he stepped into the water, he gasped—it was freezing! In front of him, the water lapped at Gerta’s waist, and soon he was equally submerged. His feet struggled to find purchase on the slick rocks of the riverbed. He knew he must stay upright at all costs—one slip and he could easily be washed downstream by the current. He cupped his hands and used them as oars to help propel him along. By the time they were halfway across, the day had brightened, and morning light dappled the river’s surface.
Just as his energy began to flag and white spots flashed across his vision, he began to emerge from the water. He took big steps, lifting his knees. They were going to make it! The westward journey flashed before him—the flight from Berlin in the green minna, Elke and Petra’s secret room, the auberge in the French village, the abandoned shoe factory, Princess Marie’s resistance hideout, the freight train, Saint-Jean-de-Luz sparkling along the coast …
The rifle shot came from the riverbank behind them.
Mutti cried out and fell sideways into the water. Max’s head resounded with a single ho
rrified word: NO. Benat spun around, grabbed Mutti by the shirt, and hoisted her up before she could float downstream. Max and Gerta ducked their heads and splashed wildly toward the shore.
The second shot whizzed past Max’s ear—he actually heard its shrill whiny buzz. Half dragging Mutti through the water, Benat hit the riverbank, slid in the mud, then righted himself. Mutti seemed off-balance but certainly alive as she stumbled along behind Benat, making her way toward the forest on the Spanish side of the river.
Max and Gerta zigzagged through the pebbles and muck at the water’s edge as more shots splashed into the river. Then they were up on land and sprinting after Benat and Mutti. Max and his sister both dove for the tree line and tumbled into the forest. There was no path. Max saw sky, leaves, branches, dirt—all of it swirling madly. More shots rang out. He felt a hand clasp his, and then Gerta was helping him to his feet.
“Mutti,” he panted.
His mother stepped into view. Max blinked.
“I’m okay,” she said, lowering her left shoulder so he could see the gash in her shirt and the angry red wound beneath. “It just grazed me.”
Benat cleared his throat and spoke his mangled German as best he could.
“Welcome to Spain.”
Gerta threw her arms around him. He seemed surprised as he patted her gently on the back with his enormous hand. Then he led them out of the woods and across rusted and overgrown railroad tracks. They joined a dirt path and descended—how good it felt to walk downhill! As the morning sun dried their clothes, Max fought through sheer exhaustion to a new state of being. He felt as openhearted and expansive as the broad meadows that sloped down toward a shallow valley where smoke curled from the chimney of a stone farmhouse. Mutti walked between Max and his sister and took their hands in hers.