Antoine set the paper on the table. “We have no idea how long it will take the Allied forces to break out and begin their drive across France and into Belgium, but our job is to be ready when they get here. We know that the Germans will do everything possible to prevent the port from falling into the hands of the Allies. If they can’t defend it, they’ll try to destroy it. It’s our job to prevent that from happening.”
Antoine stepped around to the front of the table and folded his arms across his chest. He looked over the group again, acknowledging each of the men with a nod or a thin smile.
This man is a leader, Boeynants thought.
Antoine continued, speaking quietly, forcing everyone to concentrate, his voice slowly rising in volume and intensity as he finished. “You have your assignments. You understand the chain of command. No breach of the rules of contact or the use of codes will be tolerated. We are now in the stage of the war that we have all been trained for, that we have all been waiting for. Watch every action of the enemy. Listen to every conversation. Commit every detail to memory and report it up the chain of command. Restez vigilant, and be ready for action.”
When the meeting broke up, Antoine approached Auguste and Boeynants and led them to a quiet corner of the room. When they were alone, the Resistance leader gripped Boeynants’s shoulder. He spoke just above a whisper. “I have news about the Leffards.”
Boeynants stiffened.
Antoine continued to grip his shoulder, his dark eyes filled with pain. “We have a contact inside Breendonck prison. Last night Rene and Mimi were…exécuté.”
Boeynants sagged against the stone wall. He heard Auguste say something but it didn’t register. His vision blurred, and he took several breaths, trying to focus his eyes on Antoine’s green beret. For two months he had feared this would happen; they’d never release a man like Leffard—but hearing it, knowing it…
“I’m very sorry,” Antoine said softly, his hand dropping to his side. “I know you were close to them. His loss is a heavy blow to our organization.”
Boeynants nodded. He straightened up and glanced at Auguste then back at Antoine. “Merci. Thank you for telling me.”
They stood in silence for a moment before Antoine spoke again. “You can be of service to us if you are willing.”
“Oui, oui, bien sûr,” Boeynants replied, grateful for the distraction.
“Auguste tells me that you have a contact in the Interior Department.”
“Yes, it’s where I used to work.”
Antoine took a step closer, keeping his voice down. “This may be dangerous, but your contact at the Department could be very important now that General Stolberg is here in Antwerp. Anything he can find out about their plans will be useful.”
“Je comprends,” Boeynants said. “I’ll do everything I can.”
Antoine nodded. “Report directly to me.” He put a finger up to his beret in a brief salute and stepped away.
Chapter 52
ANNA WAS NUMB, her mind a dark void as the sweltering, foul-smelling boxcar jerked to a halt. She huddled in a corner, wedged between two elderly women, one of whom had died during the night. The train had made at least a dozen stops along the way and, at each one, more people were jammed into the car until it seemed like death by suffocation was inevitable.
The lack of motion eased Anna’s discomfort slightly, and a few thoughts trickled back into her mesmerized mind. She recalled how she had stared in disbelief at the waiting train when she and the other prisoners from the jail had been forced off the truck at gunpoint. It was dark, and the shabby boxcar was only partially illuminated by dim bulbs hanging under the eaves of the railway platform. Feldgendarmes stood on the platform, shouting orders. One of them struggled to control a snarling, barking dog wearing a spiked collar.
Then one of the Feldgendarmes pulled back the door of the boxcar, and Anna put her hand over her face, recoiling from the stench of sweat, urine and feces. Dozens of people—men, women and children—stared out from the dark interior. The Feldgendarmes jumped up on the edge of the car, shouting at the terrified passengers to make room, swatting those nearby with their nightsticks. The last thing Anna recalled as she was shoved up the wooden ramp, into the dark, stinking interior of the car, was a sign painted on the door: Chevaux En Long 8. Capacity, Eight Horses.
Anna’s only consolation had been that Koenig was nowhere to be seen. Her initial hostility toward him had turned to loathing, then fear, as he sat in her cell night after night and rambled on about their life together in Germany. She was certain the man was demented and, even now, in the wretched confines of the boxcar, Anna felt her skin crawl as she thought about Koenig stroking her leg or her hair. She would jerk away in disgust, slap his hand and yell at him not to touch her, but he would just laugh and whisper what a “conquest” she would be.
Anna blinked, jerked back to the moment by people moving, shuffling about, trying to get away from the door as they did every time the train stopped. She braced herself against the side of the car and tried to fend off the crush of bodies with her arms. Pressed against the rough wooden planks, her back felt as if it would break.
The doors jerked open, and a burst of sunlight shot into the dark, steamy interior, causing everyone near the door to turn away. Men shouted in German, “Everyone out!”
Anna stumbled down the ramp from the boxcar, shielding her eyes from the glaring sunlight. As her eyes acclimated she looked around. They were standing at the far end of what appeared to be a large, open courtyard, surrounded on three sides by a complex of multistory buildings. Hundreds of people stood nearby, scrawny, stooped over, staring silently at the new arrivals but keeping their distance from the rail siding.
SS troopers and Feldgendarmes shouted instructions to keep moving, randomly swatting people with their nightsticks. Anna heard dogs barking and snarling but couldn’t see them. As the group shuffled forward she heard a man behind her mumble to the woman next to him in French, “Mon dieu, this must be Drancy.”
Anna turned and glanced at the man. He wore a felt hat and a soiled suit coat that looked like it had once been expensive. A yellow Star of David was sewn to his sleeve.
The man’s eyes met Anna’s. “We’re doomed,” he whispered.
Chapter 53
ANOTHER WEEK PASSED before the flight that would transport the rocket parts to London could be arranged, and Jan had become increasingly frustrated. As tempting as it was to believe that Anna had made it out of Poland, he couldn’t bring himself to completely accept it. There was no doubt in his mind that Anna had the courage and resourcefulness to pull it off, but what about Irene and Justyn? Would Anna have been able to get two Jews through all the checkpoints? Possibly, but there was no way to know for sure, and that was the crux of his conflict.
The Russians had re-entered Poland, and war would soon be ravaging the country once again. If he left now Jan knew he would not be able to return, perhaps for many years to come. By then any chance of finding Anna would be long gone. On the other hand, if Anna had escaped to safety in Western Europe and he stayed in Poland, he could be trapped with no way out.
It was a quandary he couldn’t solve. But the plane was arriving tonight and, of one thing he was certain: he was leaving here. He pulled the battered leather satchel from under the bed and, once again, started packing.
Jan glanced at the shelf above the bed and noticed the cut-glass model of the hand, Anna’s favorite gift from the Leffards in Antwerp. He picked it up and turned it over, rubbing it with his fingers. He recalled how Anna would always do the same thing as she talked on the telephone. She kept it on the shelf in the hallway, with her Hummel collection, and she liked to pick it up and turn it over in her hand as she talked. He remembered finding it there, lying on the floor in the hallway among the shattered Hummel figures, the day he discovered their apartment ransacked.
He thought about it again.
No, that wasn’t right.
That wasn’t where he found it.
Jan sat on the bed and stared at the small glass hand. It hadn’t been lying on the floor in the hallway. He had found it on the mantel above the fireplace…in the parlor.
He turned it over, again and again, feeling the smoothness, thinking, remembering the day he stood in the mess in the center of their parlor. He was sure that he’d found it there, in the parlor, on the mantel above the fireplace.
Jan had never paid a lot of attention to these things but he was certain that Anna always kept it on the shelf in the hallway, with the Hummels. He could see her, standing in the hallway talking on the telephone…
Jesus Christ! Anna had moved it. He was certain of it. She moved it. If it had been on the shelf in the hallway it would have been smashed with everything else. She intentionally put it on the mantel. She wanted him to notice it.
Jan stood up and paced around the small room, his heart pounding. It all made sense. Anna had no way to contact him, and she’d been instructed to leave immediately—that’s what Slomak said. She couldn’t leave him a note because she knew the Gestapo were looking for her and they’d come to the apartment.
So she put the small glass hand, the symbol of Antwerp, on the mantel, hoping he would return and notice it. Was it possible? Of course, that’s what happened. He was certain. How could he have not realized it before this?
She left him a message, telling him where she was going.
Anna was in Antwerp.
It was after midnight when the Dakota appeared. It flew in from the west, using the conjunction of the two rivers as orientation and dropped in altitude attempting to locate the airstrip. Jan and Slomak stood just inside the tree line, alongside three horse-drawn wagons laden with rocket parts. Slomak lit a torch and waved it in the air giving the signal for the other torches to be lit, illuminating the four corners of the airstrip.
Then Slomak extinguished his torch and said, “Godspeed, my friend, you will find her.”
Jan turned to him. He wanted to tell him how grateful he was; grateful that Slomak helped Anna all those years before, grateful that they had met now…but nothing came out. He nodded and swallowed hard, waiting anxiously for the plane.
Two weeks later Jan sat in a small, sparsely furnished conference room in the basement of the SOE headquarters in London. He had been waiting about fifteen minutes when the door opened and Colonel Stanley Whitehall shuffled into the room along with a prim man of about sixty, carrying a steel briefcase.
“Good morning, Major…oh, excuse me, Colonel Kopernik,” Whitehall said, noticing the new insignia on the collar of Jan’s uniform. “Congratulations on your promotion. God knows you’ve earned it.”
Jan nodded and shook Whitehall’s pudgy hand.
“Colonel Kopernik, this is Martin Fletcher,” Whitehall continued. “He’s in charge of the team that’s been examining the rocket parts. Let’s all have a seat.”
When they were seated, Whitehall leaned forward, folding his hands. “Colonel, we asked you to come here today because, given your extraordinary efforts, you deserve to know what we’ve learned.”
Jan nodded again without replying.
“Well then,” Whitehall said, settling back in his chair, “Martin, please brief the Colonel. It goes without saying, of course, that none of this must ever leave this room.”
Martin Fletcher opened the briefcase and removed a single sheet of paper, which he placed on the table in front of him. Then he extracted a set of reading glasses from his breast pocket and set them on the edge of his long, thin nose. He glanced up at Jan, peering over the top of the glasses. “Colonel, first of all, let me congratulate you on your successful mission. Our team has been working around the clock, and the components you brought back have enabled us to reconstruct the critical portions of this device.”
Fletcher paused for a moment and studied the paper in front of him.
Jan got the impression that the pause wasn’t because the man needed to consult the notes as much as it was to determine exactly how much he was to reveal.
Fletcher continued. “This device, the V-2 as we call it, is a much more sophisticated weapon than the V-1s they’ve been firing at us. The V-2 is, in all respects, a guided missile. It is liquid fueled and we estimate that it will travel at least eight times faster than the V-1 with a range of more than three hundred kilometers. We also estimate that it is capable of achieving an altitude of approximately thirty kilometers before descending on its target.”
Fletcher peered at Jan over the top of his glasses. “From that altitude, Colonel, it would be undetectable.” He looked back at his notes. “Its guidance system is a form of three-axis gyropilot, which engages movable exhaust vanes and aerodynamic rudders. Quite ingenious, really. Rather crude, at this stage, but still, quite an achievement. We estimate the CEP at about 17 kilometers.”
“Pardon me, the CEP?” Jan asked.
“The Circular Error Probable, the accuracy. That’s the only good news, I’m afraid. The bloody thing’s not very accurate. But I’m sure their people are working on that. They’re quite good, you know.”
“Well, there you have it,” Whitehall said.
The three men sat in silence for a moment, before Jan spoke up. “Mr. Fletcher, I understand that British anti-aircraft batteries have been successful in shooting down a high percentage of the V-1s and that RAF fighter planes have been able to take them out as well. What is your defense against the V-2?”
Fletcher glanced at Whitehall then picked up the paper and placed it back in the briefcase. He folded his hands on his lap and stared down at the table.
Whitehall stood up, signaling the meeting was over. He looked at Jan. “Colonel, I understand that you’ve been re-assigned to the Polish First Armored Division and that you’re shipping out for France in a few days.”
“That’s right,” Jan replied.
Whitehall stepped around the table and extended his hand. “Kill the fucking Krauts, Colonel. Help us win this war as quickly as possible. There’s no defense against this goddamn thing. If they improve its accuracy before we get to Germany, we’re done for.”
Chapter 54
BY THE FIRST OF AUGUST, fewer than a thousand prisoners remained in the rat-infested, disease-ridden camp at Drancy. Word had spread that the final train was due any day to collect the last of the survivors and haul them to the death camps in Poland.
Anna sat on the dirt floor, leaning against the clammy block wall in the cellar of her building listening to the sounds coming from the courtyard. In the nearly two months she had spent in this hellhole there had never been this much activity in the afternoon. At Drancy, things always seemed to happen in the morning—or the middle of the night.
Inbound trains loaded with Jews always arrived in the morning. The routine never varied. Feldgendarmes separated the men and women, clubbing to the ground anyone who resisted. Old people and any who appeared feeble were shoved off to the side and herded back to the boxcars for immediate transport.
Then the children were taken away, torn from their mothers’ arms and hauled off to a separate building. The wailing of distraught mothers and the screaming of terrified children was more than Anna could bear. She had to keep her sanity. She had stopped watching.
The trains sat on the siding all day, a long string of empty boxcars, in plain view, as a sadistic reminder of what would happen to hundreds of unfortunate souls that night. It was almost impossible to sleep during the long, hot nights, not only because of the cramped and foul-smelling quarters into which they had been jammed like so many hogs, but mostly out of fear and anticipation that this might be the night they were chosen.
The sounds in the night were paralyzing: stomping boots, barking dogs, Feldgendarmes shouting in guttural German, women wailing. In an hour it was over, with only the sound of a chugging locomotive receding into the distance.
But this afternoon was different. The routine changed, and a flurry of activity broke out in the squalid camp. German army trucks and black motorcars roared
into the courtyard. Wehrmacht soldiers jumped out of the trucks, shouting orders.
The remaining prisoners who could still walk were rounded up and forced into the cellar of the building where they sat, jammed elbow to elbow with scarcely enough air to breath. Anna assumed that the gunshots she heard had taken care of those who no longer had the strength to stand or walk.
An hour passed. The terrified huddled people in the basement with Anna were quiet, save for sporadic whispers of encouragement, occasional coughs or muted sobs.
Then stomping boots echoed on the floor above. A murmur rippled through the crowd. The boots descended the stone staircase.
A scraping noise, as heavy bars were lifted from the doors that sealed off the cellar. Anna got to her feet, a shiver running down her spine. Icy fingers.
The doors burst open.
Feldgendarmes shouted, “Raus! Raus! Everyone out! Move to the door!”
Those near the front of the dimly lit room struggled to their feet. The Feldgendarmes yelled louder, swung their nightsticks and herded the group up the stairs. The crowd moved as a single body, people clutching those nearby to keep from stumbling.
Anna felt someone lean against her and wrapped her arm around the skinny waist of an emaciated elderly woman. Keeping their heads down to avoid the swinging nightsticks, Anna and the woman moved with the crowd out of the cellar room and up the stairs.
In the courtyard, a voice barked from a megaphone, bellowing instructions in German and French.
“Schnell! Vite! Keep moving toward the train!”
“No talking allowed!”
“Do not step out of line or you will be shot!”
“Schnell! Vite!”
Squinting against the bright sunlight, Anna looked at the empty boxcars lined up on the rail siding, their doors open wide like gaping mouths of demonic monsters waiting to swallow their prey.
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