He heard Auguste say something and looked up. “I’m sorry…”
“I couldn’t help overhearing your telephone conversation,” Auguste said. “My French isn’t very good but it sounded as if you’ll need a place to stay. We have two extra bedrooms, and it’s just my wife and I. You can stay with us for now.”
Boeynants looked up in surprise. He had just met the man. “No, I couldn’t possibly impose.”
“Het geeft niet, I insist.” The older man paused, his brow furled. “They know your name, now. You’ll need some new identification papers as well.”
“Ja… I suppose…” Boeynants shook his head. I suppose? What the hell was wrong with him? He had to get under control. Now! He picked up the cup and took a drink of the sweet, hot tea. “Leffard always arranged those things.”
Auguste smiled. “I know. But we have our own organization here in Merksem. We’ve been connected with the White Brigade since ’41 and, just recently, we’ve been assigned to a special group operating in the port. M. Leffard knew all about it.”
Boeynants stared at him. Rene Leffard was his best friend, but he realized he never really knew about all of his connections.
Auguste sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Before we go much further, perhaps you should give me the information you came here to deliver.”
It took a few seconds for Boeynants to comprehend. Then he sighed. “Ja, natuurlijk.” He recalled the information he had discovered and committed to memory. It seemed like a long time ago. “The German High Command is convinced that the Allied invasion is imminent. They expect that it will take place sometime in the next few weeks, probably at the port of Pas-de-Calais.”
Auguste sipped his tea and nodded.
Boeynants continued. “The German’s main effort, of course, will be to repel the invasion. But, in their tradition of planning for all contingencies, an entire group has been making plans for either defending or destroying other seaports in the event the invasion is successful. Antwerp is the key. They are determined not to let the port of Antwerp fall into the hands of the Allies.”
Auguste was listening intently.
“A general by the name of Stolberg has been assigned to take command of the defense of Antwerp. He is to be transferred here shortly from Brittany. If he determines that the port cannot be defended he is under strict orders to destroy it.”
Auguste let out a low whistle and shook his head. “We suspected that might be a possibility. Do you have any details?”
“Right now, just a few,” Boeynants said. “According to our intelligence, General Stolberg is a capable army officer, but he is no expert on demolition operations, nor is anyone on his immediate staff. He will undoubtedly be requesting assistance from Berlin.” He paused and picked up a spoon, stirring the tea even though he had added no sugar. A vision of Rene and Mimi Leffard in handcuffs flitted through his mind. He blinked and set the spoon on the table.
Auguste nodded patiently. It was obvious the man understood tragedy.
Boeynants continued. “One of my colleagues in the Department of the Interior is in a position to see the transfer documents relating to German officers and civilian personnel sent into or out of Belgium. The Germans, as you know, are fanatical about paperwork. They document everything.”
“I know,” Auguste said. “It’s one of our best weapons. But with the Gestapo on your tail, you can’t just go back to work.”
“You’re right, I can’t. But my colleague is in a good position. The Germans think he’s a collaborator.” Boeynants noticed Auguste’s raised eyebrows and shrugged. “We do what we have to do. I’ll get the information.”
Auguste considered him for a long moment then stood up and held out his hand. “Welcome to our organization. I must take you to meet ‘Antoine.’”
Chapter 46
JUSTYN DIDN’T MOVE for almost an hour. The sun was fully up now, a bright round disc climbing above the rooftops. He could hear the sounds of the town coming awake and knew he would have to get out of there. The clacking of hooves and squeaking wagon wheels coming down the cobblestone street motivated him into action.
His stomach was still queasy and he sweated profusely. It made him shiver, but he forced himself to press on and soon he was out of sight of the main street. He sneaked through the backyards and side streets of La Roche until he reached the river again. Then he crawled down the bank. When he was certain he was out of sight, he sat down on a log and tried to think.
He couldn’t go home. If the Germans knew about the Marchals and M. van Acker they probably knew about the chalet and who lived there. Besides, Anna was off on a mission…and that was another problem. He had to find a way to get a message to her before she returned. He had no idea where she had gone but she usually came back within a few days. There wasn’t much time.
Justyn knew what he had to do: find a way to get to Antwerp and the Leffards. Although neither Anna, nor anyone else, had ever spoken about it directly, Justyn knew that M. Leffard was at the center of their activities. He would know how to get a message to Anna. He got to his feet and climbed up the embankment. When he reached the top he stood for a moment, looking around to get his bearings, then started walking in the direction of the railroad tracks.
He trekked through the fields, trying to work out a plan in his head. He had no money and carried no identification, so he couldn’t allow himself to be seen. Teenagers and young men were prime targets for the Germans. If you couldn’t prove you were in school or gainfully employed, they’d deport you to Germany for forced labor.
Also, Justyn was acutely aware of his other problem. He was a Jew. If he were picked up by the wrong type of policeman—or the Feldgendarmes—all it would take would be a simple physical exam…
He put it out of his mind. He had to stay focused or he’d lose his nerve. The trains bound for Brussels and Antwerp would be heading north, so he had to stay out of sight until he could hop onto a slow-moving freight train. He had never actually seen anyone do this, or known anyone who’d tried, but he’d read about it in the newspapers. He and the Marchal boys had talked about how easily it could be done. Jean-Claude once said he’d run into a boy in Bastogne who claimed he’d ridden the freight train from Louvain to escape the Germans. Justyn doubted that it was true, but it made a good story.
He thought about Jean-Claude…and Luk…the best friends he’d ever had. They had accepted him as one of their own. They knew Justyn’s secret—he was certain of it, though they’d never said anything. He bit down on his lower lip and trudged on.
The sun was high in the sky, and it was getting warm by the time the path Justyn had been following intersected the railroad tracks. He was exhausted and settled down under a tree to wait.
He woke up when he felt the ground trembling. Then the chugging and wheezing of a laboring steam engine rousted him to his knees. The locomotive was less than a hundred meters away, moving slowly up a grade, black smoke belching from the stack.
He held his hands over his ears and stepped back as the locomotive thundered past. A long line of boxcars clattered along behind it, their steel wheels grinding and screeching on the tracks. He was immobilized, frozen to the ground. He couldn’t do this.
Justyn stared at the huge cars. They were moving slowly, rocking back and forth. An empty boxcar with an open door passed him. He flinched but couldn’t move. It disappeared.
He watched closely as the cars approached and passed by, sensing the rhythm. He began to move his body, mirroring the rocking motion of the cars. Then he was jogging along the gravel siding, almost keeping pace, but not quite.
He turned his head and saw it, three cars back. The door was open. The shabby boxcar approached slowly, two cars back, then one. Then it was alongside.
He reached out. His hand touched the rough wooden floor. He stumbled, regained his footing and jumped.
Justyn arrived in Brussels that night, the train lumbering into a massive rail yard and jerking to a halt in a b
last of venting steam. Justyn peered out the door then jumped to the ground. There were dozens of tracks and, all around him was a beehive of activity as railcars were disconnected by switch engines and reconnected to other trains. He tried to guess at the direction to Antwerp, but he couldn’t figure it out. He was terrified of being seen. Staying low, Justyn sprinted from the cover of one train to another and made his way to the periphery of the yard where he spotted a shed.
Glancing around, he approached the shed. The door was ajar. Justyn pulled it back, and it creaked on rusty hinges. He peered inside. It was pitch dark, and the damp air smelled like fuel oil. He hesitated, then stepped inside and stumbled on a tool of some sort. He kicked it aside and felt for the wall. He followed the wall to a corner, then sat down on the dirt floor.
At first it was deathly quiet. Then Justyn thought he heard something. He listened. It sounded like…breathing. He heard another sound, as if something were moving or shifting around. He thought about bolting out the open door again but he couldn’t move.
A scratching sound.
Then a bright flash.
Justyn recoiled, his head banging against the wall, as the bright flare of a match illuminated a face.
Justyn scrunched against the wall.
The face was less than two meters away…rough, craggy, with shaggy gray whiskers and dark eyes.
A dirty hand held the match to a limp cigarette that protruded from the corner of the mouth. The mouth blew out a column of smoke, and the hand moved the burning match toward Justyn. Another hand removed the cigarette, and the mouth opened, revealing yellowed, broken teeth.
The match burned down and the hand shook it out. A raspy voice spoke French in the darkness. “You damn near stepped on me when you stumbled in here.”
Justyn was rigid. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
The raspy voice said, “You’re kind of young to be out here alone, mon ami. Runnin’ from the Krauts, are you?”
Justyn looked at the open door again. Could he make it? In the darkness he heard the man’s heavy breathing as he took another drag on the cigarette. The smell of cheap tobacco overpowered the fuel oil.
“Tell me where you’re headin’ and maybe I can help you,” the voice said. “I’ve been all over this country dodging the fuckin’ Krauts.”
“Ant…Antwerp,” Justyn mumbled. “I’m trying to…get to Antwerp.”
“Antwerp? Christ, that’s the wrong way. If you want to get away from the Krauts you should go south…for the country.”
Justyn told his story to the man behind the raspy voice. When he finished, the man lit another cigarette revealing his face a second time. His eyes were small and dark, almost black, and they glared at him through the flickering light of the match. They looked like eyes that had seen things they would rather not see again. The man held the match until it almost burned his fingers then shook it out. For several long minutes there was silence in the darkness.
Then the man spoke again, the raspy voice a whisper. “There’s a freight train to Antwerp that leaves every morning at seven o’clock. I’ll show you where to get on.”
Leaning out the open door of the boxcar, Justyn recognized the neighborhood around Antwerp’s Berchem station. The train slowed as it pulled into the station, and he hopped out. From here it was just a short walk to the Zurenborg district and the home of Rene and Mimi Leffard. He felt like running.
It had been over two years since Justyn last saw the Leffards but now, as he walked along the familiar streets, it seemed like yesterday. He recalled Rene Leffard’s deep, commanding voice and thick, strong arms. He remembered being frightened of him when he and Anna first arrived from Poland, but the man soon became like a grandfather, the embodiment of security in a ten-year-old’s fearful world. He breathed a little easier, certain that, once again, the larger-than-life man would take care of everything.
It was almost ten o’clock in the morning, and the sidewalks were busy as Justyn turned the corner onto the Cogels-Osylei. He became aware that people were giving him strange glances, and he suddenly realized how he must look. His clothes were dirty and torn, and he hadn’t washed in two days. He guessed that he probably smelled pretty bad as well.
Justyn passed the Leopold Café, where he and Anna had often had Sunday evening suppers with the Leffards, and his pace quickened. Their home was just ahead, in the next block, and he knew he needed to get off the streets. He kept his head down, trying to avoid eye contact with the people he passed, and trotted across the familiar intersection with four magnificent white, stone homes on each corner. Just a few meters to go and he would be safe.
Justyn noticed the smell at the same time he saw the house and stopped dead in his tracks. He stopped so suddenly that a woman who had been walking behind him stumbled into him and almost fell. Justyn reached out to help her, but she jerked her hand away and hobbled off.
He looked back at the house and stared in disbelief, not comprehending. The acrid odor of burned wood wafted down from the charred remains of the once stately, elegant home that had filled Rene Leffard with such pride. It was the most beautiful house Justyn had ever been in, and it had been his home, his sanctuary, during the worst time of his life. Now the windows were smashed and the massive front door shattered, hanging precariously from its hinges.
Justyn backed away and glanced up and down the street. He considered the neighbor’s house on his left. Should he knock on their door to find out what had happened? He remembered them as an older couple who had treated him politely but indifferently when he and Anna lived here. Would they remember him?
The door opened and a man stepped out. Justyn didn’t recognize him. The man gave him a curious look, glanced at the Leffards’ burned-out home, then closed the door behind him and stepped off the porch. “Bonjour. May I help you?” the man said. He spoke French with a German accent. “Are you looking for someone?”
Justyn felt his face flush. He fought to control his voice. “Non, I was just walking by. I…I’m not looking for anyone.” He turned away and walked quickly, back in the direction he had come from. He fought the urge to run. Keep walking, don’t look back, he told himself, expecting to feel a hand on his shoulder.
When he stopped he found himself at the door of the Leopold Café. Without thinking, Justyn pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Chapter 47
PAUL DE SMET ENTERED the Gestapo headquarters in Brussels and gave his name to the dour-looking SS officer sitting at the desk. Two SS troopers stood nearby, holding submachine guns. The officer picked up the phone and repeated de Smet’s name, then hung up and glared at him. “Fourth floor, give your name to the officer on duty.” He pointed at the elevator.
Rolf Reinhardt did not look up when de Smet was shown into his office. “Take a seat,” he grunted and continued reading the document he held in his hands.
De Smet sat in a metal chair and glanced around the small office. The obligatory picture of Adolf Hitler hung on the wall behind Reinhardt’s desk and a Nazi flag stood in the corner. A plaque of some sort hung on another wall but the only thing de Smet could make out from this distance was the eagle and swastika emblem and the name Oberstleutnant Rolf Reinhardt, written in bold script.
Reinhardt abruptly looked up and said, in perfect French, “Bien fait, well done, Monsieur de Smet. The little conspiracy you and I arranged has been executed to perfection, don’t you agree?” The Gestapo agent leaned back in his swivel chair and propped his feet on the desk.
De Smet didn’t respond.
Reinhardt smiled. “Come, come. As a friend of the Reich, surely you must be pleased that the terrorists were captured and are being appropriately dealt with?”
De Smet took a breath. “Oui, oui, bien sûr…I’m quite pleased.” He felt beads of perspiration on his forehead and silently cursed himself for being nervous.
Reinhardt folded his hands in his lap and continued. “Unfortunately, we had to kill four of them at the rail siding, including both
of the teenage boys. But the others were, shall we say, persuaded to cooperate.”
De Smet stared at him, his stomach turning. The bastard’s enjoying this.
Reinhardt locked eyes with him and smiled again. “As for that slovenly butcher, van Acker, he’s swinging from the ceiling in his shop like a side of beef. And the master conspirator, the illustrious Rene Leffard, is scraping his meals off the floor of his cell in Breendonck. We have special plans for him.”
De Smet forced himself to sit still. Now was no time to get squeamish, he told himself. He knew it would be like this.
Reinhardt suddenly sat upright and leaned across the desk. His glare hardened. “Your friend Rik Trooz was picked up last night as well. We know about his connection with the so-called ‘Comet Line’ and I’m confident he’ll share what he knows. Right now only one of his legs has been broken—and a collar bone, I think—but we’ll let him sit overnight then have another chat.”
Reinhardt stood up and walked around the small office, circling behind de Smet’s chair, brushing his hand across his shoulders.
De Smet could feel the sweat running down his forehead. He didn’t move, terrified that he might piss in his pants.
The Gestapo agent continued on, as though he were giving a weather report. “Let’s see, what else? Oh yes, Leon Marchal’s farm was burned down, as well as the Delacroix’s. Did you know them well?”
De Smet coughed and cleared his throat. “Non… I didn’t. I didn’t know them at all.”
“Well, no matter. They’re all dead now anyway, or will be soon.” Reinhardt stepped back to the front of his desk with his back to de Smet. He seemed to be staring at the picture of Hitler. “The butcher I mentioned, and, oh yes, le petit chalet he owned in the woods near Warempage. That was burned down as well. Did you know anything about the people who were living there?” Reinhardt turned and stared at him. “Apparently, it was an attractive redheaded woman and her teenage son. We couldn’t seem to locate them.”
Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II Page 25