by Anna Schmidt
As soon as the train rocked into motion, the old man went to sleep and the woman stared out the window. Peter bowed his head and watched the man with the newspaper under the veil of dozing. He knew the trip to Bordeaux was nine hours barring any delays. It would be dark when they arrived. He wondered where he would sleep tonight. And he wondered where Anja was.
Mikel walked very fast away from the address Gisele had given Anja, and she struggled to keep up with his long strides. He had been waiting for her, and the minute he saw her crossing the street, he left the doorway and started walking down a narrow side street. She knew better than to call out to him, and she quickened her steps to catch up.
“What’s happened?” she whispered when he finally paused at a corner, checking the street to be sure they weren’t being followed or observed. She was really beginning to wonder why he was acting so strangely.
“Just trust me,” he replied and set off again, winding his way through narrow streets and alleys until they came to a rotted gate. Mikel opened it, waved her through, and then secured it behind them.
“What is this place?” Several rusted metal café chairs and filigreed tables lined the space between two buildings. Everything was covered in snow. She picked her way carefully around the chairs and tables, trying not to slip in the icy ruts that filled in the spaces between the cobblestones.
“Hurry,” Mikel urged as he started up a fire escape.
He waited for her to follow him until they reached a landing, and then he pulled the last section of the fire escape up away from the ground. He pointed to a window. “In here,” he said as he inched the window open.
“Mama,” a voice whispered.
“Daniel?” She thought she must be hallucinating. Beyond the grime of the window, she was certain she saw her son’s face—heard his voice. Impossible. She shook her head, convinced that she was suffering the effects of the cold and Mikel’s mysterious trek through back streets.
“Mama.” The boy started to cry, but they were tears of relief as he reached for her while she climbed through the window.
“Daniel,” she whispered, gathering him into her arms. “What are you doing here?” She held him away from her without releasing him so that she could examine him. Was he hurt? What was he wearing? Was he thinner than the last time she’d seen him?
She closed her eyes and pulled him to her again, savoring the smell of him as she remembered that horrid day when she’d gone to the school to tell him she had to take a trip.
“Were you with the airman I found?” He had taken pride in what Peter had assured him was an act that had saved his life.
“Yes. He needs to find his way back home.”
“I am glad he will be safe.”
His selflessness had broken her heart. He had been through so much in his short life. How much more would he be asked to endure? “Why is he here?” she asked Mikel after sending Daniel to get her a glass of water from the tiny dirty kitchen she could see beyond a ragged curtain.
The lighting was bad, but she could tell that Mikel was staring at her, perhaps trying to decide what to tell her. “Your grandfather was questioned and released. Both your grandparents are safe for now, as are Lisbeth and Josef. But with them all released, you and I both know who Schwarz would have turned to next.”
She gasped.
Mikel pressed on with his news—his eyes flicking from her face to the boy at the sink. “I didn’t know what else to do. Schwarz had his men watching the convent practically round the clock, and he went there once himself. What was I supposed to do?”
“What about Josef and Lisbeth?”
“They were taken separately for questioning and released, but Schwarz also has people watching the café, and someone follows Lisbeth and Josef wherever they go.”
“Peter and I are to leave Paris for Bordeaux as soon as civilian trains start running again.”
“The trains are running, and Peter is already gone.”
She felt as if someone had suddenly hit her with brute force. She actually wrapped her arms around herself. She had known this would be how things would end between them, but it was too soon. She had thought they would have at least today. “When did he go?” she managed as she accepted the glass of water from Daniel. But she knew that it had to have been within the last half hour while she was following Mikel.
Mikel shrugged. “All I know is that Schwarz is in Paris. He and his men were on their way to Gisele’s. We had to act fast.”
We?
“You planned this with Gisele? Without discussing it with us?”
“What do you want from me, Anja? I have done what I thought was best for you and for Daniel.”
“And for Peter?”
“Peter? You call him by his given name? Always before any airman we have helped has been simply ‘evader’ or ‘him.’ Is this man so special to you?”
Yes. But she knew that it went against everything those working the escape line believed when it came to getting these men to safety. No personal feelings, no contact once the evader left her care, no knowledge of him beyond that point.
“You’re right, of course. About the evader, that is, but bringing Daniel here?”
“Would you have risked going back knowing that Schwarz would be waiting? Knowing he might have taken Daniel himself as insurance for getting you to come back?”
“But now you say that Schwarz is here.”
“Yes, he has followed you because he knows that where you are so will be the American.”
“And you thought bringing Daniel here was the right thing to do, knowing the danger?”
Mikel sighed heavily and buried his face in his hands. “If you will trust me, I can get you both to safety. You are in serious danger, Anja, and the nuns can no longer protect Daniel at the orphanage. I knew you would not leave without your son, so I brought him here so that you could go together.”
She sat down heavily on an overturned wooden crate and drank the water that Daniel had given her. Her son was watching her warily, his eyes darting from her to Mikel and back again, seeking answers—seeking assurance that she could not offer.
“Hey,” she said, setting the glass on the floor and holding out her arms to her son. He came to her at once, and while he was too big to sit on her lap, he sat on the floor close to her, his head resting against her leg. Anja stroked his hair, hoping he might sleep so that he would not have to hear more of her discussion with Mikel. “Has he eaten?” she asked.
Mikel nodded. “I made sure of that. No one knows he’s here, Anja—only the nuns and me.”
“And Gisele?”
“No. She doesn’t know.” He went into the room where Daniel had gotten the water and returned with a piece of bread and some cheese. He offered both to her.
“Put them in your rucksack,” she said. “We’ll need food for the journey.”
Daniel sat up. “Are we going away, Mama?”
Mikel knelt and ruffled the boy’s hair. He was smiling. “Did I not promise that your Mama and you would be off on a grand adventure with me?” He paused and held open the rucksack. “What else shall we pack?”
Instantly, Daniel was on his feet, calling out supplies they would need for the trip and gathering his few belongings. Anja had to admit that Mikel had always been wonderful with her son. Daniel trusted this Basque man as he had once trusted his father to know the right thing to do. She should trust him as well, for she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mikel would never intentionally do anything that would place Daniel—or her—in unnecessary danger. If Mikel thought it was time for them to go, then she would go.
While Mikel and Daniel continued to pack for the trip, Anja closed her eyes and shut out everything but thoughts of her grandparents. She prayed for them to be safe so that once this horrid war ended she could come back for them and they could all return to the island off Denmark and live free and normal lives again. She opened her eyes after several long moments of silence and saw Mikel watching her, his eyes ref
lecting his devotion to her. How she wished she might find it in her heart to love him as she had loved Daniel’s father—as she loved Peter Trent.
Following the instructions he’d been given, Peter kept a watch on the man with the newspaper as the train rumbled along. Each time they came to a stop in some small village, his guide would walk out to the connecting platform between cars and light a cigarette. He would stay there until the train was in motion again and then return to his seat or take another seat if a boarding passenger had taken the one he’d vacated.
Josef had taught Peter what to watch for in the way of signals. If a guide like this one resumed reading his paper, then either soldiers or Gestapo had boarded the train. If he folded his arms, slumped in his seat, and closed his eyes, there was no cause for concern. Thankfully most of the time he did the latter, and Peter relaxed until he felt the train roll to its next stop.
The sun—what there had been of it on the gloomy day—was setting, and the train had stopped and started so many times that Peter simply assumed the man would feign sleep when he returned to his seat. Instead, he made a show of opening the newspaper and folding it and refolding it as if to gain Peter’s attention. And when Peter glanced toward the door connecting the cars, he saw exactly why his guide had behaved as he had. Not only had three Gestapo agents boarded the train, but they were coming into the car where Peter sat.
Automatically, he placed his hand over the inside jacket pocket where his fake identity papers were. In doing that, he jostled his seat companion. The elderly couple had left the train after the second stop and been replaced by a burly, scowling man carrying a large valise that he plopped down on the seat as if it were a passenger. Now the man grumbled at him and shoved him with his elbow. An apology—in English—was on the tip of Peter’s tongue, and he caught himself only in the nick of time. Instead of speaking, he moved an inch away from the man and folded his arms tightly across his chest, his head lowered but his eyes on the Gestapo trio. He saw the man with the newspaper moving into the next car now that the Nazis had passed him by.
Should he follow? But why call attention to himself by standing?
His seatmate nudged him. Peter ignored him.
Another shot of the elbow, and Peter glanced at the man. He could not deal with this right now. The agents were coming closer, checking papers as they worked their way through the car. His seatmate produced a flask, unscrewed the cap, and made as if to take a drink. Instead, his hand shook and the potent liquid splashed all over Peter’s shirt and pants. He started to say something as he tried without success to clean himself up. But instead of helping or apologizing, the man simply tucked the flask into Peter’s jacket pocket and then curled against the window, feigning sleep. But just before he turned away, he glanced toward the agents and then made a gesture as if drinking from the flask.
And suddenly Peter remembered something that Anja had told him during the time of his recovery in Brussels. “There will be messages you are not expecting,” she had said. “Your guide is not the only contact watching out for you. You need to be open to other messages. Subtle messages that may seem to come out of nowhere.”
Even though she was miles away, she was still taking care of him, still teaching him. He slouched into the seat, took a swig of the whiskey, and let it dribble down his chin. He wondered if resting his head on his seatmate’s shoulder would be taking things too far and decided not to risk it. Instead, he lowered his chin to his chest and started muttering to himself in German. He watched the agents approach, their polished shoes in stark contrast to the muddy footwear of his fellow travelers. He kept up his monologue, low enough to be indistinguishable, but every word German. He would not be tricked.
One of the agents shoved him hard on the shoulder. He lowered his head further and kept muttering. A second agent shouted at him to hand over his papers. Instead of ignoring him, the three of them were now gathered in the aisle next to him. He heard one of them use the term for drunk and chuckle. The first agent shook him hard, and at the same time, he felt the gentle thrust of his seatmate’s elbow in his ribs.
He fumbled for his papers and handed them to the agent and prayed that they were good fakes. At least the lighting in the train was dim. The agent pulled out a flashlight and studied the papers. He made a show of it while his cronies urged him to move along. One of them yawned loudly. All the while, Peter played drunk, allowing his head to bob and his shoulders to slump.
After what seemed an eternity, the agent thrust his hand under Peter’s nose. “Flask,” he demanded in English.
Peter allowed himself the smallest of smiles before closing one eye and staring stupidly up at the agent. Pretending not to understand, he mumbled something in German. The agent slapped him hard across the mouth with the leather gloves he carried in one hand. He swore at Peter and flung his papers in his face, then reached in Peter’s pocket and took the flask before he and his fellow agents continued on their way into the next car.
Letting out his breath, he gently touched his lip. It was already beginning to swell, and there was a cut. He collected his identity papers and put them back in his pocket as he considered what his next move should be. The man with the newspaper was nowhere to be seen. The man next to him had gotten up and abruptly left as soon as the agents had continued into the next car. Everyone else in his car seemed oblivious to what had just happened. Either they were used to things like that or they simply did not wish to get involved—not even to offer him a sympathetic glance. Of course they all thought he was drunk, which might explain a lot. On the other hand, whenever the Nazis were around, fear became a sensory thing—it was reflected in the tightly drawn mouths and darting eyes of the people, in the silence with which they greeted their occupiers. It was something one could almost taste and smell. It was overpowering, and even though the Gestapo agents had moved on, the train car reeked of it.
He had no idea what to do. The man with the newspaper was his only hope. Peter moved forward one car and then another, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Had he jumped? There had been no other stops. Now what? Was the man who’d given him the flask his new contact, and if so, where was he?
Other passengers were beginning to notice him. Some wrinkled their noses in disgust, and he realized that the smell of the whiskey surrounded him like a woman’s cheap perfume. He saw some people lean protectively toward their children or make some whispered comment to their companions. He was drawing far too much attention and decided the only thing to do was to return to his seat and wait for the next stop.
Working his way back through the cars, he came face-to-face with a woman—heavyset and herding a couple of children back to their seats. She and the children took up the entire aisle. They did the dance that people do when trying to make room for someone to pass. The two children shot forward and ran for an empty seat. The woman gave him a toothless grin and grabbed his hand with both of hers. He felt the press of a paper into his palm as she pumped his arm up and down as if she expected to get a flow of water going. Finally, she patted his cheek and squeezed past.
Instinctively, he curled his fingers to hide the paper as he made his way to the platform between cars. A single light glowed at the end of the next car, and he huddled close to it to try and read the note. The paper was dirty and had been folded several times. When he finally got it fully open, he saw two words—in English: Next stop.
CHAPTER 10
Anja could not recall a time when she had been so exhausted—even in her months of unceasing work in the Sobibor death camp. Even while on the run with Josef and Lisbeth after their escape. Even the two times she had led evaders over the mountains to the relative safety of the Spanish border herself. She blamed it on the inability to shut out her worries for her grandparents—knowing there was nothing she could do for them but pray for their survival. And what of Peter? And Daniel? What about her certainty that Schwarz would stop at nothing to find her—and eventually murder her?
Shortly after dark that first n
ight, Mikel had led them to the river where a man waited and helped Anja and Daniel into a small boat while he and Mikel pushed it off the shallow beach and Mikel jumped in and began to row away from the city. He stayed close to the shoreline in case they saw something and needed to hide or make a run for it. Low-hanging branches brushed their faces, and Daniel swatted them away, making a game of it. Anja was constantly amazed at the resilience of children in such times as they were living.
After two days and nights of stopping every time they saw someone on shore or another boat, they reached the town of Fontainebleau. There they abandoned the boat and took bicycles—specially marked to show they were for the use of the Resistance—from a rack near the train station and peddled to Orleans. Cycling was a slower way to travel, but it gave them the advantage of sometimes cutting across fallow fields or through forests to get to their next destination. There was far less snow in this part of the country than in Paris—only patches of it spotting the fields and roadsides. At dawn they finally arrived in Orleans, where the streets glistened with the rain that had fallen overnight, drenching them as they peddled through the countryside. They arrived wet and cold and hungry.
“Mama!” Daniel tugged at her sleeve and pointed. In the middle of the town’s central square stood a carousel—silent on this early morning but magnificent in all its gaudy glory.
“It is closed,” she told her son, thankful that she would not have to refuse him a ride. “In spring perhaps.” It was the kind of empty promise she had taken to offering him, knowing there was no likelihood they would return to Orleans in spring and ride the horses tossing their wooden heads defiantly as they posed in mid-prance. “Let’s see if we can find a bakery or café open,” she said, and saw how Mikel looked at her in alarm.