He shook Joseph’s hand, and watched till Joseph was safely inside the hotel, then he walked to the driver’s side. When no one came running out of the hotel, he got inside the truck and jerry-rigged wires. Nothing happened. He tried again and a small spark crackled. As he held his breath and prayed for mercy, the engine started. He shifted into gear. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure everyone was secure, he stepped on the gas. As they rumbled down the street, he heard the angry shouts of the vehicle’s owner calling him a thief.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ANDRÉ TOOK THE CHILDREN to the church until he could figure out what to do next.
Géry, Bayard, and Jacques were in the cellar listening to the radio.
Father François greeted the group at the base of the stairs. “Welcome. Welcome. Hurry along.”
Yvette gathered the children together like an overly protective mother herding her ducklings.
“I’ll gather up some food.”
“Thank you, Father.” André headed towards his comrades.
“Looks like you were busy.” Bayard greeted him with a handshake.
“It’s been interesting, to say the least.” Luck had been on his side today. Either that or the good Lord was watching out for them.
Géry waved and he returned the gesture.
“Bayard. Keep an eye on them, will you? I have to meet up with the American, see if he can find a safe house for the kids. I should be back in about an hour and a half.”
“Sure. Sure. No problem.”
“Thanks.”
“Is that train job still on?” Bayard asked.
Damn. Dealing with the kids, he’d forgotten. “Yes. Take the lead on this one. I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”
Bayard nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
André glanced at Yvette, who helped Father François put food on plates.
For a second, he contemplated telling her he was leaving, but then she’d insist on going with him. The less people who knew where he was going the better. The fewer who knew about the children the safer they’d be.
He left without a word and headed for the Hotel Splendide.
He probably shouldn’t have told Bayard where he was headed. But he had to trust someone, he reasoned as strode through the hotel lobby.
André walked up to the front desk. “Is the American in?”
“He is no longer staying with us.”
Damn. “Do you know where he went?”
“Some fancy villa.” The front desk man rang the bell and a bellhop hurried over. “Room 102 has not received his bags yet. Get up there.”
“Do you know the name of the villa?” André asked his patience wavering.
“What, do you think I’m his keeper? How would I know?”
André caught the eye of the bellhop who tipped his head toward a group of potted plants.
A barbed retort on the tip of his tongue, André pivoted on his heel and kept silent. He met the bellhop behind a big fern.
“Villa Air-Bel. About a half hour into the countryside, district of La Pomme,” the young boy said.
“Thanks.”
After learning of the location of the Villa, André caught a tram to the nearby village. As he walked through a stone tunnel, he kept his eyes and ears open to everything and everyone around him. Trees, that appeared to be hundreds of years old, lined a long path. Aware of his footsteps crunching gravel, knowing his presence might not be welcomed, he kept his attention vigilant.
When he came to a pair of gateposts carved with the words Air-Bel, he pushed on the wrought iron gates. They whined open on rusty hinges. A long driveway wound upward. Cedars and pines lined the drive and a sweet scent wafted in the air. On the hill, a massive three-story villa stood out against the panoramic view of the Marseilleveyre mountains. The symmetrical façade had seen its share of weather-beaten time, but stood regally against the sky conjuring up visions of its former elegance. A stone terrace ran along part of the house and what looked like apple trees dotted the sweeping landscape.
The stillness was peaceful and very different from the hustle of the city. He understood why Fry chose this place to escape. Maybe it was just an illusion… maybe it was his need to put aside the pressures brought on by the war, but the seclusion made breathing a little easier. As he made his way toward the house, André focused his attention on his surroundings—the multi-tone trill of different birds—the swish-like sound of swaying pines. Filtered sunlight warmed his face seeping into his body like welcoming fingers and eased the tension from his limbs. He let his mind wander, a rare lenience that didn’t feel right, and breathed in deeply, enjoying the peace. He neared the front entrance. When was the last time he had relaxed? Kicked up his feet? He could get used to…
The sound of automobiles disrupted the serenity.
André darted into a hedge of laurel bushes.
A police car and two paddy wagons rumbled up the drive. The cars came to an abrupt stop and four officers marched into the house.
So much for relaxing… damn it. He knew better. He swatted a glossy green leaf away from his cheek and hunched lower.
Debating what to do next, angry with himself, he remained hidden until his leg felt numb and his curiosity got the better of him. He was about to sneak in the back, to peek through a window, when the door opened and a group of men and women exited the house. Fry was among them. The terrified group climbed into the van.
Luck, it seemed, had favored him once more. André’s pulse pounded his neck. A few minutes earlier and he would have been among that group.
When the vehicles drove out of sight, he stepped from the bushes. Fry was in trouble. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was the end to Fry’s organization. Either way he had to help. Thinking, Fry might have left a car behind, André walked down a neglected overgrown path. When he came to the stables, he glanced inside, hoping a horse or two might be in a stall. No hidden car. No animals; just the strong scent of fermenting hay.
In the back of the house, a terrace overlooked an unkempt garden with a fountain and pool that had fallen to ruin. A rusty bicycle leaned against a large greenhouse. He was surprised when he sat down on the seat to find the tires held him. It took him ten minutes to get back into town and another twenty to find someone who knew where they had taken the group. He left the bicycle, hopped a tram and headed across the city to the police headquarters.
André snuck up to the large gates and peeked around the wall into a large courtyard where three police officers milled around smoking cigarettes and chatting. Damn it. He pressed his back against the wall to keep out of sight. If only he hadn’t changed out of the uniform he’d worn earlier. He could have walked over and learned a thing or two. Reasoning he would wait and see if they let the group go, he eased himself away from the wall, darted around a car and hurried across the street.
Hours later, under the cloak of darkness, a dozen or so trucks rumbled into the courtyard.
André left the café and secured a position, flat-backed, against the high stone barrier surrounding the building. He watched as hundreds of people shuffled from the building and were herded into trucks like animals after closing time at the circus. The ringmaster, a big burly officer with a long waxed mustache, shouted orders and André swore if the superior had a whip he’d be cracking it to hurry along the prisoners.
A figure darted out of line. Shouts erupted.
André slipped his hand inside his jacket and gripped the handle of his revolver.
Someone fired and the man fell. Groaning, holding his injured thigh, the man was hoisted to his feet and tossed into a truck.
A woman wept and a flashlight beam shot to her face, illuminating the man André sought. Fry stood alongside the woman. An officer pushed them forward and the two shuffled along and boarded the waiting vehicle.
After the last person embarked, the driver got behind the wheel. André waited until the last van exited through the gates, then he jumped on the back of the truck. They drove throu
gh narrow winding streets at a speed that whipped his jacket against his face and fluttered his pant legs. His stance wide, legs and arms spread-eagle, he held on to the side of the vehicle. The canvas flap, shielding him from the people inside, continually slapped him. A few times the vehicle scraped the side of a building as the truck squeezed through a tight spot and he had to let go, switch hands, or lose some fingers.
From inside the truck he could hear the whispered terror of the passengers. He wondered, as he surmised they did, if they were being driven to labor camps, or to their death.
His bad leg ached from the continual pounding of motion. Knife-like pain shot to his back. The pain intense, he clenched his jaw. He focused on holding on and bent his knees to absorb the beating.
The van pivoted around a corner as though it turned the curve on two wheels. The quick movement pried his fingers away and André lost his balance. He felt himself slipping and tried to reach over and grab the side of the truck, but failed. His heart pounding, he tried again, but they rounded another corner at a quick speed that tipped the truck sideways and his attempt to hold on with two hands failed. Damn it! His body swung out. His shoulder slammed into the other side of the truck. Breath whooshed. His chest clenched. Using the momentum of the truck, he propelled himself back to his original position, but the van hit a hole and jarred his hold. He felt the ground, brushing against the soles of his feet, felt sweat sliding down his forehead as he desperately reached higher, one hand holding on for dear life, the other groping. With all his strength, he dug in, trying to hoist himself up, but he knew it was only a matter of minutes and he’d lose the battle. He glanced to the ground whizzing beneath him. He felt a hand grip his wrist and he jerked his gaze up. A big burly man, from inside the truck, reached out and pulled him up, then two men helped him inside. André nodded thanks and sat in quiet contemplation. Three lucky saves today. He hoped his luck hadn’t run out.
They rode in grim silence; everyone lost in their thoughts and fears.
André reached into his pocket, took out a pen and paper. The man beside him lit a match and André began to write. Who do you wish, I contact on your behalf? I will do my very best to find them. He passed the note around. One by one the note circulated and beneath match lights, sorrowful eyes flickered with weak gratitude.
Before the truck came to a complete stop André jumped off, ran and crouched near a storage building.
Flanked by armed guards the women and men were split into two groups and were led onto a steamship called the S.S. Sinaïa.
There was nothing more he could do by himself, André reasoned. He needed help and knew just the man for the job. He was about to leave when a familiar face caught his attention. Not sure he wasn’t imagining things, he crept closer to get a better look. It was her all right; the girl in Yvette’s sketch. What had Yvette’s cousin done to be among the arrested?
“Get up.”
The stern command and the gun jabbing into his back left André little choice. He dropped the list of names, he had gathered from the people in the truck, under some brush, raised his hands over his head and stood.
“Move.” The gendarme made a motion with his gun.
André ground his heel into the dirt covering the list. “You are making a mistake.”
Escorted by a heavy-handed pistol pressed into his back, André walked toward the ship where a group of guards, holding rifles, stood watch. Going for his assailant’s weapon, he rationalized, would cause a scene and bring the others running. His only option was to do some fancy talking. “I am one of you.”
“Yeah, sure. And I’m Hitler,” the gendarme replied with sarcasm.
“I’m telling you I am Kriminalpolizei.
“Right.” The gun pressed deeper. “Tell that to my superior.”
“You tell whoever is in charge to contact Elbert Tondrau over at police headquarters,” André insisted. “He will verify who I am.”
For situations like this, Rogér had contacts inside the Vichy police. Once Elbert’s name was called upon he’d know about the arrest. Besides, getting inside the ship where Fry and Yvette’s cousin were might gain him information.
Shoved down into the cargo hold, it took him a moment to adjust to the dim light.
“André, over here.”
André recognized Fry’s voice and made his way through the crowded space. As he passed some of the men from the truck, he saw their solemn expressions. The hope they’d placed on him died the minute they saw him locked away in this dank hold. He wasn’t going to let that happen.
***
Yvette realized too late André had left the church. By the time she ran outside, he was gone. She paced the floor, sick to death with worry.
Jacques wore a silly grin and tried to cheer her up as he spun her around the floor a few times to a spirited French melody from Bayard’s harmonica. Even Luis put aside his negativity and found something positive to say.
Finally, as the first pink rays of the sun lit the sky, André strolled down the stairs and she couldn’t decide if she was happy or furious.
“You’ve been here all night,” he said assessing what she knew was a disheveled appearance and sleep deprived eyes.
“Yes.”
“You should get some rest.”
“Later. Where were you?”
“Have you eaten?”
“André! Where were you?”
“How well do you know Hiram Bingham?” André pulled out a chair, offered her a seat and then sat beside her.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”
His expression serious, she wondered what he wasn’t telling her and why.
“How well do you know him?” André pushed a chunk of cheese and brown bread toward her.
“Answer my question,” she insisted.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
“Stop pushing food on me and avoiding the question.”
André rubbed the back of his neck, a telltale sign something was bothering him. “How well do you know your boss?”
“I know him well enough.”
“Do you trust him?”
She had to think a moment; trust was a tricky thing. She trusted him to help the cause, but if someone denounced him would he bring her down as well? Trust was a double-edged sword. “Yes, he is trustworthy on this.”
“Good. You will need to give him a message.”
“André I was worried.” He was worrying her now.
He ran his palm against her cheek and she wanted to lean into his strong hand, close her eyes and escape; lose herself; not think of anything.
“You needn’t be. I’ve looked into the eyes of death and I’m still here.”
His words sent a pang of sadness to her heart. “You are not made of rubber.”
He grinned. “No just bits and pieces of metal.”
“Seriously. Bullets don’t bounce. ” She frowned. She knew he’d seen his share of battles, had noticed the scars on his arm and his limp, but shrapnel? Just how badly had he been hit?
“I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. I was afraid you would want to come with me.” Again, he rubbed his neck as though easing out a knot. “Someone needed to stay with the children.” A fine shadow of stubble darkened his jaw and she swore he never looked more handsome.
“Yes. I suppose you are right. I would have wanted to go.”
“What did the American have to say?”
André’s brow furrowed. “How did you know I went to see Fry?”
“Géry told me.”
The edginess about him, despite his calm tone, caused her foot to tap like a woodpecker intent on getting his next meal. “Is Fry arranging a safe house for the children?” She waited for his answer and wondered why he wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
“No.”
“Why?”
André swiped his lips and she wondered if he would explain. “He’s been arrested.”
Yvet
te jerked from her chair. “When? How? Who told you?”
“I was there. Last night.”
“Oh my God! You could have been arrested.”
“Look, Eva,”
He used her fake name for the benefit of those around them and she silently thanked him for keeping her secret.
“I have to tell you something. But I need you to stay calm.” He placed his hand on her arm and she saw the troubled look in his eyes.
There was more to the story? A rush of confused emotions stormed through her, but she was very aware that Bayard’s music suddenly took on a serene melody as if he sensed the tension in the room.
She mentally braced herself. “Tell me.”
“I need to know you’ll listen calmly.”
“I promise.”
“Your cousin was among those arrested.”
Yvette gasped. She knew this day would come. She knew it.
André’s grip tightened as though he sensed she would bolt from her seat.
Bayard stopped playing and stared at her with concern, then started playing again.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “How do you know it was her?”
“I recognized her from the picture you showed me. I’m sorry.”
“Where is she? I want to see her.”
“She’s on the S.S. Sinaïa, at port. They are using the steamship as a holding tank.”
“Ok. What do we do?”
“You need to get a message to your boss. I must let Bingham know what has happened.” He drew from his pocket a piece of paper and handed it to her.
She nodded and stuffed the letter up her sleeve.
“Hiram can’t help her, she’s not American.” André rubbed her arm. “You understand, right?”
“I understand.” There had to be something they could do.
“I’ll check into exactly what happened and see if I can get her released.”
“Thank you.” She had no doubt André would do his best to get Louise out of this mess. “I want to see her.” She stood and he did the same.
“I have to advise you to let me handle it.”
“No. I insist.”
André grabbed her arm. “Listen to me very carefully.”
Behind The Mask Page 19