Dunkirk Crescendo (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  Hopeless and angry, the nurse glared at her charges as if she was infuriated at them. “There are only fourteen nurses here. These men won’t escape unless they can walk.” She snorted bitterly. “Injured arm? You can walk, can’t you? The coast is that way.”

  David could not go on. “I’ve got to sleep. Can I sleep somewhere?” The world had taken on a sickly yellow pall again. He thought he might throw up if he could not lie down.

  “If you can find a spot.” She walked past him. “Steer clear of the area behind the altar. That’s the only place we have to put the dying men.” She scurried into the auditorium, leaving David to find his own refuge. It was obvious that the surgeons did not have the time or inclination to cut out a sliver of shrapnel while other men were bleeding to death before their very eyes.

  Settling in beneath a heavy table in the foyer, David lay between the support and the cool stone wall. His arm rested on his stomach. Every breath meant a painful movement of the metal that seemed to grate against his bones.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the distant shelling as it came nearer. He recognized the drone of aircraft engines: Heinkel, Stuka, Dornier, Messerschmitt. But for David, it was over. Suddenly and terribly over. David gasped as an intense pain shot through his shoulder. The urge to vomit swept over him again. Swallowing hard, he attempted to stay the violent reaction. He could not. Rolling to the side, he heaved bile onto the stone pavement. Then he passed out.

  23

  A Fascinating Jumble

  It occurred to Nicholi Federov, the White Russian, that when the pieces of a puzzle finally fall into place, it is amazing how the completed picture leaps out.

  The Gestapo spy was certain now that he knew Richard Lewinski’s whereabouts. Putting Professor Argo’s casual remark together with the reports from Oxford and Princeton had led Federov straight to the library of the Sorbonne and a stack of yearbooks. He had no difficulty locating photos of Lewinskis senior and junior. But it wasn’t until he examined a staff grouping of stiffly posed academic figures that the information he sought was there, right under his nose.

  In the back row of the professorial colleagues for the year 1910 was the face of Lewinski’s father. Next to him, according to the caption, was Louis Chardon. Flipping to the student pictures again confirmed it: Andre Chardon had been a classmate of Lewinski’s, and their families were connected as well. And Andre Chardon held some position in French Military Intelligence.

  All that remained was a little snooping, which was what brought Federov to the Buci Market on this lovely day. From the house on Quai d’Anjou, he had followed Chardon’s cook, Jeanette, with a rising sense of excitement that his goal was near.

  Federov positioned himself a few feet from the cook and picked up a succession of melons, groaning aloud as he inspected each and replaced it on the pile. His handsome face was downcast and worried when Jeanette caught the sound of another heavy sigh.

  “Excuse me, Monsieur,” she said kindly. “May I be of some assistance?”

  “Would you?” he asked with a pleading note. “My wife has taken the children and gone south. My cook has chosen this week to become ill, and I have unexpected guests who have arrived from Belgium . . . you understand?”

  “But of course,” Jeanette said sympathetically.

  “I have hired a temporary cook, but I must do the shopping myself—something for which I am singularly ill equipped.”

  “But that is the easy part,” avowed Jeanette. “I can help you.”

  Federov flashed his most charming smile. “You are so very kind. This melon—is it ripe?”

  The cook sniffed the indicated fruit, then set it aside and selected another. “This one is better. What else will you be serving?”

  “It may depend on the expense, because of the number who are arriving, you see. How does one know how much to purchase? In your household, for instance, how many do you feed and how many melons would you buy?”

  “Ours is but a small ensemble. Right now there are only two adults, and one of them . . . la!” she exclaimed. “He eats like a stray cat. I put out a saucer of food for him, and he dines at midnight when he emerges from his basement lair!”

  Federov’s pulse was racing, but once Jeanette got started, she provided even more information than he could have hoped.

  “Alas,” she said, “my poor monsieur will have to cope with the strange one all by himself. I am also leaving for the south.”

  “Oh?” said Federov, pricking up his ears.

  “My son lives in Nice,” Jeanette volunteered, “and I am departing soon to join him there.”

  “Most interesting,” Federov assured her. “Now tell me, how many melons this size would be needed to feed a group of ten?”

  ***

  Madame Rose was not at the train station today, Josie knew. There were important matters to attend to at the orphanage.

  As Josie, Juliette, and Yacov stood outside the house on la Huchette, everything on the street looked much the same, except that there were many shuttered windows now. People had closed their homes and fled south.

  But the big black coach gate and the bell rope remained as before. An echo of laughter drifted up from behind the wall. The gate swung open, and Josie, with Yacov and Juliette, entered the sanctuary of the courtyard.

  What had changed? Long lines of laundry still waved overhead. The sun was still shining. The faces of the children were still light and happy and alive. Juliette was drawn into a game of hopscotch. It had been a long time since Josie had seen such happy expressions.

  Now, however, there were twice as many faces as before.

  “One hundred and fifty, give or take,” Madame Rose explained. “You must be at the station by noon. An entire car is to be reserved for us on the two o’clock train.”

  ***

  Rue de la Huchette had never seen such an army since the days of the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror. What a commotion!

  Every child wore a two-cornered paper hat made of newsprint. This was because Madame Rose said it would be very hot in the sun at Gare d’Orsay, and she did not want any boiled brains or sunstroke or sunburn to contend with.

  Jerome felt foolish at first, but he got into the spirit of the thing when the five Jewish Austrian brothers made trumpeting sounds and began to duel with sticks. Jerome stuck his hand between the buttons of his shirt and jumped onto an upturned laundry tub. Striking a pose, he declared that he was Napoleon Bonaparte and that Hitler was slime from the nose of a pig and that all Nazis were about to become cannon fodder.

  He was cheered by everyone in the courtyard. He doffed his two-cornered hat in a gallant bow and led the cheer for France. Very stirring.

  “You are a born orator, Jerome,” Madame Rose said.

  The hats were quite acceptable after that.

  So. The time had come to leave No. 5. One hundred and fifty children were lined up ten across and fifteen deep for the march to Gare d’Orsay.

  Like the French tour guides known as Universal Aunts, Madame Rose and her sister, Madame Betsy, held black umbrellas high above their heads. At the end of each row, the women students from the Sorbonne also held umbrellas. Five boys in wheelchairs each carried paper banners of the French tricolor, which had been made at the same time as the hats. The other two children who were lame held the tiny babies and the toddlers and were pulled in handcarts and wagons. Madame Rose declared that these were the captains of the artillery. Jerome pushed his friend Henri’s wheelchair.

  Papillon was in a high state of rat excitement. He perched on Henri’s head, then skittered down his arm and back up again. He twitched his nose with great interest at the four oldest Austrian brothers who pushed the other wheelchairs. The youngest Austrian brother pulled a wagon. Everyone carried paper-wrapped packages. These bundles contained two pairs of clean underthings, two pairs of socks, and one change of clothing.

  It was too hot to wear sweaters, but Madame Betsy would not have them left behind. “It may be swelter
ing today,” she croaked in her reedy voice when the boys complained, “but you will be sorry if you do not have something warm to wear in the fall!”

  Madame Betsy was always thinking ahead and using interesting words.

  Madame Rose agreed with her. “Remember, it will be cold again someday.”

  It was hopeless to disagree with both of the sisters at the same time.

  So one heavy article of clothing, either a coat or a sweater, was tied around the waist of each child. In addition to this, there was lunch. Also dinner, breakfast, lunch, and dinner again. The food was all the same, but there was enough to live on for the journey: Cheese sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, two oranges, and two apples were packed into the pillowcases of each traveler. This was then tied to the belt so it could not be lost.

  “If you must abandon anything, leave only your extra clothes behind! But do not lose your food parcels,” Madame Rose instructed. “One may run through the Tuileries as stark naked as the day he was born and still survive. Especially in this weather. But one must have food to survive!”

  “And paper hats to keep one’s brains from boiling,” remarked Georg to Jerome under his breath.

  Jerome pictured everyone naked except for the two-cornered hats and the umbrellas.

  After that there was the very strictest command from Madame Rose that one could eat only when permission was granted and that any soldier who went through his provisions without waiting would just have to go hungry.

  Jerome had seen the hungry people at Gare du Nord, so he resisted dipping into his supplies.

  Madame Rose, umbrella elevated, tin whistle between her lips, took her place at the head of the procession. Madame Betsy brought up the rear.

  Madame Rose puffed out her cheeks and let loose with an ear-splitting FWEEEEEEEEET! on the whistle.

  There was no missing her intention. Papillon leaped up in terror onto Jerome’s food sack and then scampered to the top of his paper hat.

  “All right everyone! Stick together now! Artillery?” Madame Rose glowered down at Jerome and Henri and Papillon. “Are you all ready?” She addressed the rat. “Marche!”

  ***

  Colonel Gustave Bertrand had still not arrived to pick up Richard Lewinski. His tardiness had made Josie late for the rendezvous at Gare d’Orsay. Madame Rose had specified in no uncertain terms that in order to be assured of a place on the train, everyone traveling with the orphanage would have to be at the terminal at least two hours before departure. That mark had passed twenty minutes ago.

  The children played upstairs as Josie packed a small bag with food for their journey and placed it in the tiled foyer in preparation for leaving. Where was Bertrand?

  She dialed Bertrand’s private number. The phone at Vignolles rang a dozen times before it was finally answered by a feeble, croaking voice.

  “Colonel Bertrand please?”

  “The colonel? He is gone away long ago. Last night.”

  “Gone where?” How could Bertrand have forgotten Richard Lewinski?

  “I do not know, Madame. They have simply loaded the trucks. Very many trucks, Madame. And they have all gone away. South, I think. Like the birds.”

  There was a knock at the door as she replaced the handset. Josie was pleased. She was sure that it would be Colonel Bertrand. He had come to retrieve Lewinski, and he was also apparently running late. Now Josie could leave with her conscience clear, her last duty discharged.

  Poking her head through the doorway of the stairs to the basement, she called out, “Good-bye, Richard. We are leaving now.” She thought she heard a grunt of acknowledgment, but in Lewinski’s case it was hard to tell whether it had been directed at her or was part of some private reverie.

  She flung open the front door. “Come in, Colonel,” she offered, then stopped awkwardly. The short, dapper man who bowed on the front stoop was not Bertrand. Had he been sent in the colonel’s place to retrieve Richard? Josie glanced past him, expecting to see a lorry. There was none. Instead, across the Seine, she glimpsed hordes of people carrying luggage and children and belongings on their way to Gare d’Orsay to catch the train south.

  “I was told Colonel Bertrand would call personally,” she began. “You are not who I was expecting.”

  “And you are not Colonel Andre Chardon, but you are a most charming substitute!”

  “I am sorry; Colonel Chardon is not at home,” Josie said, impatient at this latest interruption. So this fellow was not from Bertrand. Where was Bertrand? “I do not know when Colonel Chardon will return, Monsieur . . .”

  “Federov. How unfortunate that I missed him. I am also a wine merchant, you see, and a friend of Colonel Chardon.” He glanced at the bag of food in the foyer. “I am leaving Paris for Switzerland and only wanted to stop and wish him well. Who knows when we will all return? And when we do, Paris may be filled with strangers.”

  This was an ominous and unpleasant thing to say, Josie thought. But probably true. All the familiar faces were on their way to the train stations.

  “When I see him, I will tell him.” She began to close the door.

  He put up his hand and held it open, then stepped in past her. “But of course!” he remarked. He glanced around nervously. “But you are Madame Marlow. We met at the Friends of Poland reception.”

  Josie vaguely remembered him. Had he provided the buckets of champagne? She gestured toward the bag to show that she was in a hurry. “You will have to excuse me, but we have a train to catch.”

  “A pity. I would have liked to renew our acquaintance. Perhaps I could just write Andre a note? It will only take a moment. I have a pen,” he said, withdrawing one from his jacket pocket. “Could you locate a scrap of paper for me?”

  Josie decided it would be quicker to accommodate this request than to try to refuse it. There was stationery in the Louis XIV desk against the wall of the foyer. Turning to fetch the paper, she was stopped by the barrel of an automatic pistol pressed into her ribs.

  “Say nothing except what I tell you.” Federov’s voice was low and menacing. “Where is Lewinski?”

  “You are making a mistake. A number of soldiers . . . Colonel Bertrand . . . will be here any minute.”

  “You are wrong, Madame. The colonel has been notified by Quai d’Orsay that Richard Lewinski left by plane for England some hours ago. Lewinski has connections at Oxford, we have heard. Bertrand believes the little Jew has flown the coop. No one is coming.”

  Josie blurted, “The cook and the housekeeper and the chauffeur are—”

  “Gone.” Federov jabbed the Czech-made automatic into her side. “There is no time for lies. The servants are all away, and we have already established that Colonel Chardon is out. I will ask only once more: Where is Lewinski?”

  At that instant a roaring sneeze resounded from the basement, identifying the location of Federov’s quarry.

  “Very good,” Federov said. “Then it is to the basement we must go. You will precede me down the stairs without making any sound.”

  Three steps from the bottom, the tread creaked and Lewinski looked up from the notes on his worktable. “Who is this?”

  Federov shoved Josie down. She caught her heel and fell to the stone floor. “Richard Lewinski,” Federov said, “I bring greetings from your former employer . . . Reinhard Heydrich.”

  Lewinski glanced toward a wrench lying on the table beside his Enigma machine. His fingers twitched.

  “I would not if I were you,” Federov cautioned. “This can either be quick, or it can be painful. It makes no difference to me, but it may be important to you.”

  Lewinski raised his hands slowly and backed away from the table as Josie got to her feet.

  Motioning Josie over toward the wall, Federov advanced to stand next to Lewinski’s notebook. He thumbed through the pages. “I see that my assignment was not a waste,” he observed. “You are working on an Enigma machine. It does not look like you are successful, but one never knows.”

  “I beg your pardo
n,” Lewinski said with wounded pride. “It most certainly does work!”

  “Really?” Federov retorted as he peered into the cabinet of the decoding device.

  “Do not touch it!” Lewinski barked in indignation.

  Federov was enjoying the game. He touched the wheels and smiled smugly at Lewinski, as if to demonstrate who was in control. “A fascinating jumble. We will leave it here until the chief of security arrives in Paris with the Führer to examine your work.” He inclined his head curiously at the two banks of dials and switches on the console. He flicked the top two switches. Nothing happened.

  “Do not touch it!” Lewinski roared again. “It will—”

  With an impish grin, Federov flipped the toggle.

  His body stiffened in a rictus of electric shock as the voltage coursed through him, pulling him up on tiptoe. An involuntary exclamation of “Ahhhh” started on a low note and ascended the scale to become a shrieking, high-pitched cry. An electric spark arced from the barrel of the gun to the metal fittings inside the cabinet, and the basement lights dimmed to a pale orange glow.

  The nauseating smell of burning hair filled the cellar, and Josie ducked her head toward the wall. The lights resumed their normal brightness. When she looked up again, she saw that Lewinski had separated two electric cords on the floor behind the cabinet.

  The gun barrel was welded to the steel of the frame, and Federov was held upright by his grasp on the handle. When the power was shut off and his grip relaxed, he crumpled to the stones.