Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (35 page)

“What was the man’s name?”

“Wait, I have it right here. It’s Reinhardt, Rolf Reinhardt.”

Night of Flames

235

Reinhardt . . . Boeynants made a mental note of the name. “Try not to worry, Madame de Theux. I’ll get it cleared up. I’m sure you’re in no danger.”

“Will you be coming back?”

“
Non,
not for awhile. Take care of yourself.”

Boeynants’s hands trembled as he placed the receiver back on the hook.

Had he not spent the night with Hendrika he’d be in a cell at Breendonck himself—
Hendrika!
He stood frozen.
Think! Think!
He looked at his watch. She might still be home.

He picked up the phone and gave the operator Hendrika’s number. He held his breath.

“Bonjour,”
said the velvety voice on the other end.

“Hendrika, it’s Willy.”

“Willy! What a nice surprise. I was just thinking—”

“Hendrika, listen. Something’s happened.”

“What? What’s happened?”

“The Leffards . . . they were arrested this morning.” He heard her gasp. “I don’t have time right now . . . but you could be in danger.”

Silence.

“Hendrika?”

“Oui?”
Her voice was just a whisper.

“You have to leave. You can’t stay in your house. You’ve got to leave now.”

“Willy—”

“Hendrika, listen carefully. You don’t have much time. Do you remember the name I gave you? The person to contact if there was trouble?”

“
Oui, oui,
I remember. I have the address. But—”

“Hendrika, there’s no time. I’ll fi nd you. But please, leave now.”

He hung up the telephone and stared at the ceiling. How did this happen?

How could it possibly . . . He shook his head and stepped into the kitchen where Auguste was pouring tea.

The two men sat in silence for several minutes at the round, wooden table, Boeynants staring into the cup of tea trying to comprehend what had happened. The Gestapo found out about the plan to sabotage the shipment of shell casings. But how? The only ones who knew about it were he and Leffard . . .

and van Acker. But van Acker’s telephone was dead so they had gotten to him as well. There was Trooz, but he was out of the loop. And de Smet, of course 236

Douglas W. Jacobson

but . . . de Smet? Was it possible? He was a friend of Trooz’s, but not a close friend. What was it Leffard had found out about de Smet from the British? He wasn’t on any of their lists of collaborators but . . .

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 identifi cation 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 Night of Flames

237

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 offi cer, 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 fl itted 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 of-fi cers 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 fi nd 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: fi nd 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 fi elds, trying to work out a plan in his head. He had no money and carried no identifi cation, so he couldn’t allow himself to be seen.

Teenagers and young men were prime targets for the Germans. If you couldn’t Night of Flames

239

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 fl inched 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.

240

Douglas W. Jacobson

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 fl oor. 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 blast 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 fi gure it out. He was terrifi ed of being seen. Staying low, Justyn sprinted from the cover of one train to another and made his way to the periph-ery 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 fl oor.

At fi rst 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 fl ash.

Justyn recoiled, his head banging against the wall, as the bright fl are 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.”

Night of Flames

241

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 fi nished, 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 fl ickering 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 fi ngers 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.