Waiting for the Violins (15 page)

“God, what a dilemma. Registering means they can come and get you any time, and not registering is a crime, so they can round you up for that too.” She glanced down at the floor, as if it were transparent and she could see them. “Aisik and Rywka, are they registered?”

“Of course not. Their ration books are from another street. But people in this street know about them. They could show up on the list too, tomorrow, or next week, or next month.”

“Can’t they go into hiding?”

“They’re already in hiding, the same as you. But you mean like move to a basement and never come out? Yes, I suppose that’ll be the next step, if they can find someone with a place for them.” He shook his head. “It just gets worse and worse.”

He took hold of the door handle. “This moves the schedule up a little. Are you ready to go with us on an action?”

Antonia could still hear the baby’s screams and Rywka’s sobs. “Yes, I am. Just tell me when.”

Chapter Seventeen

At the same time, in the far south of France, Sandrine and her five passengers were awakening. The woodshed in which they’d slept was only slightly more hospitable than the woods surrounding it, and at first light, all six of them began to stir. Rubbing sleep from her face, Sandrine did an inventory of her Englishmen.

Harry and Eddie laced up their boots stoically, Arthur and Nigel inspected their rucksacks, and Thomas curled into a tighter ball, trying to delay getting up. All, she knew, were sullen, stiff from sleeping on the ground, and hungry. And it was going to get worse.

She had interrogated all of them, but superficially, and still didn’t fully trust them. Nonetheless, she had a great deal of pressure to move the “parcels” out of Brussels and down the line, for aviators were arriving every day. They had to take some risks.

She did trust Florentino, their Basque guide, for he’d proved himself journey after journey, as a vital cog in the escape machinery in the Pyrenees. Fortunately, that’s where they found themselves now, in his trustworthy hands.

Wordlessly, they went out, and she gathered them around her for the day’s instructions.

“We’ll head southeast until we’re near the Spanish frontier, when Florentino will decide which route to use.”

“What’s the difference? Is one tougher but safer, or what?” Arthur asked.

Sandrine shrugged dismissively. “Lots of factors. Patrols, weather. You don’t need to know. Florentino is familiar with the terrain, so we follow his directions from here on out.”

Florentino had already started off, uphill and on a route perpendicular to the path. After three hours of hard climbing, he called a halt. None of the five evaders would admit to fatigue, but clearly they were all greatly relieved.

Harry unlaced one of his boots and massaged his foot. “Hey, can we make this a lunch stop? I’m famished.”

“Why not?” Sandrine signaled Florentino, who grudgingly agreed. Squatting down in front of the group, he opened the rucksack of food and distributed a portion of dry brown bread to each one. Harry stared at the dark lump in his hand. “My kingdom for a slice of cheese.”

“I thought your lot preferred haggis.” Thomas snickered.

“Never touch the stuff. Though at a time like this, I’d reconsider.”

Nigel tore off segments from his bread and chewed each one thoughtfully. “I used to complain about the RAF escape pack, but it’d make a fine lunch right now.” He closed his eyes and leaned back on one elbow. “Horlicks tablets. Who’ve thought you could get nostalgic about those, eh, Arthur?”

The faintest hint of a squint passed over Arthur’s face. “I never cared much for those either. Don’t like swallowing medication. I miss the biscuits, though.”

Nigel didn’t respond but chewed on his bread.

Florentino glanced up at the sky. “Rain soon. We have to move. Five minutes.” His Basque accent was thick, and he’d used up half of his English in that single declaration.

“Crikey, you’re a hard man, Florentino.” Harry laced up his boot.

“Courage, Harry,” Sandrine said. “Sore dry feet are better than sore wet ones.”

As a cold mist settled over the hillside they traversed, they slogged onward. Florentino took the lead and Sandrine stayed at the rear, though gradually Nigel fell back and trudged alongside her. When the gap between them and the others widened, he leaned in close and spoke under his breath. “Something’s not right about Arthur.”

With a subtle turn of her head, she gave him her full attention. “Why do you say that?”

“The Horlicks tablets. He thought they were medicine, but they’re just malt and sugar lumps. Candy. How can he not know that? They’re in every escape pack. And while we were holed up in Brussels, he was asking a lot of questions.”

Sandrine fought the instinct to halt and question him further. “Why didn’t you mention that earlier?”

“Well, they weren’t strategic questions, about our raids or anything. He just wanted to know the location of things and everyone’s name. It seemed natural at the time.”

“For God’s sake, man,” she hissed. “You should have told me. He could be a plant, and if he is, it could be the end of us all.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that. His English is as good as mine, and he has an RAF uniform. I might still be wrong about him.”

“Well, we have one more night before Bilbao. I’m going to find out.”

*

Florentino unlatched the barn door and swung it back toward them. As guide, he stepped in first, lit the lantern that hung on a hook by the door, and held it out in front of him. A cow swung her head toward them, then resumed chewing her cud.

“Well, this is an improvement,” Arthur said, setting his pack on the straw-littered floor. “Where are we, exactly?”

“We’re in a barn,” Sandrine pulled over a milking stool and sat down. “And tomorrow we’ll be out of it. That’s all you need to know.”

Thomas slid his backpack off and let it drop at his feet. “I could fall asleep in twenty seconds flat, but first I’ve got to go spend a penny. Back in a min.”

“Good idea,” Arthur said, hefting his rucksack onto his shoulder again.

“Why are you taking your pack?” Harry asked. “You think someone’s going to steal your knickers while you’re gone?”

“Yeah, I do. Can’t trust you blokes.” He chortled. “Besides, I’m carrying a bit of loo paper. Comes in handy.” He glanced over at Sandrine. “Don’t worry, I’ll bury it. Won’t leave a trace.” He slipped out through the still-open door.

Sandrine and Harry exchanged glances. “We’ll take a look tonight,” she said softly.

But Arthur gave them no opportunity. As soon as he returned, he curled up in a corner of the barn with his rucksack under his head and an arm threaded through one of the straps.

Sandrine was furious with herself for not being suspicious sooner and, in spite of exhaustion, wouldn’t allow herself to fall asleep. They were within sight of Bilbao, and if Arthur was in fact working for the Gestapo, he could slip out during the night and make his way into the city alone. And that would mean the capture and execution of all of them. Was she always going to be a fool? She’d almost trusted that “Sophie” woman, and she’d turned out to be a Belgian fascist. If meeting the woman in her own woods had taught her anything, it was to be suspicious. She would act tonight.

She quietly woke Nigel, Harry, Eddie, and Thomas. “Draw your guns,” she whispered. “We have to disarm Arthur.”

The five of them crept toward the suspect and made a loose circle around him while Sandrine held the lantern over his head and woke him.

“What? What the hell’s going on?” Arthur blinked up at the light.

“Hand over your pistol and rucksack,” she ordered him, taking hold of the grip to prevent him from snatching it out.

He sat up, clearly bewildered, letting her slide the weapon from its holster. She pulled the strap off his shoulder and dragged the rucksack away from him.

“Are you crazy?” He looked around at the four pistols pointed at him. “Why are you doing this? You think I’m a Nazi plant? I told you, I’m Arthur Talbot, tail gunner, 52nd Squadron.”

“We just have a few questions,” Sandrine said, unbuckling the straps on his rucksack. She rifled through it, pulling out dirty socks and underwear, a filthy towel, a canteen, an ammunition belt, and a wallet. She examined it, noting the lack of money and the photo of a woman and baby.

“That’s my wife and son. Her name is Angela. The baby is Andrew. He’s two and a half. Are you satisfied now?”

Assailed by doubt, Sandrine tossed the wallet back to him wordlessly. She had to admit, she had no idea what to look for that could establish his guilt or innocence. She felt crushed under the burden of responsibility, for either sacrificing his life if he was innocent or the lives of all the others if he wasn’t.

Doggedly, she opened each pouch on the ammunition belt. All held cartridges but the last one. Instead, a soiled handkerchief had been stuffed inside. She pulled it out.

“What’s this?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m sure I’m not the only pilot who carries something to blow his nose on.”

“Yes, but not usually made of silk.” She held up the wad of soiled material. It crackled as she pulled it apart, separating the folds held together by dried mucous.

“You’re disgusting,” he said. “Do you like snot? You want to pick through my dirty knickers too? Help yourself. How about the ones I’ve got on?” He started to unzip his trousers.

Ignoring him, Sandrine held the crusty silk to the lantern light, peering at the lines and spots that could have been mucous or soil or blood. She grimaced as she scraped at some of the crust with her nail and held the cloth again toward the lantern. Something caught her eye that didn’t belong on a silk handkerchief. If she squinted, she could just make out tiny lines of writing.

“Raise the wick, will you, Harry? Thanks.” In the brighter light, she could read some of the lines. Names, compass coordinates, and, next to them, the word “Malou.”

“Tie him up and take him outside,” she ordered grimly.

“No. Wait!” He held out his hands. “You’ve got it wrong. I swear to God, I’m Arthur Talbot.” He was obviously panicking.

Harry fished some cord from his own sack and tied the prisoner’s hands and ankles together. Then the other men lifted him up and set him down outside at the foot of a tree. Sandrine drew her own pistol.

“NO! I swear! I’m RAF. I’m on your side. You’re shooting an innocent man. For God’s sake! I’ve got a baby at home. Don’t do this!”

Sandrine wrapped the soiled towel around the muzzle of her gun to muffle the sound and pressed it against his sternum. Without pausing, she pulled the trigger twice. He jerked once and toppled sideways onto the ground.

“Come on, we’ve got to bury him quickly,” she said coldly, but her hands were shaking.

Chapter Eighteen

Antonia paced back and forth across her tiny room, haunted by the image of Rywka giving up her baby. Pure emotion was the worst motivation for action, she knew, but how could she not respond to such cruelty? And where would
that
lead? Damn. She had to find a way to contact the SOE and get back on track.

In the meantime, she would act according to her conscience. It was all she had to go by at the moment.

Kuba and Moishe were on time, and, hearing them on the stairs, she opened the door before they knocked.

“Are you ready?” Kuba asked.

“Yes, I said I would be. And I said you could use this.” She handed him her holster, and he hooked it on his belt under his coat.

She snatched up her own coat from its hook and closed the apartment door behind them. “So, where are we going?”

“To the Boulevard du Midi. The Judenrat.” Kuba led the way down the stairs. “They’re the ones responsible for the raid on the families across the street the other night, and you can be sure Aisik and Rywka are on the list too.

“They sacrifice the foreign Jews, saving themselves from the Nazi murderers by handing over their brothers. They even sell ‘protection papers,’ which are supposed to keep you from deportation, but don’t.”

“How are we going to get in?” She had no idea how to undertake a raid of this sort.

“We’ve got a man who’s infiltrated the office and will let us inside. After that, we decide as we go.”

Antonia shuddered at the lack of planning. “What’s my job?”

“You’ll stay behind us. Once we’re inside, you’ll watch from the window. If someone manages to call the police, you’ll see them coming.”

“That sounds reasonable. How do we get there?”

“We walk. It’s only a few streets from here. But after it’s done, we’ll have a car waiting outside for a quick escape.”

While they marched along the Boulevard Anspach, Antonia marveled at the men’s sangfroid. They glanced calmly around them, like workers on their way home from a long day’s labor, though Moishe kept moistening his lips.

“We’re here.” Kuba halted suddenly next to a parked car. The driver emerged silently, opened the car trunk, and handed Moishe a jerrican. The faint odor it gave off told her it was filled with gasoline. He closed the trunk and returned to his place behind the wheel.

Five more paces brought them to the door of the building. Kuba rapped twice and twice again. The door opened, and the three of them slipped in past a man Antonia didn’t know.

As soon as they were inside, Kuba drew the revolver and led them down the hall to the only office that was lit. Without stopping, he pushed open the door and they filed in, though Antonia stayed in the doorway.

Half a dozen men sat at a table at the back of the room. Two were bearded and looked rabbinical, but the majority had the appearance of regular Belgian businessmen. They looked up, obviously surprised, even annoyed at the interruption. It seemed to take a moment for them all to focus on the gun Kuba held.

He spoke calmly, his tone almost conciliatory, and while he explained what a betrayal it was for Jews to deport other Jews when none ever came back, Moishe and the third man swept all the papers from the tables onto the floor.

When they’d cleared the tables, they yanked open the drawers of the file cases behind them and emptied their contents onto the same spot.