Waiting for the Violins (19 page)

“Maybe just for a week,” Aisik suggested. “If nobody shows up at the apartment, we can move back.”

“Yes, you should do that, Moishe. I’ll give you a few tins of corned beef and some other rations that came from London. You can eat them without cooking.”

Rywka looked completely beaten. She knelt by the sofa and pulled out a battered suitcase, muttering something in Yiddish. They had all agreed on a mere week of hiding, but Rywka’s morbid tone had an air of finality about it.

*

Another month passed with ever more German advances in the East, ever more arrests, deportations, executions, and ever more downed aviators, escaped prisoners, despairing Belgians seeking to escape. In Belgium, the Armed Jewish Partisans nipped at the victor’s ankles, the clandestine press reported the depressing truth in shabby one-page fliers, while the cellars and barns of Belgium filled up with the desperate and the doomed.

This was Antonia’s fourth interrogation. She pulled up her collar and ducked her head against the pounding rain while Sandrine marched on ahead of her, seemingly oblivious. A few moments later they arrived at the fish market and turned into the alley where they gave the password at the rear door.

Inside they shook the water off their coats and made their way to the inner storage room, where Christine had brought the next group of men to be interrogated.

The two airmen stood up as they entered. One was short and gave the impression of plumpness, though closer scrutiny revealed that only his cheeks were pudgy. Under his rumpled RAF uniform, he was, in fact, rather thin. The other one was wiry as well, and though the bandage over his cheek concealed some of his face, the visible half was handsome.

“You are…?” Sandrine leaned toward the round-faced one.

“Ian Montcrief, miss, 602 Squadron.” He offered an informal salute.

“I’m Nick Patterson,” the other added, without waiting for the question. “Same squadron, miss.”

“Sit down, gentlemen,” She pointed toward the table. “We have a few simple questions, and then we can move on to getting you out of here.”

Antonia took one of the chairs at the table across from the men. “Where did you come down? Can you tell us about that?”

Nick seemed the more talkative one, in spite of his bandage. “We were shot down just over Hasselt, returning from a bombing run. We’d dropped our load and were traveling light and thought we were home free, but then the flak caught us. I got this jumping from the plane.” He pointed to his cheek. “Piece of metal flew off the fuselage.”

“What were you flying?” Antonia only knew the Whitleys and Lysanders she’d trained with at Ringley, but the SOE had told her what aircraft were missing.

“A Halifax Mk I, miss. And a beauty too.”

It was the correct answer but could have been a lucky guess. “What kind of fire power were you carrying?”

“We had the usual load in the bomb bay, of course, but also six bomb cells in the wings. We also had two 7.7mm Browning machine guns in the nose turret and four in the tail turret.” He obviously knew his airplane.

“How big was your crew?” She directed the question to Ian, who had been silent throughout.

“Seven, ma’am. Pilot, navigator, flight engineer, wireless operator, bomb aimer, and two gunners. I was the wireless operator.”

“Wireless operator?” She brightened. “Can you spell your name in Morse?”

“Sure can.
Di-dit di-dah da-dit. Dah-dah dah-dah-dah da-dit dah dah-di-dah-dit di-dah-dit di-dit dit di-di-dah-dit”

She laughed, certain that no Gestapo plant could have mastered the code well enough to deliver the name with such speed. He was the real thing.

“And you?” She turned to Nick.

“Flight engineer. The tail gunner was killed right away, but the rest of us bailed out. I counted five other chutes, but four were shot as they came down. You know, you’re just hanging there, an easy target.”

It all sounded eerily familiar.

“Where did you learn to fly, and who was your commanding officer in flight school?”

“I learned to fly at the Central Flying School at Upavon, Wiltshire, mostly with Captain Harold Down, though they put in substitutes sometimes.”

The lost aircraft and commander names corresponded to those sent to her by the SOE, and that was all she needed.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I think we’ve heard enough.” She nodded approval toward Sandrine.

“Good.” Sandrine took charge. “Are those your packs?” She pointed with her chin toward the military rucksacks leaning against the wall.

“Yes, miss. But we’ve eaten the escape rations. All that’s left is the first-aid kit and the maps.”

“Obviously you can’t carry them when you travel. They’re British military issue. But we’ll give you a replacement along with a change of clothes. Oh, and you can have your side arms back now. We’ll take your photos and then have a doctor stop by to look at that wound, but you’ll have to sleep here tonight. In a couple of days we hope to have papers with your new names. Once we’ve got those, we’ll move you to another shelter until we can set up the line. Is everything clear?”

“Yes, miss. We’ll stand by,” Ian said, looking around glumly at the storage room. “Um, will we be getting anything to eat?” He winced slightly.

“Yes, we’ll send over some sandwiches. Maybe we can stir up some beer for you too.”

“Thank you, miss. That would be very welcome.”

Antonia turned away, weary on their behalf, and weary for herself. How many more men would come through those doors, hungry and hurt and depending on her? Lurking at the edge of her consciousness was her own hunger for something and someone, but against the needs of the battered young aviators, it seemed a luxury.

*

On the street outside the fish market the rain had stopped and they walked shoulder to shoulder. “It’s such a relief having you do the interrogations,” Sandrine said. “You and your wireless are invaluable.”

They turned the corner onto a broad avenue and the sun came out, brightening everything. Sandrine halted and closed her eyes, savoring the sudden warmth.

Antonia glanced sideways at the sharp Nordic profile and smiled at the irony. One of Hitler’s enemies was more Aryan than most of his soldiers. Beautiful too. Internally, she prodded herself back to the present. “On the subject of the radio…”

“Please don’t tell me there’s a problem. I was just beginning to have hope again.”

“Don’t worry. The link with London won’t go away. I’m only concerned because I’ve been transmitting for two months from my room. We know the Gestapo has vehicles patrolling the streets with direction finders looking for radio transmissions. So far, I’ve banked on the unlikelihood that they’ll be near my street during the few minutes I transmit, but some day, the odds are going to catch up. And to make things worse, a few weeks ago someone was spying on the Jews who lived below me so I suspect the security police has the building in its sights by now.”

“Spying? How do you know?” Sandrine’s green eyes clouded with anxiety.

“Someone followed the husband home from where he was working. Anyhow, I managed to follow the weasel back to his place and find out his name, Jean Corot, and even his address, Wolvengracht 100.”

“Jean Corot,” Sandrine said. “Like the painter? Hmmm. I don’t know the name, but I do know that street. I used a tailor shop close by. So what did you do?”

“Well, there wasn’t much anyone could do. The family has gone into hiding in a tiny room away from here so they’re safe, even if they’re miserable. I’m only worried that if the security service goons one day decide to raid the building, they won’t find their Jews, but they will find my wireless. I don’t have any place to conceal it. I’m sorry. I suppose I should have told you earlier.”

Sandrine halted. “You should have. I’d have made you leave a long time ago. For all you know, the security police might even be watching you. Why don’t you transmit from the Château Malou?”

Spend time with Sandrine Toussaint in her château
? Antonia tried to sound deliberative, professional. “Well, that
would
protect the transmissions. But I’d have to come out to Woluwe each time I send a message. I’d need to get a bicycle, at least.”

“Hmm. That’s not practical at all. Why don’t you just move out there?”

“You mean with the pilots?” The fantasy was evaporating.

“No, in my brother’s room upstairs. It may not be as cozy as your room in Brussels. The whole place is always cold these days, but you’ll be safe.”

Oh, thank God
. “When can I move in?”

“Tomorrow, if you like. I’ll come by in the morning with my car. We can hide the wireless under the rear seat, although we shouldn’t be stopped anyhow. I have all the proper permits and am thoroughly legal.”

“What luck that you’ve been able to keep your car. With the shortage of petrol, it must be very costly, though.”

Sandrine glanced away. “More than you might imagine.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Already in her coat, Antonia watched from her window, and when the car pulled up, she slid on her rucksack, grabbed the wireless valise, and started down the stairs.

At the landing just below her, she glanced mournfully at the door to the empty apartment. The Goldmans were now huddled together in Moishe’s tiny room, wherever it was. Would they ever dare to come back? Or would the suffocation of living together in a garret devoid of cooking facilities drive them back in spite of the danger? She bit her lip in helplessness and descended farther.

When she reached the ground floor, Christine was behind the counter of her always-empty shop.

“Moving up in the world, I see. Good for you.”

“I wish we could all move out there and operate the Comet Line from the château. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“Nice dream, but in the real world, we’ve got to be in town, near the Café Suèdoise, the fish market, the counterfeiter, the photographer, all the others.”

“You’re right. Anyhow, now you’ll have a room available for the next escapee. Assuming the security service doesn’t come around.” She laid the keys on the counter.

“I’ve been doing this for a while. I know what to say if anyone comes around asking.” Christine held the door open and gave her a peck on the cheek as she passed. “Give my regards to our aviators.”

Antonia found herself on the sidewalk, and the closing door behind her seemed a sign. She hoped it was for the beginning of better times.

The overcast morning gave little color to the street, but standing by her black Mercedes in a soft yellow sweater, Sandrine was like a beacon of light and warmth. Antonia had a sudden urge to embrace her but instead said, “Hi.”

“Hi.” Sandrine echoed the greeting and opened the rear door. “Let’s put your things under the seat first.”

“Good idea.” Antonia handed over both the radio case and the rucksack containing her clothes and pistol. Sandrine deftly lifted the rear seat and deposited the case into the cavity beneath. The whole procedure took only seconds, and the seat was down again.

With a final glance around the street, Antonia climbed into the front of the car, and a moment later, they were on the Boulevard Anspach. She relaxed briefly, enjoying the comfort of being driven. The last time she recalled being chauffeured to something new was when Major Atkins had taken her to Beaulieu. A lifetime ago.

Delivery trucks passed them here and there, but no other private vehicles. She wondered again what the “special arrangement” was that permitted them to drive when others were reduced to horse carts and bicycles.

“I’ve never lived in a château,” Antonia said. “You’ll have to tell me the rules, about where I’m allowed and not allowed.”

“You’re allowed most every place around the house and the grounds, even when I’m not there. Just try not to be seen if anyone comes around. Since you’ll be staying in my brother’s room, you’ll be able to hear if anyone arrives outside. If you do, you must be completely silent until someone comes and tells you it’s safe to come out. Understand?”

“Whatever you say. Do you have dangerous visitors very often?”

“Sometimes,” she answered vaguely.” Gaston and Mathilde will take care of you when I’m away.”

“‘Away.’ You mean taking the men to Bilbao.”

“Yes, of course. As soon as we get the new identification papers for them.”

“I want to go with you this time. I know I’ll be an extra mouth to feed, but I’m carrying the funds, after all. We can distribute them as you see fit. That was always the plan. But I know London would like me to have more involvement in the line.”

She paused a moment, then added, “I don’t want to just sit in your house waiting while you risk your life. I’ve spent far too much time on this mission simply waiting.”

Sandrine focused on the road but nodded faintly. “Yes, I suppose it’s all right, as long as you let me make all the decisions.”

“Of course you’ll make the decisions. There was never any doubt about that.”

They pulled up in front of the Château Malou and Antonia tried not to gawk. She’d seen the building from a distance, the day she’d taken Moishe shooting, but hadn’t paid much attention. “Eighteenth century?” she asked, looking up at the entry façade.

“The estate itself is from the seventeenth, actually. Originally a rural residence surrounded by a park and lake, it passed through several hands to a banker named Lambert. He tore down the original house and built this one in the Louis XVI style. You can see for yourself.” She gestured upward with her hand.

“Seven bays of shuttered windows with a triangular pediment. Pure classicism. The estate passed through several more owners, was embellished, and the park was developed. Finally it reached Jules Malou, after whom it’s named. He was a big financier and finally minister of state. He had five children, one of whom was my mother. The others entered the church or died, and she ended up with the house. She married into Belgian business and so did I, so we managed to have heating and modern plumbing installed, before the male members of the house died off.”