Waiting for the Violins (7 page)

“At this point, darling, it doesn’t matter,” Aisik said, kneeling by their child. “The Germans are coming for us anyhow. We’re fighting back so a few can live and tell the story.” He caressed the hair on his son’s head with his fingertips. “We’re doing it for Jackie.”

Moishe felt an odd sensation. A feeling so long forgotten he almost didn’t recognize it.

Hope.

Chapter Nine

March 1942

Sandrine strode along the Rue Marché au Charbon, developed, so she’d learned in school, in the thirteenth century, as a center where coal merchants and investors did business. But the coal marketeers had disappeared centuries ago and left rows of small shops, which had thrived until the Germans had occupied the city. Now some of the feet that trod its cobblestones were shod in jackboots.

She crossed the intersection into the curved end of the street and located the shop she wanted. Broader than most of the other houses on the street, it was rather attractive, with a wide window on each side of a high oval doorway. Three stories, four if you counted the tiny mansard.

She was about to reach for the door handle when it opened from within and eight men filed out. Swarthy, Eastern-looking. They nodded courteously to her as they passed and dispersed in both directions.

Christine Mathys sat at her counter and looked up as she entered. A tall, energetic woman in her late fifties, she gave the impression of utter competence in whatever she did. “Sandrine Toussaint, what a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in! Don’t tell me you want to buy any of my old trash for your château.”

“No, nothing like that. Something more…delicate, in fact. Is it safe to talk?” She glanced around for any listeners.

“Yes, we’re alone. What’s on your mind?” Christine pulled a second stool up next to her and signaled her to sit down.

Sandrine slid off her heavy coat and draped it over the counter, then perched on the stool. She thought for a moment, then blurted out, “I know you’re sympathetic to resisting the occupation, so I’ll speak directly and trust that I’m not endangering myself.”

Christine crossed her arms to add vehemence to her declaration. “Anyone who stands up to the Germans has nothing to fear from me. How can I help you?”

She took a deep breath. “Well, in the simplest terms, I work with an escape line that helps people flee south to Spain. We call it the Comet Line. Andrée de Jongh set it up, but the Gestapo arrested her father and is on the lookout for her, so she operates from the Spanish end of it. We evacuate Allied pilots, Belgians who want to fight with the Free Belgian Forces, occasionally a Jew or an escapee from the labor drafts.”

Christine slapped her hand on the counter. “Bravo. I knew such organizations existed, and it’s just like you to be in the thick of it. So what do you need from me?”

“Anything you can offer. But most urgently, we need more safe houses, both in Brussels and outside. We’ve been taking the men south in twos and threes, but the operation is disorganized. Worse, we’ve got more men than we can handle. At the very least, someone has to house them while we set up the machinery to move them faster.”

“Machinery?”

“You know, forged identification, clothing, medical assistance. And before we even start, we have to interrogate them to be sure they aren’t Gestapo plants. Obviously, we need more people. I always thought I could trust your abilities, and your loyalties.”

“You
can
trust them. My loyalties, at least. Do you mean you want me to hide some of them here? I’ve already got a Jewish family living clandestinely upstairs, so all that’s left is the garret.”

“I was hoping you could work actively with us, contacting other trusted people. For housing, of course, but can you can think of anyone good at forging documents, or stealing them?”

Christine thought for a moment. “I may know one or two. I’m not sure how they would be able to feed new mouths, though. So much is rationed.”

“We’re working on getting counterfeit ration coupons, but we have only one forger so it’s slow going.”

“I’m beginning to appreciate the difficulties. But sure. I’ll pay a little visit to my friends this evening to see what’s possible. I won’t bring up
your
name, but you mustn’t bring up mine either. And no mention of my Jews upstairs.”

Sandrine patted her on the arm. “I see you’re getting the knack of this already.”

“Don’t worry about—” Someone was shouting in the street, and they both went to the shop window.

Outside a double line of boys was marching past in formation, shouting in unison.

“Look at them,” Christine muttered. “Belgian boys stomping around like Hitlerjugend. In their little brown shirts, black shorts, and neckerchiefs. Every single one of them with his sleeves rolled up to the exact same spot above their elbows. What’s going on in those foolish heads?”

“The same thing that’s going on in the heads of their Rexist parents. A vicious mix of fascism and Catholicism.”

“Not even that much. I remember when my son was that age. All he cared about was whether his friends admired him. They love the uniforms and the swaggering. A lot of good it did him, joining the military with his pals when he was twenty and getting killed when he was twenty-one.”

“What are they doing here?” Sandrine asked. “Don’t they usually parade down the Boulevard Anspach?”

“Yes, but they end up here at the pilgrim’s church down the street. Makes them feel like God’s on their side.”

Sandrine retreated to her stool. “Fortunately not all the young ones feel that way. A friend of mine, about eighteen herself, who lives in the Ardenne, says that young people are coming together to resist the German labor roundups.”

“You mean Celine? Laura’s sister? The one with the dachshund? Yes, she’s a brave one. By the way, how’s the dog?”

“Last I heard she was fine. A little furry war hero. She has a bald patch on her rump, though.”

The chanting from the street was suddenly loud as the door opened and two uniformed men burst in. Belgian auxiliary gendarme.

“How can I help you?” Christine asked, unperturbed.

The higher-ranking one stepped forward. “We’ve had reports of people living in this street without papers. Who resides in this building?”

During a moment of tense silence Christine shifted objects on the counter, clearly buying time.

Sandrine stepped forward. “Excuse me, Captain,” she said with extreme courtesy. She couldn’t determine his actual rank but was certain it was far below captain. “I am Madame Toussaint, a personal friend of General von Falkenhausen. These premises are under my, and therefore under
his
,
protection. Please contact Herr von Falkenhausen’s office before you storm in here looking for criminals where there are none.” She pointed to the telephone at the rear of the shop. “Be sure to identify yourself by name as well.” She glared at him, as they stood almost chest to chest.

She could see the confusion in his eyes and his conflicting urges—to slap her out of the way or to back off from danger. Obviously, no woman had ever spoken to him in such fashion, and if she was who she said she was, he risked damage to his career. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t call her bluff.

The senior gendarme glanced upward, as if to detect movement on the floor above, then capitulated. His only problem seemed finding the right words to climb down from his original order. “You may take this visit as a warning, madam. The punishment for housing unregistered persons is severe.”

With that, he gave the faintest flick of his head in a sort of condescending salute and did an about-face. The parade of young Rexists was just finishing as the door closed behind the two gendarmes.

Christine exhaled slowly. “Well. You won, but obviously you can’t pull that trick very often. They’ll probably leave me alone for a while, but still, this isn’t a good location for housing your escapees. I’ve got enough going on already. I’ll ask around for other places though, and let you know.”

“Thanks, Christine. I’m sorry about your son.”

“I’m sorry about your brother.”

“Yeah.” Sandrine shrugged. Two young men had died for a defeated country, and there was nothing comforting to say about it.

She let herself out and made her way along the now-quiet street deep in thought. What did Christine make of her claim of association with the Nazi governor general? Did she think it was a lie, a stunning bluff, or did she sense the truth in it?

How cruel war was. She couldn’t even feel the satisfaction of heroic behavior when the tool she’d used was her own collaboration. The power she exercised was flimsy, the fleeting influence of the master’s favorite whore.

She felt soiled and suddenly desperately lonely.

Chapter Ten

June 1942

Three months later and two hundred miles away, Antonia waited on an airfield at RAF Tempsford.
Christ, it’s cold
. Standing next to the Armstrong Whitney that would carry them across the channel, Antonia swore to herself in language she rarely used out loud. Was it fear or simply the night wind over the tarmac? It was supposed to be spring, but you’d never know it.

The wide money belt around her midriff itched but was the most important thing she carried, with money and papers identifying her as Sophie Lajeune, nurse’s assistant from Etterbeek. In a tiny pocket at one end of it were her cyanide capsules. Over that she wore a skirt, blouse, and sweater that were specially tailored to look Belgian, though as far as she could judge, that meant drab.

The camouflaged jump overalls weighed a ton. They were the smallest size made for men and still too long in the torso, so the material bloused everywhere. The long zippers, two running from ankle cuff to mid-chest and the third from neck to crotch, made them easy to get in and out of, even with bulky clothing, but once they were zipped up, every object she’d need was tacked on outside.

The tube-pocket on her left shoulder held the switchblade knife, attached to a length of paracord in case it slipped out of her hand. It could come in handy if her chute got hung up in a tree. A leg pouch ran almost the length of her left calf. Secured by snaps, it held four small inner pockets for maps, radio codes, documents, files, hooks, anti-drowsy pills, a compass, and a vial of morphine.

The triangular pocket on her left thigh held her pistol, an Enfield Mk1 .38 caliber revolver in a canvas holster attached to a lanyard. She wondered, idly, if they ever fired upon impact. If it did, it would blow off her kneecap.

The weight on her right side was greater, since it held the pouch with her shovel and its detachable handle, and two double pockets above that contained a flask of water, a torch, survival rations, and a first-aid kit.

And that didn’t count the double parachute pack and harness and the empty rucksack rolled up as a cushion in the small of her back.

She did like the canvas jump helmet, with its ring of cushioning around the forehead and mica glasses attached by an elastic band. It made her look like an aviator and not like a walking hardware store.

She shifted her weight to her other leg and jumped slightly to settle her bulky load into a more comfortable position. She then did a mental rundown of everything they had packed for her that wasn’t on her body. In addition to what she wore under her overalls, the dispatcher would drop a suitcase containing a Belgian-style coat, three sets of underwear, more emergency rations, and additional bandages.

Next to her, Llewellyn Rhydderch looked just as cluttered, though less bothered by the weight. Their separate tasks were clear. He was in charge of the mission and would make the day-to-day decisions of what to do on the ground—gathering Resistance forces, setting up communication lines, collecting intelligence to pass back to London.

Antonia was the “pianist” who would transmit all communications on the wireless radio that would go with them on this trip, and she curled her fingers inside her gloves, itching to telegraph her current misery.
Di di dit, dah dah dah, di di dit
.
Get me off this damned airfield.

“Here ya go, Toni,” Lew said, smearing her cheeks with two fingers covered with camouflage cream the color of cooked spinach. She tolerated it because he was in charge. His own fully greased face made him look like a swamp demon.

A figure strode toward her in the dark, though the moonlight lit his white hair and revealed it was the squadron leader, arrived for the final briefing. He shook all their hands first, then unfolded a map onto the tarmac.

“Here’s your dropping point, on this field.” He tapped an area at the top left. “It’s bounded by woods, so that should give you some cover. This stream is just north of you, so once you get your bearings, you should move on eastward toward Brussels. Remember, it’s going to be a very short jump, only around 300-400 feet to avoid radar detection, so after your chute opens, you’ll hit the ground within about fifteen seconds.”

“Yes sir. We’ll be ready,” Antonia said.

“Good. And once you’re down, remember to bury your chutes and overalls. You’re to make your way into Brussels and try to locate Andrée or Frédéric de Jongh. I wish we had more information about them, but all we know is that Andrée walked into the British Consulate in Bilbao with three escapees she had brought down from Belgium. Your task is to find her and help integrate her network with us. As soon as you’ve connected with her, contact us on the wireless. You’ve got plenty of Belgian money between you, but obviously your contacts are going to have to find you lodgings to start off with. After we’ve gotten your message, we’ll prepare the next phase of operations.”

“Yes, sir. They’ve explained all that to us,” Lew said, fidgeting under the weight of his equipment.

“Remember, if you’re captured with your wireless and the enemy forces you to radio us, you must include this in your message:
We’re fine, both of us. Don’t worry
. In any normal transmission, no one will ask how you are, so you should wire those words
only
if you have, in fact, fallen into their hands.”