Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (23 page)

Van Acker leaned back and smiled, the chair continuing its creaking protest. “Leffard mentioned it to me once right after you moved out here. I got the impression he didn’t approve of your involvement.”

“Oh, I wasn’t really involved,” Anna said, “not as an escort, certainly. I did small things, delivered some ‘packages’ around the city, nothing big. Rene wouldn’t hear of it. Besides, I had to think of Justyn.”

Van Acker’s eyes brightened at the mention of the boy’s name. “He’s a good lad, gotten quite tall and his French is excellent. You’d never know . . .” He caught himself and stopped. “Marchal says he works like hell, puts his own boys to shame.”

Anna smiled. She knew how fond he was of Justyn. “I guess country life agrees with him.” She looked into van Acker’s eyes. “We’re very grateful, Jules; you know that.”

Van Acker pushed the creaking chair back and got to his feet, waving a meaty hand dismissively. “Of course. Go take care of the fl y-boy.
À bientôt.
”

It was after nine o’clock that evening before Anna got a chance to rest. The aviator, who had identifi ed himself as First Lieutenant Andrew Hamilton of the US Army Air Corps, had dropped into a deep sleep after taking the pain medication. Justyn had left shortly after dinner for the Marchals’s house.

Anna poured a cup of the malt and chicory concoction that substituted for Night of Flames

149

coffee and went out onto the porch. The sun was setting, and the sky was an array of pink and purple cast against a darkening blue background. She sipped the hot, bitter drink and pondered her situation.

She had felt relatively safe living in this out-of-the-way rural area the past two years. Certainly it was safer for Justyn, compared with what was happening in Antwerp and Brussels, where tens of thousands of Jews were being deported to “the east.” She gazed at the rippling colors in the sky and thought about her conversation with van Acker, the Comet Line, Andree de Jongh and Rene Leffard. She sighed, thinking about Rene and Mimi Leffard and how much she missed them. They had been their saviors, taking them in when they arrived in Antwerp four years ago, accepting Justyn as one of their own, the grandson they never had. And when it became too dangerous for Justyn in Antwerp, Rene had brought them here, to Jules van Acker and Leon Marchal, who protected their secret.

She took another sip of the hot drink, trying to remember what real coffee tasted like, and looked around at the tall pines and birch trees. Jan would like it here, she thought. He would like these people—van Acker, Marchal and the other men in the area—tough, solid men, anti-Nazi partisans of the
maquis
carrying on the fi ght. Though they didn’t discuss it with her, she knew about their affi liation with the White Brigade, about their connection with Leffard and the money he raised to fi nance acts of sabotage against the Germans.

Anna was so engrossed in her thoughts, she didn’t hear Justyn return until he clomped up the wooden steps. The tall, wiry youth fl opped down on a bench and pulled off his boots, which were caked with mud.

“Where did you get into all that mud?” she asked.

“Checking out the drop site,” Justyn answered.

“The drop site?”

“Yeah, it’s just off the road to Ortho, on the other side of the Delacroix place.”

“Justyn, what are you talking about? A drop site for what?”

“For supplies. Jean-Claude says we’ve got to scope out some sites . . . for the Allied planes to drop supplies.”

Jean-Claude was the Marchal’s seventeen-year-old son. Now Anna understood. She set her cup on the railing. “Justyn, I thought we had an agreement.

C’est dangereux.
You promised me you weren’t getting involved.”

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Douglas W. Jacobson

He looked up at her and shook his head. “
Non, non.
This is just, you know, scouting around. Luk and I are helping Jean-Claude—it’s nothing.”

The boy looked more like his father every day, she thought. He even sounded like him, though she had never known Stefan to speak French. But his voice, his mannerisms, the mop of unruly black hair, it was all Stefan. “So, when is this ‘drop’ supposed to take place?” she asked.

“I don’t know. That’s a secret. Only M. Marchal knows. He won’t even tell Jean-Claude. We’re just supposed to check out possible sites. Hey, did you hear there’s another American!”

“What? Where?”

“I don’t know. Jean-Claude said he heard that another one had bailed out.

Must be holed up somewhere close by. How’s Andrew?”

“He’s . . . he’s fi ne . . . sleeping,” Anna muttered, shaking her head. A second American?

“Très bien,”
Justyn said. “I’m going in to read for a while.” He got to his feet, dropped his muddy boots next to the door and disappeared inside.

Anna winced as the screen door slammed. The rapid-fi re conversation reminded her of discussions with her students at the university back in Krakow and how the most incredible information would be dispensed with casual indifference. Drop sites. A second aviator.

She picked up the cup and looked out over the small patch of land adjacent to the chalet that had been cleared from the dense pine forest. In the gathering dusk she saw a doe standing just inside the tree line. She watched as the animal glanced around, then lowered its head and nibbled at the underbrush.

Peaceful. Unafraid. It reminded her of her life during these past two years—a quiet, peaceful respite from the madness of the war.

The night was getting cool and Anna wrapped her hands around the cup, feeling the last of its warmth. She glanced at Justyn’s muddy boots and took a deep breath. He’d been off checking out “drop sites.” And an American aviator was sleeping in her house. She felt the respite coming to an end.

Chapter 28

Rene Leffard was in a bad mood. He stood on the platform at Antwerp’s Berchem station and ran a hand through his thick, black hair. He looked down the railroad tracks then glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes late. Scowling, he turned and retraced his steps along the platform grumbling in silence at how fouled up the country had become.

He glanced at a man standing at the newsstand buying the evening paper and shook his head. What a fool, he thought. Who would pay money for a newspaper fi lled with nothing but German propaganda? He knew that some people actually believed the garbage they read in the paper, but there were others who didn’t believe it but didn’t care anymore. It was just something to read.

Those were the people he really worried about.

A whistle blew, and a few minutes later he heard the chugging steam engine approach from the south. He glanced at his watch again. Thirty-fi ve minutes late.

Leffard spotted Willy Boeynants stepping off the train and waved to him.

The tall, silver-haired man, wearing a navy-blue three-piece suit with the point of a white handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket, waved back and walked briskly across the platform. Leffard embraced his friend, and they headed down the stairs toward the street. “
Bonjour,
Willy.
Heureux de te voir,
good to see you. How was the train today?”

Boeynants grimaced. “
Insupportable.
Late and dirty, as usual. I was lucky to even get on because the air-raid sirens went off just as we were boarding.

The train pulled out immediately and left a couple hundred people standing on the platform. As usual, it was nothing. Then we stopped in Mechelen and 152

Douglas W. Jacobson

sat for half an hour. And all the while a crowd of drunken Wehrmacht soldiers hung around in the back of the car singing those disgusting German songs.”

He patted the thick briefcase he was carrying. “But, I did manage to bring some wine.”

The Leffards’ home on the Cogels-Osylei was a short walk from the Berchem station, in Antwerp’s exclusive Zurenborg district. The three-story house was of the Art Nouveau style of architecture that had been popular in Antwerp around the turn of the century, and Rene Leffard loved every brick and every pane of stained glass. It was old and comfortable and charming, and coming home every night made him forget, if only for a few brief minutes, the drudgery of life in an occupied country.

Mimi Leffard met them at the door, and Boeynants embraced her. “You look wonderful, my dear,” he said.

She blushed and pushed him away. “
Oui, oui, merci.
Such a liar you are.”

Leffard gave his wife a kiss and closed the door. Her dark brown hair, showing more streaks of gray every day, was pinned back in a bun. She looked tired, he thought. He knew that she had probably spent several hours standing in ration lines trying to get something decent for tonight’s dinner. “Willy has brought some wine,” he said.

Mimi smiled. “
Merveilleux!
I’m certain it will be the best part of the dinner.”

The dinner was a meager affair—a vegetable soup made with carrots and leeks, some crusty white bread from the black market and a small portion of tinned mackerel. But the wine, a Chateauneuf du Pape ’38 that Willy un-corked with a fl ourish, helped immensely, and Mimi surprised the two men by producing a bread pudding for dessert.

“Délicieux!”
Boeynants said as he scooped some of the gooey concoction into his mouth. “How did you manage it?”

Mimi dabbed her fork into it and tasted a small bite. “I had a few eggs left, and I managed to get a little sugar on the black market.” She tried another bite and shrugged. “Well, it’s one way to use up that awful ration bread.”

After dinner, Leffard and Boeynants helped Mimi clear the table and do the dishes. It had been almost a year since the Leffards’ housekeeper left to take care of her parents, and they had not replaced her. Mimi was not a strong woman, and Leffard had become accustomed to helping out.

Night of Flames

153

When they were fi nished Leffard led Boeynants to his study, and Boeynants lowered his long, lanky frame into one of the leather chairs in front of the fi replace. Leffard opened a cabinet and withdrew a bottle of cognac and two snifters, glancing at his refection in the gilded framed mirror hanging on the wall. He was a stocky, solidly built man, but he looked thinner, his neatly trimmed black mustache also fl ecked with gray. The war was aging all of them, he thought. He held up the bottle and swirled it around, looking at Boeynants.

Just a few centimeters remained. “
Enfi n,
this is the last of it, my friend. God knows when I’ll be able to fi nd more.” He poured some into each of the glasses and handed one to Boeynants. “
À la vôtre!
To friendship—and to the day we kick these bastards out of our country.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Boeynants said as they clinked glasses.

Leffard sat in the other chair, took a sip and looked at his friend. “You’ve heard about what happened in Warempage?” he asked.

Boeynants nodded. “I understand Anna has a ‘visitor’ staying with her now.

How is she doing?”

“Van Acker says she’s handling it quite well, but she’s a little nervous. The local Gestapo’s been snooping around. Have you heard anything?” Boeynants was an offi cial with the Department of the Interior, and Leffard knew he was in a position to hear things.

“Not much,” Boeynants said. “The Gestapo knows the plane came down, of course, but they seem to be leaving it up to their local boys in La Roche to track down the survivors. I’ll stay on it.”

Leffard took another sip of cognac. “It’s damned unfortunate that they brought that aviator to the chalet. Anna’s been pretty good about staying out of things since she’s been down there.”

Boeynants smiled. “
Oui,
je sais.
And for Anna that’s an accomplishment.”

Mimi came in carrying a tray with a carafe of coffee, two cups and a plate of small biscuits. “I will apologize in advance for the awful coffee,” she said.

Boeynants smiled at her. “I’ve actually grown quite used to our so-called coffee after all this time. I wonder how I’ll adapt if we’re ever able to get the real thing again.”

“Rene will adapt instantly,” she said. “The only time he thinks it’s palatable is if he can mix in a little cognac.”

Leffard laughed. “But we can’t get that either.”

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Douglas W. Jacobson

When Mimi left the room, Boeynants poured a cup of coffee and asked Leffard, “Have you heard anything about another drop?”

Leffard nodded. “
Voici,
here are the coordinates.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to his friend. “Let me know if you hear of any extra Gestapo activity in that area. It will be sometime next week.”

Boeynants took the paper and nodded.

Leffard said, “The code is
wild boars are foraging in the valley
. French broadcast on the BBC, as usual.”

Boeynants repeated the words and took another look at the slip of paper before tearing it up.

Chapter 29

Twenty-four hours after the code was broadcast on the BBC, Leon Marchal and his older son, Jean-Claude, left their two-story farmhouse and headed for the barn to hitch up the horses.

Marchal felt good. He was forty-fi ve years old, a short, lean man, weathered and physically fi t from a lifetime of hard work. He was a veteran of the Chasseurs Ardennais,
Belgium’s most elite military organization, and tonight, as he did on every mission, Marchal donned the Chasseurs’ customary green beret.

The door banged open behind them, and fourteen-year-old Luk Marchal called out from the porch, “
Attends!
I want to get Justyn and come along.”

Marchal motioned for Jean-Claude to continue on, then headed back toward the house, meeting Luk at the bottom of the steps. He put his arm around his younger son’s shoulder. “We’ve been through this before, Luk. You can’t come with us. Not until you’re sixteen. And I know that Justyn is not allowed to come along either.”

“But it’s not fair,” the boy protested. “Justyn and I helped fi nd the site and dig the holes.”

“I know you did, and that’s your contribution. But you cannot go along on the night drops.
C’est dangereux!
No one can until they’re sixteen. You know the rules.”