Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (32 page)

“How long do the cars sit on the siding?” Boeynants asked.

“Two to three hours.”

“How do you know that the railcars will be hauled to that siding?” Leffard asked.

“That’s the standard procedure,” de Smet said. “All shipments leave after dark, and they’re all hauled to that siding. The Germans never bring trains into Dochamps. They’re very careful not to call undue attention to the activities at the factory.”

“I assume the railcars are under guard at the siding.” Boeynants said.

“
Oui, oui, bien sûr.
I have not been there myself, but my contact said six to 212

Douglas W. Jacobson

eight guards ride with every shipment. There are also two permanent guards at the siding.”

Leffard looked at Boeynants and nodded.

Boeynants removed a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to de Smet. “Memorize this number before we depart. We’ll need forty-eight-hours notice. When you know the date of the next shipment, call the number between ten and eleven o’clock in the morning. Identify yourself as ‘M. Rodin’

and ask if your order is ready to be picked up.”

De Smet studied the number scribbled on the paper and handed it back.

Chapter 41

As February passed into March, the winter of 1944 began to slide away and with it Germany’s stranglehold on Europe. Since the fi rst of the year the Wehrmacht had been moving backward. The Russians liberated Leningrad after a nine-hundred-day siege and marched into Poland for the second time in fi ve years. American forces landed in Italy. The Allies neutralized the German Luftwaffe while British and American air forces conducted daylight bombing raids on German cities.

Belgium’s underground newspapers speculated about the long-awaited Allied invasion, with rumors surfacing daily about where and when it would take place. The Resistance struck with increasing boldness, and German re-prisals followed suit. The Gestapo worked overtime, trying to ferret out those fi nancing and orchestrating the Resistance.

For Paul de Smet, the days were fi lled with tension and frustration. He waited for a message from his contact at the factory about the next shipment of shell casings but, for more than a month, none came.

When he fi nally received a message, it was not what he wanted to hear.

Production at the factory was sharply curtailed due to supply disruptions. The Allied bombings were taking their toll. The German managers running the factory were under enormous pressure from Berlin to get back up to normal production levels, but the next shipment wouldn’t occur for several weeks.

The next day Willy Boeynants met Paul de Smet in front of Antwerp’s Cathedral. It was noon and the cobblestone pedestrian square was crowded with people carrying meager sacks of groceries obtained with ration coupons.

214

Douglas W. Jacobson

A few sat at the outdoor cafés sipping weak beer and lunching on herring and boiled potatoes and, for those who could afford it, perhaps an omelet.

“M. Leffard is not joining us?” de Smet asked.

“Let’s walk,” Boeynants said, ignoring the question. “What’s the problem?”

“Production at the factory has been disrupted by the air raids, and the next shipment will be delayed.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know for sure. Perhaps until next month.”

Boeynants didn’t respond.

“Will that be a problem? We can still proceed I hope?” de Smet asked.

“I can’t say for sure,” Boeynants said. “Many things are happening now and—”

“But we
must
proceed!
C’est dangereux!
People are risking their lives.”

Boeynants glanced at the stocky, bald man. He seemed edgy, nervous.

“Keep your voice down. I’ll pass along the information. Unless you hear otherwise, proceed according to the original plan.”

“But, can you be sure that—”

Boeynants stopped and turned to de Smet with a hard look. “We’ll wait to hear from you as planned.”

De Smet nodded, and the two men walked off in separate directions.

Later that day, Boeynants visited Rene Leffard at his home. Mimi Leffard was out, and the two men sat together in the study. It was a damp, chilly day, and a fi re blazed in the fi replace. Leffard handed his friend a cup of coffee before taking his seat in the big leather chair.

“I saw de Smet today,” Boeynants began and related the news to Leffard.

“Do you believe him?” Leffard asked. “Or is he trying to back out?”

“I don’t think he’s trying to back out. My inclination is that he’s telling the truth,” Boeynants said. “We both know that factories all over Belgium are suffering from the bombings. If anything, he wanted to make sure that we were still committed to carrying out the action.”

Leffard grunted and took a sip of coffee, the small ceramic cup all but invisible in the grasp of his thick hand. “I’ve been in contact with SOE,” he said.

“Destroying this quantity of 88mm shell casings is still very important to them, and they want us to proceed. But they warned me that things could change if Night of Flames

215

it gets delayed too much longer. They’ve assigned several other missions to us to coincide with the invasion, and they would take priority.”

Boeynants nodded.

“I’ve passed some of the target information on to van Acker,” Leffard continued. “It’s mostly telegraph and telephone lines that SOE will want taken out to disrupt communications, along with a few rail lines into France, that sort of thing.” Leffard set his cup on the coffee table and leaned forward. “A network is being organized for the defense of the port.”

Boeynants’s eyes widened. “Defense of the port?”

Leffard continued. “If the invasion is successful and the Allies gain a foot-hold on the continent, they’ll push through France and Belgium, heading as fast as possible for Germany. But they won’t get too far without a major port for supply.”

“Antwerp,” Boeynants said.

“
Oui,
and the main concern is that the Germans will attempt to destroy the port if they determine they’re going to lose it. SOE has been given the task of making sure this doesn’t happen.”

Boeynants whistled softly. “Who’s going to be involved in this?”

Leffard shook his head. “I don’t know all the details yet, but there is a contact in Merksem. He goes by the name of ‘Auguste.’” Leffard paused. “For now, they have a task for us . . . for you actually.”

Boeynants smiled at his burly dark-haired friend. “And what would that be, Rene? Let me guess. They want information from the Interior Department.

Perhaps names of German offi cials involved in the operation of the port, and what they may be working on?”

Leffard sat back in the leather chair and laughed, the fi rst time Boeynants had heard him laugh in a long time. “
Très bien,
Willy,
très bien.”
With a knowing glance forged through a long friendship he picked up the coffee pitcher.

“Would you like some more coffee?”

“
Non,
I’d like some cognac.”

Chapter 42

It was a warmer day than normal for the middle of April, and the air inside the railcar was stale and humid. Anna sat next to the window looking absently at the passing countryside. A light rain ran down the glass in grimy brown streaks. The trains these days were dirty, smelly and usually crowded with people of all ages lugging suitcases and boxes stuffed with black market goods. Despite the growing danger from air raids, people still rode the trains.

Automobiles were next to useless because of the lack of gasoline and, for the same reason, few buses operated. Unless you really had to get somewhere, the best thing to do was stay home.

Anna knew that’s where she should be—home, looking after Justyn, instead of going off on another mission. But how could she say no when people like Jules van Acker asked for her help? Jules, Leon Marchal, Paul Delacroix and the others were all risking their lives and putting their families in danger for the war effort. She couldn’t stay curled up in her little cocoon in the woods.

This time when van Acker asked if she would take on the mission, the re-luctance he had displayed on the previous occasions was gone. He was all business, and Anna sensed that he had no problem asking and was certain she would do it. She felt good about that. She had fi nally been accepted as a partner in the struggle rather than someone who had to be looked after and protected.

Anna felt more self-confi dent than she had been on her earlier missions.

She understood the risk, but she also indulged in a small measure of exhilaration. Justyn had turned fi fteen, and he was strong, well-behaved and had always shown a lot of common sense. It still bothered her to leave him, but she Night of Flames

217

felt comfortable that he was in good hands with the Marchals. Besides, Leon could always use an extra hand on the farm, especially in spring, and Justyn was a hard worker.

The train arrived at the station in Brussels two hours late, which was not bad by current standards. Anna took the tram to the north side of the city and got off at the stop van Acker had suggested. It turned out his directions were rather vague, and it took another half hour in the falling rain to fi nd the address she had been given.

The house was typical of the others in the neighborhood—narrow, three stories, built of brownish-red brick with a gray tile roof. There was a small plot of grass and a bush of some sort between the sidewalk and the front door.

Anna pushed the buzzer and stood under her umbrella wondering what would unfold in the days ahead.

The woman who opened the door was about sixty years old, with gray-streaked hair pulled back into a bun. She wore a simple blue dress and, despite the warm, humid weather, a gray sweater.

“
Bonjour, madame,
I’m looking for Monsieur Coubertin,” Anna said, recit-ing what she had been instructed to say.

“He is not at home at the moment; he has gone to the library,” the woman replied with the answer Anna expected. “You’re welcome to come in and wait, if you’d like.”

The woman held the door open, and Anna closed her umbrella and stepped into the narrow entryway. The woman closed the door and extended her hand.

“I am Claudia.”

Anna shook her hand, surprised by the woman’s fi rm grip. “And I am Jeanne,” Anna said, using the name on her new passport, which identifi ed her as “Jeanne Laurent” from Antwerp.

“Claudia” showed her into the neat, modestly furnished parlor. Standing in front of the fi replace was a tall, good-looking man. He appeared to be in his early twenties with jet black hair parted down the middle and a neatly-trimmed black mustache. He wore a white shirt and gray slacks that were clean and freshly pressed but obviously several years old.

The man stepped across the room and extended his hand. “So, you must be my escort—and quite an attractive one at that,” the man said in English, giving Anna a quick look up and down.

218

Douglas W. Jacobson

Anna ignored his outstretched hand and glanced at Claudia. The woman just shook her head and left the room. Anna turned back to the young man.

She was about to say something when he started in again.

“So, when do we leave? I’ve been cooped up in this blasted place for a week now. Hope the war’s not over yet. I was just getting warmed up. Name’s Ryan Sinclair, Captain, RAF.”

Anna looked into the man’s smiling face. “Well, Captain, that’s the last time I want to hear
that
name.”

The young man looked surprised.

He started to respond, but Anna interrupted him. “My name is Jeanne Laurent, and it’s my job to help get you out of this country without you getting yourself killed. Now, it’s my understanding you were given some documents that identify you as ‘Henri Eyskens,’ a Flemish engineer from the town of Mortsel, near Antwerp. Is that correct?”

He smiled again. “Right, Mum . . . or Miss . . . Laurent is it? They’re here somewhere.”

Anna took a step closer. “First of all, it’s
Madame
Laurent, and you’d better get those documents right now. We’ve got work to do.”

His smile faded.

“Begrijpt u het?”
Anna said.

He looked at her with a blank stare.

“Begrijpt u het?”
she repeated.

The young man’s face turned red.

Anna could see he was fl ustered. “Henri!” she snapped. “I’ve just asked, ‘do you understand?’ in Flemish. Haven’t you learned the Flemish phrases that you were told to commit to memory? Claudia has gone over that with you, hasn’t she?” Anna was certain she had.

“Yes . . . yes,” he stammered. “I’m sorry . . . I’m afraid you took me by surprise, just then.”

Anna took another step closer. Her voice was a whisper. “Being sorry isn’t good enough. Being sorry will get you killed! And worse yet, it will get
me
killed, and anyone else who’s trying to help you. Where we’re going, you’re not going to get any second chances.”

“Blimey, you’re being bloody dramatic—”

“We’re scheduled to leave in less than twenty-four hours. If you can’t Night of Flames

219

convince me by that time that you’re Henri Eyskens from Mortsel, I’m not taking you anywhere.”

His face was now very red.

“Begrijpt u het?”
she asked, sharply.

He hesitated then nodded.
“Ja, ja. Ik begrijpt het.”

Anna turned away from him and walked out of the room.

It turned out that Ryan Sinclair was actually very bright and a fast learner. The brash, cavalier attitude was still there, just under the surface, but Anna believed he had gotten the message. He had no diffi culty mastering the Flemish that he was required to memorize and was able to communicate the pertinent facts about his new identity.

His problem was learning to keep quiet and, whenever Anna wasn’t specifi -

cally drilling him on his Flemish and his new identity, he chatted away, telling stories and asking questions. Under normal circumstances, Anna would have considered him to be just another self-absorbed, but otherwise harmless, young man. She had some reservations, but he seemed to have a lot of self- confi dence and that certainly counted for something. Among his other qualities, Ryan Sinclair could sound very sincere, even charming, when he tried. Anna guessed he was quite something with the ladies back in London.