Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (34 page)

Stoppen Sie,
or you’re dead!”

The guard stared at the gun and straightened up, putting both hands in the air.

The guard on the right still clutched his submachine gun. He hesitated for a second then looked up at Richard as the big man pointed the rifl e at his chest.

He let go of the submachine gun, and it clattered on the tracks.

Ten minutes later both guards had been bound and gagged, and Jean-Claude and Henri, wearing their uniforms, took up positions on each end of the rail siding. The rest of the group emerged from the woods and began setting the charges of explosive and stringing wire.

They worked methodically in the growing darkness, and Marchal calculated they had at least an hour before the switch engine would arrive, towing the railcars loaded with shell casings. He felt good. So far, everything had worked according to plan.

Marchal was on his hands and knees, securing a detonator to a charge of explosive, when suddenly he was bathed in a piercing bright light.

Gunshots! Loud voices yelling in guttural German!

Marchal turned to his left, but the glaring searchlight forced him to look away.

A second later they were on top of him, shouting, “Down! Get down!” A heavy boot jammed into Marchal’s back and ground his face into the gravel.

Blood spurted from his nose.

More gunshots!

Marchal heard someone scream. The boot stomped on his back again and a searing pain shot through his ribcage.

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Another gunshot! Another scream!

Marchal’s face pressed into the gravel. Heavy boots ran down the tracks.

More shouts: “Get down! Get down!
Schweinhund!
”

Marchal tried to look up, but the boot stomped on the back of his head and his face crunched deeper into the gravel, pain shooting through his broken nose and up into his forehead. He forced himself not to lose consciousness.

A minute passed. Marchal felt hands under his arms. The hands jerked him to his feet. Blood poured from his nose. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head up.

Through watery eyes Marchal spotted a large fi gure in a green uniform. He tried to focus. The man wore a metal chain around his neck and the heavy em-blem of a Feldgendarme.

Marchal never saw the club, but when the Feldgendarme whacked his kneecap he almost fainted. The two sets of hands jerked him up again. His knee was on fi re and his ears rang. He could barely hear as the Feldgendarme growled at him, “Your name!
Was ist Ihr Name!
”

Marchal sagged and the hands jerked him back up. The Feldgendarme cocked his arm for another blow. Then a different voice . . . from behind.

“
Stoppen Sie!
I’ve got a better idea.”

Another man moved into Marchal’s blurry line of sight. This one was not in uniform. He wore a hat and a long trench coat. The man reached inside his coat and pulled out a revolver. “Bring one of the boys over here,” he barked.

“That one.
Jetzt!
”

It was Jean-Claude.

Blood oozed from a gash on the boy’s forehead, and his left arm hung limp.

The man in the trench coat shoved his face into Marchal’s and said, “Tell me your name . . . or the boy dies.”

Gasping for breath, Marchal stared at his wounded son, fi ghting the panic that wrenched in his gut. He had been in desperate situations before, and the code of silence in the White Brigade was absolute. They’d go after Antoinette

. . . and Luk. They’d fi nd out about Anna and Justyn. He struggled against the powerful hands holding him up, but he couldn’t see anything beyond the man in front of him and the blurred vision of his son slumping in the arms of the Feldgendarmes. He hesitated, trying to clear his head, when a shot rang out.

Jean-Claude screamed.

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Douglas W. Jacobson

Marchal jerked his head around and saw the smoking pistol still pointed at his son’s leg. Blood spurted from Jean-Claude’s thigh as the boy sagged to the ground. The Feldgendarme let him fall and stepped away.

The man holding the pistol pointed it at Jean-Claude’s head. He looked at Marchal. “
Jetzt!
Tell me your fucking name! Right now!”

Chapter 44

It was a little after nine o’clock in the evening. Justyn lay on his bed, reading a book in the upstairs bedroom of the Marchal’s house, when two automobiles roared into the farmyard. He jumped off the bed and looked out the window as the long black cars skidded to a halt on the gravel drive. The doors fl ew open. Four soldiers jumped out and ran toward the house.

Justyn heard a
wham
as the front door was kicked open. Men shouted in German. He heard Luk’s mother scream—then a loud crashing noise. Luk, who had been studying at the kitchen table, shouted something that Justyn couldn’t make out, and there was another loud crash.

Heavy boots stomped through the house. Another crash and glass shattered. More shouts and boots stomped up the steps.

In a panic, Justyn raced to the window on the other side of the room and threw it open. A large oak tree stood alongside the house and once, last year, Justyn had seen Jean-Claude jump from the window to the closest branch on a dare from Luk.

He didn’t give it a second thought, and the next thing Justyn knew he was clinging to the branch, swinging his legs toward the trunk. Half sliding, half falling down the massive oak, he heard a shout from the window.

He hit the ground and rolled, scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the barn.

A gunshot rang out! He veered off toward the garden.

Another gunshot!

Justyn stumbled over the low fence and sprawled into the plot of cabbages and tomatoes. He got to his feet, raced through the garden and charged into a 230

Douglas W. Jacobson

wheat fi eld, heading for the tree line a hundred meters away.

Men shouted!

Another gunshot!

Justyn didn’t look back.

He ran through the wheat fi eld, into the trees and made his way, stumbling and falling, down the steep hill toward the river. He followed the winding riverbank, pushing his way through dense foliage, until he came to a narrow, rickety footbridge. He stumbled across the footbridge and climbed the hill on the other side before collapsing on the ground, gasping for breath.

Justyn stayed there a long time. He didn’t have a watch, but he guessed more than two hours had passed without a sound other than the rustling of the trees and the occasional hoot of an owl. He stopped shaking and gradually became aware of the pain from the cuts and scrapes on his hands, face and neck.

He tried to think. Something must have gone wrong with the mission that Luk’s father and the others were involved in. He shuddered in a sudden chill, remembering Mdme. Marchal’s scream . . . and Luk’s. What would they do to them? His stomach tightened, and he wrapped his arms around his knees, fearing he might be sick.

After several minutes he forced himself to his feet and took a deep breath.

He listened. It was quiet. He took another breath. He needed help.

Following the river, Justyn eventually made his way to La Roche. The sun was coming up as he climbed the bank and crept through the quiet town, sneaking behind buildings, heading for M. van Acker’s butcher shop.

Justyn crawled on his knees alongside a building across the street and peered at the familiar little shop with the wooden sign above the door that read
Boucherie.

He gasped out loud.

The windows were shattered and the door broken in. Shelves were overturned and the glass display case had collapsed. Sausages, steaks and other meat lay scattered across the stone fl oor. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing.

Then he opened his eyes and stood up, inching forward, trying to get a better look.

He spotted something . . . hanging above the broken display case . . .

suspended a meter or two off the ground.

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Justyn inched forward again, straining to see in the dim light of the dawn.

A little farther . . .

He recoiled and fell to his knees. His stomach heaved.

Hanging from the ceiling was the bloody, naked body of Jules van Acker.

Chapter 45

Willy Boeynants walked with a little extra spring in his step as he headed for the Antwerp Central Station to catch the tram to Merksem. A night with Hendrika always made him feel good, and last night was no exception. This morning, she had been up before him and had fi xed a breakfast of boiled eggs with bacon and tomatoes from the black market. As he walked the short distance from her apartment to the station the thought occurred to him that perhaps married life wouldn’t be so bad after all.

It was a little after ten o’clock when he got off the tram near St. Bartholomeus Church on Bredabaan. Ten minutes later he found the address on Beukenhofstraat that Leffard had given him.

The home was a simple but neatly maintained red brick row house with white trim and attractive stained glass transoms above the front door and the two front windows. He paused a moment to straighten his tie, lamenting the frays on the cuffs of the only decent suit he had left. Then he pushed the buzzer, glancing up and down the narrow cobblestone street. The row houses on the short block were all similar, modest three-story buildings of red, brown or gray brick. Some had bay windows projecting from the upper fl oors and others had arched entryways of intricate masonry.

The door opened and a short, slender man with an unruly shock of white hair stood in the doorway, eyeing him suspiciously.

“
Goedemorgen.
I have an appointment with ‘Auguste,’” Boeynants said in less than perfect Flemish.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What is the nature of your business with him?

Does it have to do with the new building?”

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“I have information on the windows he was interested in,” Boeynants replied.

The man nodded and beckoned for him to come inside. “
Ik ben
‘Auguste,’”

the man said after closing the door. “I’m very relieved to see you after what’s happened.”

“What are you talking about?” Boeynants asked. “What’s happened?”

Auguste looked surprised. “You haven’t heard? You haven’t heard about M.

Leffard?”

Boeynants felt a rush of fear.
“What . . . ?”
He tried to speak but nothing came out.

Auguste led him into the parlor. “M. Leffard and his wife were arrested early this morning.”

The words hit Boeynants like a hammer. He sat heavily in an upholstered chair in front of the windows. “Good God. What are you . . . this morning?”

Auguste sat across from him. “I found out just a few hours ago from a contact in Leffard’s neighborhood. It was the SS—and another man, probably Gestapo. They broke down the front door.” Auguste pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “The person who called me was awakened when they smashed the front windows of the Leffards’

home. A short time later he saw Leffard and his wife taken out in handcuffs and put in a car.”

Boeynants stared at him, scarcely able to breathe. Taken away in handcuffs?

The Gestapo? The bastards would drag his friend into one of those rooms in the cellars of Breendonck and break his fi ngers then . . . and Mimi . . . God knew what they’d do to Mimi . . . and they’d make Leffard watch.

Auguste cleared his throat and wiped his brow again. “Before they left . . .

they . . . set the house on fi re.”

“They set the house on fi re?” Boeynants stood up and paced around the small parlor. His head throbbed. It had to be the action at the rail siding. When they met, Leffard had told him it was on for last night but that everything was under control. He put his hand over his mouth, swallowing hard.

“What’s happening?” Auguste whispered. “Why would they have arrested him?”

Boeynants paused, allowing his stomach to settle. “I think I know why . . .

but I need to contact someone. Do you have a telephone?”

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Douglas W. Jacobson

“Ja, ja, natuurlijk.”
Auguste said, getting to his feet. “It’s in the hallway.

Please, help yourself.”

Boeynants gave the operator the number of Jules van Acker’s shop in La Roche and waited, rubbing his eyes, trying not to think about Rene and Mimi or he’d lose his mind.

The operator came back on the line. “I’m sorry. I can’t get through to that number. It must be out of service.”

Boeynants hung up the telephone and slumped against the wall. God al-mighty, he thought, what had gone wrong? He pressed his fi ngers into his temples, forcing himself to think. Who knew?

Auguste touched his shoulder and motioned toward the kitchen. “Please, come. I’ll make us some tea.”

Boeynants blinked. “
Dank U,
I just need to make one more call.” He picked up the telephone again and gave the operator the number of the elderly woman who lived in the apartment below his own.

The phone rang three times and a soft voice came on the line, speaking French.
“Bonjour?”

“
Bonjour
Madame de Theux, this is Willy.”

There was a gasp then a long silence. Finally the soft voice said, “Willy . . .

Mon dieu.
Where are you? Are you safe?”

His heart pounded. “Yes, I’m safe. What happened?”

“The Germans . . . they came early this morning. I woke up when I heard them on the stairs, yelling your name. I heard them break down your door. I was terrifi ed . . . I didn’t know . . . Willy, what’s going on?”

“Are you all right? Did they come to your door?”

“I’m all right, just frightened. Two of them knocked on my door. One was wearing that awful black uniform. The other wore a suit and long coat. I almost fainted.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Boeynants asked.

“
Oui, Oui,
I’m all right. The man in the long coat, he wanted to know where you were. I said I had no idea. I told him the truth. He asked me if I was sure about that. I told him again that I didn’t know. He gave me his card and a phone number to call if I saw you again.”