Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (36 page)

It had been over two years since Justyn last saw the Leffards but now, as he walked along the familiar streets, it seemed like yesterday. He recalled Rene Leffard’s deep, commanding voice and thick, strong arms. He remembered being frightened of him when he and Anna fi rst arrived from Poland, but the man soon became like a grandfather, the embodiment of security in a ten-year-old’s fearful world. He breathed a little easier, certain that, once again, the larger-than-life man would take care of everything.

It was almost ten o’clock in the morning, and the sidewalks were busy as Justyn turned the corner onto the Cogels-Osylei. He became aware that people were giving him strange glances, and he suddenly realized how he must 242

Douglas W. Jacobson

look. His clothes were dirty and torn, and he hadn’t washed in two days. He guessed that he probably smelled pretty bad as well.

Justyn passed the Leopold Café, where he and Anna had often had Sunday evening suppers with the Leffards, and his pace quickened. Their home was just ahead, in the next block, and he knew he needed to get off the streets. He kept his head down, trying to avoid eye contact with the people he passed, and trotted across the familiar intersection with four magnifi cent white, stone homes on each corner. Just a few meters to go and he would be safe.

Justyn noticed the smell at the same time he saw the house and stopped dead in his tracks. He stopped so suddenly that a woman who had been walking behind him stumbled into him and almost fell. Justyn reached out to help her, but she jerked her hand away and hobbled off.

He looked back at the house and stared in disbelief, not comprehending.

The acrid odor of burned wood wafted down from the charred remains of the once stately, elegant home that had fi lled Rene Leffard with such pride. It was the most beautiful house Justyn had ever been in, and it had been his home, his sanctuary, during the worst time of his life. Now the windows were smashed and the massive front door shattered, hanging precariously from its hinges.

Justyn backed away and glanced up and down the street. He considered the neighbor’s house on his left. Should he knock on their door to fi nd out what had happened? He remembered them as an older couple who had treated him politely but indifferently when he and Anna lived here. Would they remember him?

The door opened and a man stepped out. Justyn didn’t recognize him. The man gave him a curious look, glanced at the Leffards’ burned-out home, then closed the door behind him and stepped off the porch. “
Bonjour.
May I help you?” the man said. He spoke French with a German accent. “Are you looking for someone?”

Justyn felt his face fl ush. He fought to control his voice. “
Non,
I was just walking by. I . . . I’m not looking for anyone.” He turned away and walked quickly, back in the direction he had come from. He fought the urge to run.

Keep walking, don’t look back, he told himself, expecting to feel a hand on his shoulder.

When he stopped he found himself at the door of the Leopold Café. Without thinking, Justyn pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Chapter 47

Paul de Smet entered the Gestapo headquarters in Brussels and gave his name to the dour-looking SS offi cer sitting at the desk. Two SS troopers stood nearby, holding submachine guns. The offi cer picked up the phone and repeated de Smet’s name, then hung up and glared at him. “Fourth fl oor, give your name to the offi cer on duty.” He pointed at the elevator.

Rolf Reinhardt did not look up when de Smet was shown into his offi ce.

“Take a seat,” he grunted and continued reading the document he held in his hands.

De Smet sat in a metal chair and glanced around the small offi ce. The obliga-tory picture of Adolf Hitler hung on the wall behind Reinhardt’s desk and a Nazi fl ag stood in the corner. A plaque of some sort hung on another wall but the only thing de Smet could make out from this distance was the eagle and swastika em-blem and the name
Oberstleutnant Rolf Reinhardt,
written in bold script.

Reinhardt abruptly looked up and said, in perfect French, “
Bien fait,
well done, Monsieur de Smet. The little conspiracy you and I arranged has been executed to perfection, don’t you agree?” The Gestapo agent leaned back in his swivel chair and propped his feet on the desk.

De Smet didn’t respond.

Reinhardt smiled. “Come, come. As a friend of the Reich, surely you must be pleased that the terrorists were captured and are being appropriately dealt with?”

De Smet took a breath. “
Oui, oui, bien sûr . . .
I’m quite pleased.” He felt beads of perspiration on his forehead and silently cursed himself for being nervous.

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Douglas W. Jacobson

Reinhardt folded his hands in his lap and continued. “Unfortunately, we had to kill four of them at the rail siding, including both of the teenage boys.

But the others were, shall we say, persuaded to cooperate.”

De Smet stared at him, his stomach turning. The bastard’s enjoying this.

Reinhardt locked eyes with him and smiled again. “As for that slovenly butcher, van Acker, he’s swinging from the ceiling in his shop like a side of beef. And the master conspirator, the illustrious Rene Leffard, is scraping his meals off the fl oor of his cell in Breendonck. We have special plans for him.”

De Smet forced himself to sit still. Now was no time to get squeamish, he told himself. He knew it would be like this.

Reinhardt suddenly sat upright and leaned across the desk. His glare hard-ened. “Your friend Rik Trooz was picked up last night as well. We know about his connection with the so-called ‘Comet Line’ and I’m confi dent he’ll share what he knows. Right now only one of his legs has been broken—and a collar bone, I think—but we’ll let him sit overnight then have another chat.”

Reinhardt stood up and walked around the small offi ce, circling behind de Smet’s chair, brushing his hand across his shoulders.

De Smet could feel the sweat running down his forehead. He didn’t move, terrifi ed that he might piss in his pants.

The Gestapo agent continued on, as though he were giving a weather report. “Let’s see, what else? Oh yes, Leon Marchal’s farm was burned down, as well as the Delacroix’s. Did you know them well?”

De Smet coughed and cleared his throat. “
Non . . .
I didn’t. I didn’t know them at all.”

“Well, no matter. They’re all dead now anyway, or will be soon.” Reinhardt stepped back to the front of his desk with his back to de Smet. He seemed to be staring at the picture of Hitler. “The butcher I mentioned, and, oh yes,
le petit
chalet
he owned in the woods near Warempage. That was burned down as well.

Did you know anything about the people who were living there?” Reinhardt turned and stared at him. “Apparently, it was an attractive redheaded woman and her teenage son. We couldn’t seem to locate them.”

“
Non . . . non,
I didn’t know them,” de Smet said, “none of them.”

“Are you certain of that? We think she was working with Trooz and the Comet Line.”

Night of Flames

245

“I’m telling you the truth. I only met Leffard and Boeynants.” He shifted in the hard metal chair.

Reinhardt sat on the edge of the desk. “I see. Well, then that brings us to Monsieur Boeynants. I’m sure you can help us here. It seems that he was not at home when we dropped in on him. Have you been in contact with him?”

“
Non,
I haven’t talked with any of them since I passed along the date of the shipment.”

Reinhardt glanced at the desk and picked up a letter opener, rolling it over in his fi ngers. “You’re certain of that. No contact at all?”

“I swear . . . I haven’t spoken to anyone.” The sweat dripped down his cheeks, and he had to fi sh out his handkerchief and wipe his face.

Reinhardt smiled, then stepped around to the other side of the desk and pushed a buzzer. A few seconds later, the door opened and two SS troopers entered the offi ce.

De Smet’s stomach tightened.

Reinhardt folded his arms across his chest, looked down at him again and spoke in German. “Well, Herr de Smet. We had a bargain. When we fi rst met, I showed you a picture of your son, alive and well in Hamburg.”

De Smet could barely breathe. He nodded.

Reinhardt continued. “You agreed to set up this little trap and help us round up the terrorists. In return, I would arrange for you and your son to be reunited. Wasn’t that it?”

De Smet nodded again. “
Ja, ja,
that was it. My son is coming home, then?”

Reinhardt smiled. With a quick nod of his head he motioned to the two SS

troopers. They grabbed de Smet under the arms and jerked him to his feet. The chair tipped over and clattered on the tile fl oor.

Reinhardt’s smile faded into a sneer. “You’re going to be reunited with your son. But there’s been a slight change in plans. The reunion will take place in Germany.”

De Smet’s knees went weak. If the SS troopers weren’t gripping his arms he would have fallen. “That’s not what we agreed on,” he cried. “I’ve been loyal to the Reich! I’ve performed other services.” De Smet struggled in the iron grip of the troopers. “We had a deal. You said—”

Reinhardt lunged forward and slapped him in the face. “
Ruhe!
You rotten 246

Douglas W. Jacobson

turd! How dare you raise your voice to me?” He grabbed de Smet’s tie and jerked his head forward. “
Ja,
you performed other services—for which you were handsomely rewarded.” He shoved de Smet backward and stepped away, wiping his hands. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Now, however, your services are no longer required.” Reinhardt turned back to his desk, glancing over his shoulder at the SS troopers. “Get this
schweinhund
out of my offi ce.”

Chapter 48

The train to Le Havre pulled out of Paris’s Gare du Nord more than an hour late. Anna had barely been able to contain herself while the train sat at the platform, expecting the Feldgendarmes to enter the car at any moment.

It didn’t help that she wasn’t able to properly communicate with Ryan. For the fi rst time, she felt genuinely sorry for the impudent young man. She didn’t dare speak to him in English so, for the moment, there wasn’t much she could do to relieve his anxiety. Perhaps it was for the better. She just hoped he would keep quiet.

It was a slow train that stopped at every station along the way. Anna tried to keep track of their progress, but none of the small towns were familiar and she was just too tired. Ryan had fallen asleep and the gentle rocking of the car, warmed by the sun shining through the windows, lulled her into unconsciousness.

The train jerked to a halt and Anna woke with a start. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her head, and glanced at her watch. She was surprised to see that it was almost eleven o’clock. She had been asleep for almost two hours.

Anna looked out the window at the small railway station, but the train had already rolled past the sign identifying the town. It was apparently not a major stop since none of the other passengers made any attempt to get off. In the seat beside her Ryan stirred and woke up, rubbing his eyes.

Anna looked back out the window and spotted two policemen standing near the station house. Her stomach tightened. A few seconds later, a railway conductor joined the policemen, and the three of them walked toward the 248

Douglas W. Jacobson

train. One of the policemen split off toward the rear of the car while the other entered the car from the front with the conductor.

Ryan nudged Anna’s arm. She shot him a quick glance and touched her lips.

The conductor and the policeman stood in the front of the car studying some type of document. Anna heard the rear door open and close. She fought to keep her composure.

Out of the corner of her eye Anna saw the conductor and policeman start down the aisle. She kept her head turned away as the footsteps stopped at their seats.

“
Monsieur, Madame, pardonnez moi,
your tickets and passports please?” the conductor asked blandly.

Anna met his eyes and smiled.
“Oui, bien sûr.”
She retrieved her purse from the fl oor, removed both sets of documents and handed them to the conductor.

He looked them over and showed them to the policeman, who glanced at them and nodded. The conductor opened the small leather case he was carrying and slipped the tickets and passports inside. “Come with us, please—both of you.”

“Is there a problem?” Anna asked.

“
Ce n’est pas grave,
it’s nothing. I’m sure we can straighten it out in a few minutes,” the conductor replied in a bland, bureaucratic monotone.

“Je ne comprends pas,”
Anna persisited. “What sort of problem?” She knew she had to avoid getting off the train, although it was probably not going to be possible.

“It’s nothing. I’m sure it will take only a few minutes. Now, please, come with us.” The conductor stepped back and motioned with his hand for them to get up.

Anna noticed the policeman shift his weight and raise his right hand so that it was touching the handle of the revolver strapped around his waist.

At the same time the policeman standing behind their seats put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and gave him a shove. “Come on, get up,” he commanded.

“Hey!” Ryan blurted and jerked around.

Anna grabbed his arm and said sharply, in Flemish, “
Het geeft niet, laten we
gaan!
Never mind, let’s go!”

Ryan turned toward her.

Anna slid her hand down his arm and squeezed his hand as they both stood up and followed the conductor and policeman out of the car. The other Night of Flames

249

passengers stared out the windows or read their newspapers.

When they stepped down to the platform, two Feldgendarmes moved in around them. One of them pulled a revolver out of his holster and pointed it directly at Ryan. “
Halten!
Turn around and put your hands behind you!” he barked in German.

Suddenly Ryan lunged forward and grabbed the Feldgendarme’s hand, forcing the gun toward the ground.