Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (38 page)

Douglas W. Jacobson

they might have been taken, anything to help me get started.”

Slomak’s brow furrowed. “You said both your wife and your father-in-law were professors at Jagiellonian?”

“Yes, that’s right. She taught—”

“What is your father-in law’s name?” Slomak interrupted.

“Piekarski. Thaddeus Piekarski,” Jan replied, his heart pounding.

“And your wife’s name is . . .”

“Anna.”

Slomak stared at him for what seemed to Jan like an eternity. “My God,” he whispered. “You must be Jan Kopernik.” Still staring at him, Slomak shook his head. “I don’t think your wife was arrested.”

Jan was so startled at hearing his real name for the fi rst time in months that he barely comprehended what Slomak had said. “I . . . don’t understand . . .

she was . . .”

“I met your wife in Krakow,” Slomak said, “right after the arrests at the university. She got my name from the wife of one of your father-in-law’s colleagues.”

Jan felt like he would explode.

“Excuse me, Major Kopernik. I’ll get right to the point. I put your wife in contact with a man who was with the Italian diplomatic mission to Poland. He arranged for her to get a travel visa to Italy.”

Jan shook his head, trying to process what he had heard. “Travel visa? To Italy . . . I don’t . . . I . . . what the hell are you talking about?”

“The Italians were quite sympathetic to the plight of Poland for several months after the invasion. They secretly arranged travel visas for hundreds of Poles before the Germans shut down their mission.” Slomak paused then continued. “From Italy she could have gone anywhere in Europe. It was just an expedient way to get out of Poland.”

Jan ran a hand through his blond hair, glancing up at the sky. Was it possible?

Then he recalled the mess at their apartment. “But our apartment, it had been ransacked. And I spoke with a neighbor who said she heard . . .” He paused.

“Good God, could they have arrested her before she was able to leave?”

Slomak stood up and paced around in a circle rubbing his temples. “I’m trying to remember how . . . yes . . . that’s it. I spoke with the contact at the Italian mission; Di Stefano was his name. He told me he had given your wife three Night of Flames

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travel visas, for her, her friend, and her friend’s son. He said he had instructed them to leave immediately and not to tell anyone they were leaving. He was quite emphatic about that.” Slomak stopped pacing and turned to Jan. “Major, as I recall, that was just a day or two before you came to see me. Did the SS

ransack other apartments in your building? Was anyone else missing?”

“Yes, all three apartments. I checked Mrs. Koslofski’s, the apartment just below ours. She was gone. The Grucas, their apartment is on the ground fl oor . . . ransacked . . . they were gone.” Jan stood up and walked a few paces along the crumbling stone wall then abruptly turned back. “Why would the SS have come to our home? Were they after Anna? Or Irene, our friend, she’s Jewish.”

Slomak hesitated. “It could have been either, Major. It’s true the Germans were arresting some Jews at that time, though not yet in large numbers. But the SS did make a concerted effort to track down the family members of those arrested at the university.”

“For what purpose? Which ones?”

Slomak sat down again on the stone wall. “Major, there were two reasons for the
special action
at the university that night. One was that it was part of the overall plan by the Nazis to rid Poland of its intelligentsia
—
their plan to turn the entire country into a mindless slave state. The other reason was the SS

had learned that several Jagiellonian faculty members were involved with the Resistance.”

“Thaddeus?”

“We’re not sure. But we do know that your father-in-law was a close associate of a man who was.” Slomak hesitated again. “That’s all I can tell you, I’m sorry.”

“What happened to them, Thaddeus and the others they arrested?”

“They were taken to Germany, to a concentration camp called Sachsenhausen.”

“What about Anna? Was she involved? Do you know if—”

“No, I have no reason to believe she would have been involved. It was very early in the Resistance movement. I don’t even know if your father-in-law was involved.” Slomak gripped Jan’s arm. “Major, I met with your wife on two occasions. I sensed the kind of person she is. I could feel her strength, her determination. I believe she made it out of Poland.”

Chapter 50

The news of the Allied invasion at Normandy caused SS Hauptsturmfuhrer Koenig a great deal of anxiety. Two weeks ago he had received word that his long-awaited transfer back to Berlin had been approved. At last, a chance to get out of the drudgery of the occupied countries. An assignment with some status, a chance for advancement.

But now this goddamn invasion was on and everything could change. There were certain to be complications with his transfer. Then . . . there was the issue of the woman.

Koenig knew it was crazy, but he couldn’t help himself. He was completely captivated by the stunning redhead they had arrested. She despised him, of course, but he was confi dent he could overcome that with time. After all, it really wasn’t him she despised—it was the persona of the SS offi cer, the enemy, that she detested. Once she really got to know Dieter Koenig, the person, things would be different. He was confi dent it would work out just like it had with the others before her.

The fi rst time he met her, when she slapped him in the face with the fi le, Koenig knew he had to have her. Her outburst had sexually aroused him and ever since he had fantasized about what she might be like with that passion suffi ciently harnessed as only he could.

What was really annoying was that he had worked out all the details. He had fi gured out how he would transport her to Germany and where he would keep her. Even under pressure from that lowly Gestapo agent in Brussels, the swine Rolf Reinhardt, he had been able to make the proper arrangements. Reinhardt had gotten wind of the arrest and had been calling every day, demanding that Koenig send her back to Brussels for interrogation. Ever since the smug Night of Flames

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bastard broke up that Resistance ring in Belgium, he thought he could have whatever he wanted.

Koenig knew what that meant. He knew about Gestapo interrogations.

They’d rape her, many times. Then they’d break her fi ngers . . . and her ankles.

Then, when they’d gotten what they wanted—and they always did—they’d put her out of her misery.

He wasn’t going to let that happen, not to this intriguing woman. She was his, and he was going to take her to Germany. He had worked it all out.

But now everything was in turmoil. Koenig had never seen the chain of command as fouled up as it was at this moment. The Allied armies were swarming up the beaches at Normandy, and no one knew what to do. Rumors were fl ying all around. Rommel was in Germany visiting his wife. Hitler had been asleep, and no one had had the courage to wake him up. The panzer divisions were in position for a counterattack, but Jodl would not give the orders to release them because he didn’t believe the invasion was the real thing.

Koenig was caught in a quandary, and he hated it. He hated being indecisive. Technically, he had his orders, and he could proceed to Germany. But he also knew that a crisis loomed and, at any moment, all transfer orders would be rescinded. With the invasion on, he would almost certainly be ordered to the front, in Normandy. For one of the few times in his life he really didn’t know what to do.

He was still trying to decide, when there was a knock on the door. Koenig blinked and shook his head.
“Komm!”

His aide, Oberscharfuhrer Strauss, stepped into the offi ce holding a piece of paper in his hand. It was a copy of a teletype. “Your orders,
Hauptsturmfuhrer.
”

Goddamn it, Koenig thought. “Read them,” he said.

The aide looked down at the paper. “You are ordered to close down the jail immediately and dispose of all prisoners in the most expedient manner. You are then to proceed without delay to Caen and report to SS Standartenfuhrer Hermann, Twenty-fi rst Panzer Division.”

Koenig slumped in his chair. One more day. One more goddamn day and he’d have been in Germany . . . with that gorgeous creature. Now it had all fallen apart. He closed his eyes and saw her face, once again imagining how it might have been.

Koenig heard Strauss shuffl e his feet and clear his throat. Goddamn it, it was over. He shook his head and stood up. He had to put this out of his mind.

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There would be others, another time. There always were. “All right, how many prisoners are there at the moment?”

“
Einundzwanzig,
sir. Twenty, plus the one woman.”

“And what are our options for ‘expedient disposal’?”

Oberscharfuhrer Strauss cleared his throat before answering. “Well, sir, I suppose we could arrange a fi ring squad.”

“Oh shit, in a small town like this? Christ, there’d be an uproar, and we don’t have time to transport them out to the woods and do it quietly. There’s got to be a better way.”

Strauss was silent for a moment then nodded. “Sir, I think there might be another way. I received a dispatch about an hour ago. There’s a train coming through here bound for Paris.”

“A train for Paris? So what? How does that help us? We can’t—”

“Excuse me for interrupting, sir; this is one of the ‘special trains.’ It’s heading for Drancy.”

Koenig stared at him. Ordinarily he wouldn’t give it a second thought. It was perfect. They could stop the train and throw the unlucky bastards on board, and that would be that. It would be fast and clean, and no one would know the difference. He knew all about the “special trains,” boxcars loaded with Jews like so many cattle. He knew all about Drancy too, a “collection station,” as his superiors called it, where they would stockpile Jews until they could be hauled off to “the east.”

Koenig thought about it. Personally, he didn’t care one way or the other about Jews. But the thought of pushing that beautiful redheaded woman into one of those vermin-fi lled boxcars almost made him sick. He turned away and stared out the window. Christ, what a mess. He had been so close . . . and she was so . . .

Strauss interrupted his thoughts. “Excuse me, sir. We have very little time.

The train is due in here in less than half an hour and if we want to stop it I’ll have to call the station chief.”

Koenig whirled around. “
Ja, ja, natürlich.
I understand. Get to it. Put them on that train.”

“All of them sir? Even the . . .”

“
Ja,
all of them. Now get going, I’ve got to get packed.”

Chapter 51

Willy Boeynants was frustrated. He had contacted everyone he could think of, trying to fi nd out what might have happened to Anna, but had precious little to go on. All he had discovered was that she was on another mission.

When he received the call from the proprietor of the Leopold Café, about a teenager asking for Rene Leffard, he had gone there at once. He recognized Justyn immediately, though the boy had grown considerably since he had last seen him. Justyn was frantic with worry about Anna, and for good reason, Boeynants thought. The Gestapo had to be looking for her, and when she returned to Warempage she’d certainly be arrested.

Boeynants had another problem. He was a fugitive himself, making it diffi cult to get information. He managed to make contact with his colleague at the Interior Department and learned that Rik Trooz had been arrested and had apparently given up some information that put the Gestapo on the trail of a woman agent leading a British aviator out of the country.

Some further digging led Boeynants to a woman in Brussels named

“Claudia” who confi rmed that a redheaded woman using the name “Jeanne Laurent” had picked up a British aviator at her home and left the next day. But she had no information about their destination.

At least Justyn was safe and in good health, Boeynants thought. That was something, considering what the lad had been through. Auguste and his wife, Elise, had immediately insisted that Justyn stay with them and fawned over him like grandparents, pledging to keep his secret until Anna returned.

All that Boeynants could hope for now was that Anna’s resourcefulness and strong will would keep her safe.

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On this evening, however, those worries had to be set aside as Boeynants and Auguste attended a meeting of the special Resistance group operating in Antwerp’s port. The meeting took place in the cellar of a four-story brick building on the street fronting the Kattendijkdok dock. The busy Café Brig on the building’s ground fl oor provided suffi cient cover for the comings and go-ings of the members of the clandestine group.

Boeynants took a seat next to Auguste and looked around. There were about twenty men in the musty, dimly lit cellar. The group’s leaders sat at a wooden table at the front of the room. Boeynants recognized the short, slight man wearing a green beret. It was Antoine.

Boeynants thought back to when Auguste fi rst introduced him to Antoine, almost two months ago, the day after the Leffards’ arrest. The White Brigade leader had made an instant impression on him. He was a merchant naval offi -

cer who had been active in the Resistance since the outbreak of the war. Over the last two years he had quietly established an organization among workers in the port, all of them familiar with operations at the massive facility. It was this organization, Antoine had told him, that would defend the port when the time came.

Antoine stood up and conversation in the room ceased. “
Bonsoir,
Soldiers of the White Brigade. I appreciate all of you taking the risk to come here tonight on such short notice,” he said. “We’ll keep this brief.” He paused and looked at each man in the room. His dark eyes were intense. “I’m sure all of you are aware that
l’invasion
is underway. According to the reports we’ve received, the fi ghting is intense, but in all of the landing areas, the Allies have established beachheads and are holding.”