Waiting for the Violins (10 page)

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up,” he said. The escape line is spending all the money we earn, and now we’re not even earning very much.”

“Why not? The place is always full.” Sandrine pulled over a chair and joined them.

“Yes, but it’s full of Germans, and they won’t settle for the stew we concoct with whatever meat’s available that week. That might be good enough for the Belgians, with their food coupons, but the Germans want good wine, champagne, pork sausage, and real butter. I have to buy all those things on the black market, but they don’t pay me the black-market prices at the table.”

“At least they provide a good cover for us,” Celine offered hopefully.

“Yes, but I can’t keep up the juggling act—feeding the Germans, financing the Comet Line, and hoping the Communists don’t shoot me as a collaborator.”

“We need to contact someone in the partisans to get them to back off,” Sandrine said. “But we have another problem. We just ran into that German who shot Suzi, and he threatened us. He said he was going to be watching us all the time, to catch us doing something illegal. And that includes buying on the black market.”

Francis frowned. “Well, he won’t catch us doing that here in Brussels. I purchase everything through an intermediary who trucks it in from the countryside along with the legal foodstuffs. A bigger problem is the money.”

“How much have we got left?”

He turned a few pages in his ledger, made a brief calculation on a scrap of paper, and blew out a little puff of air. “Maybe enough for a couple of train tickets, another food allowance for the safe houses around Brussels, but not enough to pay off the guides.”

The sound of the door opening again startled all of them, but it was one of their own. Quiet, bespectacled, and with soft, prematurely gray hair swept across his forehead, Philippe Ledoux looked professorial, if not monkish. With a demeanor that aroused immediate trust, he seemed the last person anyone would suspect of militant resistance. Christine had brought him into the organization, and from the first day he had proved his worth. He had a barn and a horse that had escaped requisitioning, and he had quickly learned the escape route and its strategies.

He limped painfully over to the table where the others sat.

Sandrine looked down anxiously at his leg. “What happened to you? Did our ‘parcels’ make it to Spain or did you have trouble along the way?”

“Yes to both questions. We got the pilots through to Bilbao without incident, but on the way back, a disaster occurred. I’m sorry to tell you that Andrée was captured. Last night at Bayonne. I was afraid to risk a telephone call and just came home.”

Sandrine felt as if she’d been struck. “Dear God, first Frédéric and now Andrée. What happened? How did you get away?”

“We kept a distance from each other, as always, and when she arrived at the customs station, a security policeman simply stopped her. Obviously they were waiting. I couldn’t do anything for her, so I went to the men’s toilet and jumped from the window onto the street. I sprained my ankle pretty badly, but I don’t think I broke anything. Anyhow, our local people in Bayonne are trying to find out where they’ve taken her.”

Sandrine laid her forehead in her hands, and for several minutes no one spoke.

Francis broke the silence. “Do you think the Gestapo can break her?”

Sandrine shook her head. “It’s hard to imagine. The Comet Line is her creation. She’ll die before giving anything away.”

Francis brushed his knuckles under his chin. “Don’t be so sure. If the torture is really bad, who knows? She might give
something
away. Something that could lead back to us. She’s only human, after all.”

“To some extent we’re protected, aren’t we?” Laura asked. “We’ve got half the German officers’ corps in the café all the time, and we’re always quite careful. She was rarely here, as far as I can remember, so unless she talks…”

“No, she stayed away from the café,” Philippe said. “Only the people working on the line know her. More likely the Gestapo will simply snoop around everyone she knows and every place she’s been, to try to pick up a trail.”

“You can be sure that this Heinz Büttner will also be sniffing around for anything unusual,” Laura added.

Francis winced at the reminder of the new danger. “Let’s just agree, if anyone comes around asking about Andrée, it’s probably the Gestapo putting out feelers. And we simply shrug and know nothing.”

“Okay, so, assuming we can fend off any questions about her,
and
keep this Büttner idiot away from us, we should be able to continue the line.” Sandrine was businesslike.

Philippe looked doubtful. “You want to send off another group even now?”

“We have to. Pilots and evaders are piling up all around Brussels, and we don’t have any more places to hide them. I’ve got a new batch at my place now. They have a better chance moving than they do hiding in cellars and attics. You know that’s exactly what Andrée wants us to do.”

“Yes, but we need more of everything—money, couriers, blank forms for the forgers to print the identifications.” Francis stared into the air as if reading from a list.

Philippe massaged his swollen ankle. “Yes, but who’s going to take the evaders down the line? I’m no good until my foot heals.”

After another long silence, Francis spoke. “I’m sorry, Sandrine. It’s got to be you. You’re the only one left.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Papers, please.” The German gendarme held out his hand.

Antonia remained calm, perhaps because the physical exertion of pedaling the old bicycle for several miles had simply depleted the energy needed to panic. At least she didn’t have to worry about her Brussels accent not being right. The man’s French was a horror.

“
Yes, Officer
.
” She opened her purse and drew out the battered leather folder with her identification papers. He inspected her handbag, and she sent up a thought of gratitude to Berta, for its contents were flawless. Yesterday’s paper, a set of keys to presumably long-forgotten locks, a bit of food, a coin purse, and a half-used lipstick. Her money belt was deep inside her sweater, and her revolver was strapped to the inside of her thigh. She was in danger only if he rifled through the rucksack strapped to the rear of the bicycle.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” He swept his glance over the papers. She was ready for him, adding a wistful note to the expression she held.

“Into Brussels to buy shoes. Just look at these old things.” She pointed down to her mud-encrusted boots. “Would you want to wear these? My father gave me money and coupons to buy new ones for my birthday. Which is very soon.” She indicated the date on the identification.

“Ah, well then, off you go.” Now he was smiling too as he handed the papers back with a snap. “Happy Birthday.” He bumped his fellow gendarme with his elbow and they strolled together across the street.

Stalling for time, Antonia tucked the papers back into her purse, alongside the bread and cheese Berta had packed for her. She waited until the two men were out of sight before riding the last few streets to the tram stop.

As arranged, she locked the bike directly across the street from the stop, and when the tram rattled up in front of her, she caught sight of the boy. She took a seat, and as she watched from the tram window, he unlocked the bike and rode off in the direction she had come from.

She glanced around the tram car and realized to her surprise it had not emptied out, even though this was the final stop on the line and the tram was about to reverse direction. Then she saw the reason.

Men stood by the two doors with clubs, and a third one guarded the driver of the tram with a pistol. They must have leaped onto the tram just as she was boarding. What was going on?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the one in front was shouting. “We are sorry to disturb you this way. But we are taking the day’s receipts from the tram, as well as a small contribution from each of you.” He spoke French with a strong accent, though unlike that of the gendarme. Something Eastern European, probably Polish or Russian. “We will not hurt any of you if you remain calm. We are all resisting the occupation as best we can. But for that we need money, to buy food for those who are hiding.” He yanked open the fare box, and a shower of coins and small bills flowed into his cloth bag. “Remember, we are fighting for Belgium, and for freedom. So please give generously. If not, we may have to help ourselves to more than you’d like. Do we have an understanding?” A few passengers grumbled their assent.

A simple robbery. For the Resistance, supposedly. She was glad she’d moved a few Belgian francs from her money belt into her coin purse. She could allow herself to be robbed, and she certainly had no need to reach for her pistol.

One of the men was standing in front of her now. She stared at him, struck by how unlike a robber he was. His high forehead and horn-rimmed glasses gave him the look of an intellectual. He seemed both patient and nervous as he waited for her to react, occasionally glancing to the side to assure himself no one was moving.

She opened her handbag and emptied her coin purse into his sack, Though it couldn’t have amounted to much, he seemed satisfied and moved on to the next passenger.

“Thank you all for your generosity, my friends,” the leader said. “Now, if you will wait a few moments while we make our escape, we wish you a good evening. Long live freedom!” And with that, the three of them leapt from the tram and ran off into one of the dim evening streets.

The fifteen or so other passengers remained seated, whether out of fear or sympathy wasn’t clear. But after some two or three minutes of murmuring among themselves, most of them descended the tram, leaving only four to make the return trip into Brussels.

The driver looked at the broken and empty fare box, cursed under his breath, and then started the motor. With a clang, the car lurched forward and rattled along its track.

*

It was dark when Antonia exited the tram at the stop the priest had suggested. She hurried to find the correct building, to avoid another confrontation. It might not be so easy to fool a Belgian policeman, who could hear her imperfect French.

But there it was, just off the Boulevard Anspach, in the Rue Marché au Charbon. To her surprise, it wasn’t a residence, but a shop with display windows on both sides. Above it were two more floors and an attic. Out of keeping with its stately façade, the shop windows displayed a mixture of secondhand shoes and clothing, and a variety of household goods, all of it a bit shabby.

She entered and seemed to surprise the lone shopkeeper, a tall fifty-something woman with graying once-red hair that covered her head like a mushroom cap. “Can I help you, madam?”

“Are you Madame Mathys?”

“Yes? What can I do for you?” Her tone was cordial but cool, full of suspicion.

“I have a note for you from Father Vandenhoven. In the village of Zobroek.” She slipped it from inside her sweater and laid it on the shop counter.

The shopkeeper’s expression softened immediately. “I see. You are in need of accommodations. Unfortunately, Father Vandenhoven doesn’t know that I’ve already rented the apartment. I can offer you only the attic room. It’s much smaller, but has a bed and a sink. The toilet and bathroom are on the floor below.” She named a modest sum for the monthly rental.

“That’s fine,” Antonia replied, she hoped not too quickly. “If possible, I’d like to move in immediately.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll take you upstairs right now.” She locked the front door, though the empty street outside suggested she had little business in any case. At the back of the shop a spiral staircase with an iron railing led to the upper floors.

“This is my apartment,” she said, pointing with her head toward the door on the first floor. On the second floor she explained, “The new tenants are here. Over there on the right is the bathroom you share with them. Your room is on the top floor.”

Antonia followed her host silently to the last floor, where she opened a narrow door, and turned on an overhead light. It was a room out of a Kafka novel—a single bed with an iron bedstead, a sink, and a tiny table with two open shelves above it. The room would have functioned perfectly as a prison cell.

The proprietor led her to the window, and she looked down onto the Rue Marché au Charbon. It was now full night, with a single streetlamp and a few windows lit across the way providing the only light. She dropped her rucksack onto the bed. “It suits me fine, Madame Mathys. If you will give me a moment to unpack my belongings, I’ll come down to pay you the first month’s rent.”

“Take your time.” The shopkeeper withdrew, leaving the key in the door lock.

Antonia examined the shelf over the small table. It contained two porcelain plates, a pitcher, and an immersion heater for boiling water. At least she’d be able to make the tea from her emergency rations in the morning. In a cardboard box she found a set of cutlery—two sets of knives, forks and spoons, once silver-plated but now tarnished and lacking most of their plating. An electric hot plate and a battered pot on the bottom shelf hinted that she would have a steady diet of soups.

The apartment provided sheets and a blanket for the bed, but no towel. She would see to that, as well as to the question of laundry and additional clothing. She made a mental note to purchase soap, bread, and whatever fresh produce was available. At least she didn’t have to worry about cost, as long as her money lasted. But the thought of having to live alone for very long in such a grim place made her slightly nauseous.

Well, she was as safe as could be expected now and needed to bathe and sleep. She drew the required amount of Belgian francs from her money belt, along with counterfeit ration coupons, and went downstairs to take care of business.

As she approached the floor directly below, a woman stood in the doorway with a baby of about two in her arms. As a first social encounter, it seemed unthreatening.

“Hello. I’m your new neighbor upstairs,” Antonia said. “I hope my tromping around over your head isn’t a problem.”