Waiting for the Violins (16 page)

One of their captives stepped forward. Slight of build, with eyes rendered enormous by thick eyeglass lenses, he managed to cower and threaten at the same time. “What are you doing? Get out! We are protected. You’ll go to jail.”

Kuba grabbed the man by his shirt with his free hand, and, shoving him up against a wall, he unleashed a tirade in Yiddish. Antonia didn’t need to understand it to know the gist of it, that they all had become agents of evil.

Meanwhile, Moishe gathered the papers into a heap at the center of the room, and the other man emptied the jerrican of gasoline over it. The vile smell filled the room, and Antonia covered her mouth and nose.

Kuba finally let loose of the man and turned to the rest of the staff that hadn’t moved. “I suggest you all back away, gentlemen,” he said in French. Antonia took a step back herself.

Moishe dropped a single burning match onto the pile, and it caught with a sudden, explosive
whooooop.
Heat filled the room immediately, and everyone recoiled, falling back against their chairs and desks.

“Tell your Nazi masters that the Jews of Belgium are better than this, that we won’t go without fighting,” Kuba shouted against the crackling and the heat of the fire, then signaled his men to leave.

In the corridor, a bulky gray-haired man in glasses charged toward them, either indifferent to or unaware of the revolver. “Terrorists. Bolsheviks! I’ve summoned the police.”

“Robert Holzinger. That’s him!” the nameless partisan shouted, pointing with his whole arm.

“Mouchard!” Kuba shouted, and fired at him twice point-blank. With a look of outrage and confusion, Holzinger glanced down at his chest, then fell back onto the floor. Kuba stood over him and fired a third time at his chest, as red dots blossomed on his shirt.

Then they fled, followed by the Judenrat staff escaping the smoke and fire. One man knelt nonplussed by the body for just a moment, then followed the partisans out onto the street.

The car waited with its motor running, and the four of them leapt in. They pulled away from the curb and sped away while the Judenrat staff stood watching mutely in the street.

Once away from the scene, Kuba handed over the holstered gun with a muttered thank you, and Antonia tucked it under her coat.

She felt no triumph. The rush of exhilaration she expected never came. Just the memory of red blossoms on a white shirt.

Within minutes, the car pulled up at the corner of the Rue Marché au Charbon and Antonia jumped out. She broke into a jog, covering the short distance to the storefront, and admitted herself with her key. Relieved to finally be invisible, she proceeded through the dark shop and climbed the staircase, brooding.

What was the benefit of what they’d just done? A delay in the deportations perhaps, until the occupying authorities could find another way to round up Jews? Had she actually saved any lives or just helped to take one? It was despicable to make deportation lists. But Jews executing Jews for any reason seemed to play into the hands of the Nazis. And watching it unfold in a language she couldn’t understand had made her feel detached. This wasn’t what she’d signed on for.

Reaching the tiny apartment at the top of the stairs, she was forced to turn on the hall light to find her key. After fumbling for a few moments, she unlocked the door, pushed it inward, and flicked the light switch. The overhead light went on, illuminating something lying in the middle of the floor. She blinked for a moment, trying to make sense of it.

A bundle of soiled and foul-smelling newspapers was wrapped around something hard and square.

*

“What do you think? Can you make use of it?”

She spun around to see Christine Mathys standing in her doorway with her fingers pressed against her nose. “God, I hope so,” she continued. “It’s stinking up the whole building.”

Perplexed, Antonia took hold of a corner of the newspaper and delicately peeled it back. Through the mud, straw, and excrement, she identified it immediately.

The valise with her wireless radio.

With equal measure of hope and revulsion, she knelt and gingerly inspected the aluminum case, trying not to touch the vile-smelling sludge that caked it.

“It’s pig shit, I think,” Mme Mathys remarked. “Wipe off as much of it as you can with the newspaper, and I’ll burn it in the stove downstairs.”

“Good idea.” Antonia began scraping off the disgusting crust. Wrapping the entire mess in an outer layer of clean newspaper, she handed it over.

“Thank you. While you burn that, I’ll try to wash the rest.” Reluctantly she took her only towel and soaked it in water, then set about cleaning the apparatus, focusing on the clip that held the casing closed. The stench had scarcely faded, but now she was excited enough to ignore it.

She snapped open the catch and pried open the valise. Her heart sank. All three components inside—receiver, transmitter, and power source—were wet and malodorous. They were theoretically waterproofed, but only against rain, not two months in a pigsty.

Tenderly, she drew out each component and wiped it down, rinsing the filthy towel repeatedly. When all three were clean, she noted with dismay that the one part that seemed damaged was the power unit. Even after adapting its cable to the electrical outlet in the room, she couldn’t cause it to light. The radio was useless.

Mme Mathys had returned, wiping her hands on a clean towel. “Does it work?”

“Unfortunately not. How did it get here?”

“Two men brought it by. I didn’t ask their names, of course. They said a farmer saw it drop into his pigsty. He detached the parachute and covered everything with mud before the gendarmes reached his farm. Judging by the condition of the case, I’d say he left it hidden for some time.” She took a step closer and peered down at the three units. “What do you think? Can those things stand being submerged?”

“For a limited time. The units are sealed, but in this case, the power source seems damaged, possibly from a leak. I can’t test the other parts until I have power. Or get another battery.”

“Hmm. I don’t know where you can get a radio battery without getting in trouble. Maybe Mr. Goldman can help you.”

“Mr. Goldman? Aisik Goldman? How can he help?”

“He’s an electrician. Didn’t he tell you? First in Belorussia and then here. Until the new laws. Now he works clandestinely.”

“You think he could repair this?”

“I don’t know. But you might want to clean it off a little more before you ask him. Pig shit isn’t exactly kosher.”

Chapter Nineteen

Francis bent over the bar counter reading
Le Soir
, glancing up periodically to monitor his customers. Only a few tables were occupied, and only one of them by Wehrmacht officers. Celine had served them and they seemed content, so he returned to his reading. Laura came to the counter with a tray of dirty dishes.

“What lies are they printing today?” she muttered, looking down at the paper.

He snorted agreement. “Aside from the usual reports of Germany’s struggle against Bolshevism, there’s been another arson. In the Boulevard du Midi at the Judenrat office. Someone was killed too. An assassination.”

“Really? You think partisans did it?”

“I’m sure they did. The authorities are offering a reward for information.”

“Anything about the RAF? The BBC announced last night that they’d bombed Essen.”

“Well, they’re not going to admit that, are they? The only articles I see here are about the German courage in the East. And the usual news about shortages.”

The sound of the café door opening drew their attention.

Baron von Falkenhausen stood for a moment, as if waiting for acknowledgement. His pale eyes squinted behind wire-rimmed glasses toward his usual table.

“Ah, Herr Baron.” Francis folded his paper and stepped out from behind the counter. “So nice to see you this morning. Will you have your usual?” He extended his arm toward the corner table the officer usually favored.

Von Falkenhausen took a seat and removed his peaked cap, revealing the severe military tonsure of the officer class. In an ironic reversal of a monk’s patch, his head was shaved high above his ears, and only a narrow cap of graying hair remained at the top.

“How are you, today, Herr Baron?” Francis was at his affable best.

“Quite well, thank you.” He smiled up at Laura as she set down a steaming cup of coffee. She gave him real coffee, obtainable only on the black market, though for lower-ranking customers, the Café Suèdoise made a special mixture of black-market beans and legally obtained chicory that satisfied most palates. Knowing his habit, she’d also brought him a glass of cognac.

“We’ve got our hands full, of course. The terrorists and thugs keep us busy.”

“Yes. I see there’s been another arson in the Boulevard du Midi. At the Jewish administration.”

Von Falkenhausen took a mouthful of his cognac, savoring the taste for a moment, then followed it with a sip of coffee. “Yes, you have to admit, it was a clever strategy, setting up the Judenrat. They do the work of choosing who’ll go on the work trains, and when there’s resistance, they fight it out among themselves. Saves us a lot of trouble.”

Francis nodded ambiguously.

Von Falkenhausen swirled the cognac in his glass. “That will all change soon enough. You’ll see, my friend. Brussels will settle down into quite a nice city.”

“I hope so. All these shortages are very hard on business.” Francis dried his hands mechanically on his apron.

The phone rang in the office behind the bar, and Laura disappeared through the door to answer it. “If you’ll excuse me,” Francis said, and turned to follow her, leaving Celine to keep an eye on the tables.

On the floor next to his desk, Celine’s dog Suzi raised her head as he came in, then seemed to recognize that he carried no food scraps and let it drop again.

Laura handed him the phone, and her expression told him it was escapee business. Always aware of the possibility of being overheard, he fell into code language. “Hello, Francis here. What’s the news? Ah, the parcels arrived. Yes, that’s good to know. One damaged? Oh, dear, which one? The tea? Well, thank you for calling. What’s that? Oh, yes, I understand. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of that. I’ll see to payment right away.”

He hung up and turned to Laura. “Bayonne,” he said quietly, ensuring his voice couldn’t carry into the café. “One fatality.”

Laura looked alarmed. “Who?”

“One of the Brits. We’ll find out more when Sandrine is back.”

“It sounded like there was some other problem too.” She knelt down and scratched behind the dog’s head.

“Yes. The guide, Florentino, wants to be paid. So do the farmers. They won’t take any more people over until they are. You can’t blame them, really.” He knelt in front of the safe under his desk. With a few turns of the dial, he unlocked the steel box and pulled the door open.

“How much have we got left?” Laura asked, standing above him, though she already knew the answer.”

“Nothing. Just a few francs to purchase food for the restaurant, and barely enough for that.” He closed the door gently, as if to protect the little cash left inside, and stood up. “I don’t know what to do at this point. I’m at my wit’s end.”

Celine poked her head through the doorway to the café. “New customers, and the general is leaving.”

Francis returned to the dining room. Von Falkenhausen was on his feet, just setting on his cap. The tiny silver death’s-head over the visor caught the light for a brief second, like a signal light.

“Good day to you.” The general twitched a military greeting and stepped out onto the street. Francis glanced down at the money left on the table. A token payment. Less than he’d paid for the black-market coffee.

“Bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

*

A few streets away, on the Rue Marché au Charbon, Aisik Goldman wiped his hands on the already-filthy towel. “Well, I’ve done the best I can. It seems to be a basic AC adapter, and it looks like one of the wires was broken off the terminal. I’ve replaced it and cleaned the terminal so…we’ll see.” He laid the lid back on the unit and screwed it tightly shut.

“What about the current?” Moishe asked. Belgian current is 230 volts. But the numbers here show 110 or 220.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Antonia examined the newly repaired adapter. “It’s designed with a 20-volt variance on both sides, so the 220 current should still work at 230. Did you find any problems in the transmitter or receiver?”

“They seemed intact, so I didn’t open them.”

“Well, let’s see what happens.” She plugged the wire from the power source into the wall socket, then sat down at the table and flicked on the switch. Nothing happened. The two men grunted disappointment.

“Wait. Wait. The switch is still on 110. Let me just move it over to 220. She flicked the upper switch to the right, then toggled the lower switch onto “on.” The power light glowed.

She let out a long exhalation. So far so good, she thought, but it seemed unlucky to say it out loud.

“Do you want me to stay while you try the transmitter?” Aisik asked.

Antonia shook her head. “No. It’ll take me a while to create a message in code. If I can’t send it, I’ll ask you to come back and we’ll take the other units apart. For now, thank you.”

She walked with them to the door and shook Aisik’s hand, looking directly into his eyes for the first time. She saw kindness and deep humility and turned away, embarrassed.

If her wireless worked, she was going to abandon him.

*

Half an hour later, Antonia laid her pencil aside and read the message she’d coded, first in the SOE poem-based code and then in Morse. She’d asked for it to be based on Robert Burns’s “Address to a Haggis,” which she’d read a dozen times and still found largely unintelligible. It served nicely as a code source, however.

She connected up the power box and plugged the transmitter cable into the five-holed socket on the left side. As she’d been taught, she also attached the receiver by its cable to the transmitter. The plastic-coated antenna wire, all twenty feet of it, was carefully rolled up within the receiver box. She needed only to wipe it clean, tack it high along two walls of the apartment, and connect it to the transmitter.