Waiting for the Violins (18 page)

First shutting off the guide lamps, all five ran toward the container, an aluminum cylinder some eight feet long and with the girth of a horse. Antonia detached the parachute and rolled it into a ball before stuffing it into a bag. The others were already kneeling by the cylinder itself.

It was heavier than expected, and the mud it had dropped into added a suction effect. Grunting, the two men hefted it onto their shoulders, then fast-marched it to the hay wagon where Philippe waited on the road. Sliding it onto the wagon, they covered it with straw and climbed onto the front bench. Philippe urged the horse into motion and they rumbled away.

Behind them, Antonia and Sandrine collected the beacons and returned to Sandrine’s car, and half an hour later they were in Philippe’s barn tearing open the seals.

“Let’s see what goodies London has sent us,” Antonia said, undoing the bolts and raising the metal cover. Lying across two of the numerous boxes was a large padded envelope, and she grasped it reverently. “This is our primary cargo,” she said, “but I’ll count it later under better security.”

“I can provide security.” Moishe chuckled and held out his hand.

“Honor among thieves, eh?” Sandrine glanced at him playfully.

Antonia pawed through the items, doing a cursory inventory. “Plastic explosives, ammunition. These are for you, Moishe. Sten guns. There should be eight of them, but two of them are for the Comet.”

“Excellent.” Moishe lifted one out from the belly of the cylinder. “I’ve heard of them before but never laid hands on one. Do we have to train to use them?”

“Very little. They’re designed for simplicity. Besides, look here. They’ve included instruction manuals in French.” She tossed him a couple.

“What’s this?” Sandrine lifted out a soft bundle wrapped in brown paper.

“Extra clothes for me, I think. And this…” She lifted up a string-tied cardboard box and balanced it on the end of the cylinder. “This should be the food I asked for. Field rations, probably, but at least I won’t go hungry in my room.”

“Don’t worry, Antonia. We’ll always feed you,” Francis said. “We should save the field rations for when we take the men down the line.”

She lifted out another box. “Even better. Corned beef, ten cans. And here, bless their hearts, they’ve added cigarettes and chocolate. Worth their weight in gold these days.”

“It’s almost dawn,” Philippe announced, looking out through the barn door. “We’d better get moving.”

“He’s right.” Sandrine took charge. “Moishe, why don’t you take a couple of the Sten guns and explosives for your partisans? I’ve got a hidden space under the backseat in my car, so we can carry your material along with ours. As soon as the curfew is lifted, I’ll drop you and Sophie off in Brussels and take the others to the café.”

“What about the rest?” Moishe eyed the Sten guns that still lay in the cylinder.

“Don’t worry,” Sandrine said. “I’ll drive back tomorrow to fetch another load and see that it gets to the right people. In the meantime, the cylinder should be safe here in Philippe’s barn. You can trust us,” she added. “Honor among thieves, right? If we find a bottle of cognac anywhere at the bottom, I’ll make sure you get it.”

From where she sat, with the lantern between them, Antonia watched the two of them bantering and felt a twinge of jealousy. She liked both of them, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted them to like each other so much. Perhaps it was the radiance of Sandrine’s hair next to the lantern and the way Moishe gazed at it.

Radiant hair?
Where the hell had that thought come from? Antonia stood up and tucked the cash envelope inside her shirt.

Philippe dragged the barn door open. “Curfew’s over. You can get on the road now.” They filed out of the barn toward Sandrine’s car, and Philippe padlocked the door behind them.

As car owner, Sandrine assigned Francis and Moishe to the rear seat and Antonia to the front next to her. There’s at least that, Antonia thought.

Once they were on the road, Moishe leaned forward and spoke over the noise of the motor. “How lucky that you have your Mercedes. I thought the Germans confiscated all the non-essential civilian cars.”

“Yes, lucky,” Sandrine answered, noncommittal, letting the subject drop.

“So, have I finally earned your trust?” Antonia turned toward Sandrine, keeping her voice low.

With half her attention on the rough dirt roads, Sandrine replied as softly. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you. You’ve proved yourself very valuable.”

“I suppose I have.” Antonia patted the envelope inside her shirt. “That was the whole point.”

“I don’t just mean the money, though we need that, desperately. I was thinking more about your being British. We need to interrogate every pilot we find to keep the Gestapo from planting one of their agents. You’ll know things about daily life in Britain that we don’t, so you can help us ask questions.”

“I can do better than that. I can ask headquarters to check each pilot’s background and see if it corresponds to what he tells us.”

“Oh, that will help enormously.” Sandrine laid her hand on Antonia’s forearm, sending a wave of pleasure through her. “I’m sorry for sending you back out on the street when you first arrived, Sophie. You’re a real gem.”

Antonia glanced over at her in the warm orange light of dawn. “I bet you say that to all your spies.”

Chapter Twenty-one

November 1942

The first successful supply drop led to another, two weeks later, and then to a third, in November, by which time the team was adept at collecting and distributing the material. After the November delivery arrived late, and Antonia had waited most of the night in an open field, she allowed herself a long restful sleep.

The next morning, she treated herself to a morsel of the precious chocolate, nibbling at its corners while she sent off her latest transmission.

Latest drop received stp two new pilots found luxembourg area stp pls confirm missing aircraft flight details and pilots in preparation for interrogation end.

Then she dismantled the parts of the radio and concealed them again inside their valise. It was a rather pathetic disguise, which would protect the radio only until someone opened the case, but it was all she had. The room had no false wall, no hidden cavities, and only the flimsiest wardrobe. She slid it under the bed simply because that was where a suitcase would be kept.

She was startled, as always, by a knock at the door but calmed upon hearing Moishe’s voice. He slipped quickly inside with one of the Sten guns in hand.

“I like this gun.” He inspected its simple barrel and wire shoulder stock. “Unlike the ones we usually get, these should actually shoot.”

“Well, loyal British workers, not forced labor, made them. Cuts down on the sabotage. You haven’t shot any of them yet?”

“No. Haven’t needed to. For the last two months we’ve been mostly robbing people, with the handguns. Easier to conceal. So I think it’s about time you showed me how to actually fire this thing.”

“It’s fairly simple.” She took the weapon from his hands. “See how the bolt cocks to the rear and springs forward when you pull the trigger? It grabs the cartridge from the magazine much faster than a bolt-action rifle, but unfortunately, it has an effective range of only about 100 meters.” She inserted the foot-long magazine and it gave a click. “Be careful when you grasp the magazine to support the gun. It’ll wear the magazine catch and alter the angle of feed.”

She detached it again and held it up in front of him. “This is nearly identical to the German 9mm magazines, so if you can steal any of them, you can increase your ammunition supply.”

“Uh, hunh.” He squinted at the chamber through his glasses. “I’ll pass on the information.” He set the gun down and gazed at her for a moment.

“You’ve been generous with material like this, but you haven’t been around for any of our actions. Does this mean you’re not working with us any more?”

“I’m afraid so. I was always only on the fringe of your group, anyhow. The Comet people are the ones London assigned me to in the first place.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, but I understand. We all have our jobs.”

At the door he said, “You’re going to miss our next action. Kuba thinks we should hit the main downtown garage and get ourselves a car. We’ll definitely use one of these.” He held up the Sten.

She accompanied him to the Goldman apartment and met Aisik coming up the stairs from below. Rywka opened to the sound of their voices and beckoned them all in. Aisik set down his tool bag and marched toward the window.

“What’s troubling you, Aisik?” Moishe asked.

“I just rewired an apartment in the Wolvengracht. I don’t get much work so the job was welcome. But someone on the street saw me go in.” He rubbed his forehead.

“It’s the middle of the day. Lots of people must have seen you go in.”

“Yes, but when I came out two hours later, he was still there. I recognized him because he had a red mark on his cheek, like a birthmark. It made him look a little like a clown. But then he followed me home. He thought I couldn’t see him, but I’m like a rabbit. I circled around and saw that he was behind me. And he’s still outside now, checking the address of this building.”

Both Moishe and Antonia went to the window. “Yeah, someone’s down there,” she said. “A man in a brown suit jacket and a cap. He’s looking through the window into the shop.”

“That’s him,” Aisik said. “What should we do? I’m sure he’s trouble.”

“Two can play that game,” Antonia said. “Let’s find out where
he
lives.”

“You think I should try to follow him home?” Moishe said. “How can I do that?”

“Let me do it. Keep an eye on him while I go up and get my coat. What was the address where you were working?”

“Wolvengracht 98.”

“All right. I’ll wait inside the shop. As soon as he leaves the street, someone call down the staircase and I’ll follow him.”

In two minutes she was back on the stairs buttoning her jacket. Moishe stood in the doorway. “He’s just left and turned right at the corner.”

The man was gone when she reached the street, but she quickened her pace, and on the other side of the Grand Place, on the Rue des Harengs, she caught sight of him. She kept him at a distance, with other people between them. In the brief times he disappeared around a corner, she always located him again and easily trailed him past the Kiekenmarkt and across the Place de la Monnaie.

As she expected, he turned on the Wolvengracht, and now she hurried to see where he would stop. She was within twenty paces of him when he turned into a bakery shop, and she stepped into an alley out of his line of sight. Some five minutes later, he emerged again with a loaf of bread wrapped in newspaper, and marched the last half block to an apartment building. Slowing her own step, she passed the door indifferently, and the briefest glance sideways gave her the address. Wolvengracht 100. Easy to remember.

But how to find out his name? At the bakery, perhaps? Presumably he was registered there to use his bread coupons.

She went in to look around, wondering how direct she could be without raising suspicions. “Good day,” she said brightly to the man behind the counter.

“Good day, dear,” he replied, the greeting ending on a questioning note. She was, after all, not part of his usual clientele. He was old and stooped, and he sat perched on a stool near the register, as if he stood guard over it. But the display case held only a sorry assortment of hard biscuits and a few loaves of grayish bread that she knew were full of potato flour and God knows what else.

On the floor at the end of the counter, a dog was sleeping on a cushion. A mongrel of some kind, and when he opened his eyes at her entrance, they were as weary and bloodshot as his master’s.

Her mind raced, wondering how to win his trust. “The man who was just here, the one with the red birthmark on his face,” she said. “I saw him beating a dog and I want to report him. Do you know his name? I hate cruelty to animals.”

The baker scowled. “Corot, beating a dog? Well, that fits him. He probably beats his wife too,” he grumbled.

“Oh, then you know him personally?” She knelt down and held out her hand for the dog to sniff. He licked it once and gazed up with baleful dog’s eyes.

“No, he’s just a customer, but he comes in most days. “His name is Jean Corot and he’s a piece of work. Sometimes he shoots his mouth off, about the immigrants and the Jews. Says the Germans are the best thing that ever happened to Belgium, that they’re going to clean the place out.”

“Really? He supports the deportations?” She scratched behind the slightly mangy ears, keeping her voice neutral.

“Sure he does. Wouldn’t be surprised if he called some of them in. Men like him, anything for a few extra francs.” Suddenly he squinted, suspicious. “So who’s asking? Who are you, anyhow?”

She stood up again, offering as warm an expression as she could manage. “Just someone who loves dogs. I lost mine last year. Nearly broke my heart.”

He looked tenderly down at the cur at his feet. “Yeah, people don’t keep ’em any more. Too hard to feed. Prince there, he won’t eat anything but meat. I have to swap my best bread every morning with the butcher to get enough for him. Don’t know how long I can keep that up.”

She nodded. “I understand. You do the best you can. They give so much in return, don’t they?” Without waiting for an answer, she stepped away from the counter. “Well, thank you for helping and maybe saving some dog from being beaten again.” With a hand raised in farewell, she slipped out the door before he noticed she hadn’t purchased anything.

Ten minutes later she was back at the Rue Marché au Charbon in the Goldman apartment. “He’s a collaborator,” she announced. “Probably not Gestapo, since the local baker knew his name. Probably just an amateur, trying to curry favor. Still, it might be wise for Aisik and Rywka to stay away from the apartment for a while. Can you keep them with you?”

Moishe closed his eyes in evident despair. “I just have a space under a roof with a mattress on the floor. No place to cook. That’s why I come here.”