Waiting for the Violins (31 page)

The Dossin prisoners seemed to have heard the partisans’ warning to steal cutting tools. A few, heartbreakingly few, were managing to escape on their own. But none of them looked like Sandrine. She wanted to drop onto the ground and cry.

Bullets crashing against a branch over her head sent her lurching farther away from the embankment into the woods. The shouting faded, and a few minutes later the security detachment fell silent and the steam locomotive started up again.

Resigned, she stumbled into the woods.

She understood the meaning of loss now. And of love. They’d never been intimate, yet she was certain in every cell of her body of her love for Sandrine. This must have been what Rywka felt.

In a small clearing, she came upon a cluster of people. At their center, Jean was handing out Belgian franc notes so that the escapees could take the tram. She would have laughed at the banality of it, had she not been so close to tears at her own failure.

She looked among the faces—the men, women, even of one child, standing around Robert—and she knew none of them. She made an about-face and began the mournful trek back to her bicycle. What would she tell Laura and Christine and Francis, and all the others on the line? She was too spent to cry.

She stumbled past another group and halted, confused. Exhaustion and sorrow were taking their toll. She was imagining things. But then the specter moved, rushed toward her, and they embraced. Antonia held the warm body for a long moment, wracked by sobs.

“You stopped the train,” Sandrine murmured into her neck. “You stopped the goddamn train. For me.”

Antonia grasped Sandrine’s face and kissed her wetly, first on the cheek, then on the lips, and embraced her again tightly. “For you
and
Moishe.”

She released her grip. “The three men who thought this up are from his group. But we only had time to open the last car, and neither of you was there. Was he with you?”

Sandrine shook her head mournfully. “He was supposed to be. But at Dossin, he spotted his brother and sister-in-law and went to join them. We were in different railcars somewhere in the middle.”

“Is it possible they got out?”

“I doubt it. His sister-in-law was sick. They wouldn’t have left her. I think they’re on their way now to Germany.”

“To Auschwitz.” Antonia felt wooden. “That’s where this convoy is going.”

She took Sandrine’s hand and led her back to the railroad embankment and to her bike. In the distance, a train whistle sounded mournfully.

Chapter Thirty-one

Antonia helped Sandrine onto the rear of her bike and tried to pedal along the footpath that paralleled the rail line.

“It’s no use. The road is too rough and we can’t make any speed. We’ll have to look for shelter for the rest of the night and make our way back to Brussels in the morning.” She dismounted and leaned toward Sandrine, trying to read her expression. “How are you holding up? Are you in pain?” She caressed her cheek. “Your poor face is all swollen.”

“They beat me a lot at Breendonk, but when they transferred me to Dossin, I could rest for a day. The food was even tolerable. So I’m sore everywhere, but I’m all right.” She slid off the rear of the bike and glanced around. “Do you know where we are?”

“Somewhere near Haacht. Surely someone around here will take in two women.”

“Then let’s try. I can’t walk much farther.” Sandrine grasped one of the handlebars and half-pushed, half-leaned on it for support.

As they emerged from the woods, they saw half-a-dozen houses on the outskirts of a village and marched to the closest one that had some outbuildings. Though the lights were out, their persistent knocking brought a man to the door.

“What do you want?” he asked in Flemish, his tone aggressive.

Sandrine answered in Flemish as well, though Antonia could hear her French accent. “We’ve escaped from a German convoy. May we stay in one of your sheds, just until morning? We won’t be any bother.”

“Escapees, ah! By the love of Jesus, of course you can. The Boches killed my wife’s brother. Come on, you can stay in our barn.”

He stepped back from the door for a moment and called out over his shoulder, “Escapees from the train. Bring some blankets for them, please.” When he emerged again, he held a kerosene lantern.

“Sorry it’s not better, but it’s not so cold tonight,” he said, sliding open the door to a small barn. In the corner, a mule shuffled nervously as they entered. “Don’t worry, old girl. It’s just a couple of ladies for the night,” he called out, and untied one of the rolls of straw, spreading it into two heaps on the floor.

At that moment, his wife came in, hauling a bucket of steaming water and two folded blankets. Behind her, a small boy carried a clay pitcher.

“Poor things,” she said. “I brought you some fresh milk from the neighbor. It’s all we have at the moment. But the water’s hot. I was just about to bathe the boy, but it’s better you have it. If you’ve been in one of those trains, you’ll need it.” She set down the bucket at their feet and draped a folded rag over the side.

Antonia thanked their benefactors, using one of the few Flemish expressions she knew, and accepted the pitcher of milk from the child.

“Our neighbor drives into Brussels sometimes with his van to sell eggs and meat,” the man said. “I’ll ask him to drive you tomorrow. He’s a good man, a patriot.”

“You’re very kind. What a relief to know so many good Belgians are willing to help.”

“Not so many, and not good enough. We’re all afraid,” he said wistfully. “But my neighbor, he’s a good man. I’m sure I can convince him.”

He set the lantern down next to the blankets. “I’ll also leave this with you, but be sure to put it out before you sleep.” The farmer led his family out, sliding the barn door closed.

In the tiny sphere of lantern light, Antonia reached for the pitcher and passed it to Sandrine. “Here, take it. I’m sure you need it more than I do.”

Sandrine swallowed half of the milk and handed back the pitcher. “Yes, that helps a lot, but you can have the rest. It’s really all I can stomach right now.”

“If you’re sure.” Antonia finished off the farmer’s gift and set the empty container aside. She slid closer to Sandrine and touched her swollen face. “Poor creature. You must be in pain.”

“Not so much. I’m just so relieved to be safe, and with you. I feel like I’m filthy, though. I tried to wash at Dossin, but all we had was cold water at a sink.” She slid her fingers down a strand of hair and winced.

“Let me wash you. The water will help warm you too.” Antonia dragged over the bucket and helped remove the torn and clammy clothing from Sandrine’s back.

“Oh, my God. You’re covered with bruises and scratches.”

“Yes, they beat me for the slightest reason. But the scratches are from climbing out of the train. I’d love it if you could wash them. You, a battlefield nurse. I couldn’t ask for anything better.” She slipped off the rest of her rancid clothing and sat exposed, vulnerable, allowing the intimate touch of the washrag.

Antonia swept the warm cloth lightly down Sandrine’s back and along each arm, then moved around in front of her to wash her throat and breasts. Sandrine closed her eyes, accepting the tender care without embarrassment.

“I wish I could wash all the horror and the fear off you too.” She rinsed the rag and washed the same places again, each stroke a damp caress, then she leaned in to kiss her throat. “You can’t know how shattered I was thinking I’d lost you.”

Sandrine gazed mournfully at her. “I thought of you all the time, you know. I was certain I was going to my death, and my one regret was that I’d pushed you away.”

“It’s all right. We’re together now.”

“They tortured me,” Sandrine said starkly. “And I surrendered.” She grimaced, and her voice became raw as tears pooled in her eyes. “I thought I could be strong, but they broke me. I gave them a false name, but if it had lasted a minute longer, I’d have given them
all
the names.” She laid her head on Antonia’s shoulder. “I failed you. I failed everyone, and in the train I was sure my punishment was to die without ever having loved you.”

“Loved me? How…do you mean?” Antonia dipped the rag again into the water and wiped the tears and dirt from Sandrine’s face.

“I mean loved your body. The way you wanted. I had to stare into the abyss to grasp what you meant to me and what I’d thrown away out of fear.”

“You never had anything to be afraid of. What I offered took nothing away from you.”

“I know that now.” She laid her hand on Antonia’s and guided the warm rag over her breasts and belly and thighs, washing away not just the insult of captivity but also her foolish fears. She closed her eyes at the warmth and the insinuating touch, then turned on one hip and draped an arm around Antonia’s neck.

Against the warm ear she murmured, “On the train, to block out the squalor and the dread, I imagined making love to you.”

Antonia’s hand went still, lying across the naked thigh. “I imagined making love to you every day.”

Sandrine kissed her softly on the lips. “I consent, I agree, I surrender. I want to know you completely and to belong to you. Only not tonight, my darling. I’m too battered, too anguished to feel pleasure. And I can’t forget our friends still on that train, rolling on toward some kind of hell.”

“I can’t forget them either, and I wouldn’t think of expecting desire from someone who’s injured. But you’re part of me now, and I’ll never leave you. If someone takes you away, I’ll follow until I’m dead, and I’ll haunt anyone who harms you.” Antonia pulled the farmer’s blanket up over the naked shoulders.

Sandrine stroked her face. “I have so many beautiful rings at home. I wish I could give you one now, to mark my pledge.”

“Some day…” Antonia absentmindedly rolled the edge of the old blanket between her fingers, until one of the long coarse threads pulled loose. She unraveled it further and tore it from the end of the blanket. “Will you accept a temporary substitute?”

Sandrine watched Antonia’s hands work, measuring the thread into segments of several inches. “What are you up to?”

Without replying, she bit the thread apart with her teeth. “Give me your hand.”

Sandrine obeyed, slightly amused, as Antonia wrapped the thread twice around her ring finger. They had been speaking French, but Antonia reverted now to her most formal English. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” she said, and tied a tiny knot.

Beaming, Sandrine took up the other half of the thread and wound it around Antonia’s finger. “I ask you, Antonia, to be my beloved, and I pledge…” she began in English. But a vow of such magnitude seemed to require her own language, so she added,
“Mon amitié et mon amour les plus profonds jusqu’à ce que la mort nous sépare
. This is our marriage vow, that pledges my deepest love until death.” She knotted the ends together.

“Yes, till death do us part,” Antonia repeated, and embraced the one who was now her other self. Their kiss was long and deep, each one affirming the pledge with the heat of her body, and though both of them became aroused, they withdrew and let their passion ebb again, for that one night, mindful of the others who plunged into the darkness.

*

It was dusk when the van with V
ANDENHOVEN
P
RODUKTIE
painted on its side backed into the alley behind the Café Suèdoise. Francis opened the van door and helped Sandrine to the ground. She stood for a moment, staring at the wall behind him, while Antonia wheeled out her bicycle.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a large but obviously hastily scribbled V on the alley wall almost a meter in height.

“Patriotic graffiti, the newest thing,” he said, less grumpy than usual.

Celine’s glee was more evident. “Isn’t it wonderful? V for victory. People started scribbling them just a couple of days ago, and now they’re all over town. The Boches hate it, of course, but so far they haven’t caught anyone.”

Laura appeared from the storeroom, and as the driver of the van started his motor, she stepped up to the truck window. “Thank you for your help,” she said, and presented him with a bottle of wine.

All of them then hurried into the storeroom, and when everyone had taken a seat around the service table, Francis fetched another bottle and opened it with an air of ceremony.

“I still can’t quite believe you pulled it off, Antonia, but here you both are.” He poured the wine into their various glasses and held up his own. “To you, Sandrine, for coming back to us, and to you, Antonia for doing the impossible.”

The Comet Line team raised their glasses and drank, but when Laura set hers down, she was somber. “How are you, my dear? Did they hurt you terribly?”

“I’m managing, thank you. And I don’t want to think about the pain. Just about the future.”

“The future, yes.” Laura looked despondent. “I’m glad you’re recovering, but you’re a fugitive, now. That means we’ve lost you anyhow, doesn’t it?”

Sandrine nodded. “Yes, that’s what it means. I have no home to hide the pilots or myself in, no car to transport them, and I don’t even dare show my face in Brussels. I’m useless to you now.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Francis said. “I’m grateful you’re alive, but keeping the line going will be doubly difficult now.”

“You still have Philippe and Christine, not to mention the counterfeiters, the photographers, the medics, and the guides in the mountains. Christine knows the line now, although it remains to be seen if any of our safe houses are compromised.”

“I don’t think so,” Laura said. “We contacted everyone along the line and no one has been arrested. Philippe also knows the route and we can teach others. We’ll keep going, the same as we did after we lost Andrée.”

Francis turned toward Antonia. “What will you do now? Can you ask London to send a plane to pick you up?”

Sandrine looked slightly alarmed at the suggestion, but Antonia glanced reassuringly at her. “I’m not running away. I’ll contact London with an update and ask them to send another agent for your interrogations. Another wireless too. But I won’t leave Belgium.”