Waiting for the Violins (35 page)

Antonia rushed to the window. It’s Cyprian and some of the men. And Celine has come back with them. They’re insane!”

Ten minutes later they walked through the door, and Mme Delcour met them with an offer of ersatz coffee. Cyprian accepted a cup but was otherwise all business. “How many are there?”

“About twenty men,” Antonia replied. “They have two trucks and an armored car. When I checked about fifteen minutes ago, they hadn’t mobilized yet. Presumably they’re waiting for full daylight.”

“Where are they positioned?”

“They seem to all be around the mayor’s house. It looks like one or two officers have commandeered the house for the night. We got close enough to see there’s one more truck than they need, so we’re pretty sure the empty one is for us. As prisoners or cadavers.”

“What are you planning to do?” Sandrine asked. “You can’t expect to fight them.”

“Oh yes, I can. They’re here in our forest and it would be cowardly not to confront them. We have a few grenades. Enough to knock out the trucks. In any case, we need to hold them off for at least half a day to give our men time to move the camp.”

“How do we get close to them, though?” Celine asked.

“What about the milk truck from the Soreil farm?” Raymond asked. “He usually makes the rounds just at this time. It’d be a good cover.”

Cyprian peered through the window that looked toward the farm.

“Soreil’s probably wondering if he should make his rounds today or just wait until the Germans leave. Let’s help him decide.”

He was already out the door.

At the dairy farm, the farmer was willing to hand over his delivery truck but insisted on removing his valuable milk cans. While he hauled them out, Cyprian examined the vehicle.

“Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll wait just outside the village, as if it were any other morning. The Germans will be coming out in single file, and it’ll be easy to take them by surprise with the grenades. I’m guessing the armored car will come out first. Most of the men will still be in the street behind it where they can’t reach us. That’s where the rest of you’ll come in.”

He surveyed the nine fighters around him. “Nicolas, you come with me in the truck. The rest of you take up positions in the houses along both sides of the street. Don’t fire until you hear the grenades, when they start to back up. They won’t be prepared for fire from behind them.”

Celine shook her head. “No. I’m staying with you and the truck. I made three trips through the forest in one night. I don’t have a gun and I’m a lousy shot, but I’m throwing one of those grenades, so don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“Me too,” Raymond announced. “I can’t shoot the Sten gun with this bad shoulder, so I’m useless for that. But I can throw with my other hand. Besides, this is my village and these are my people. I want to be in the front.”

“All right, all right.” Cyprian conceded, though he shook his head. “You and Celine can carry the grenades and throw them along with the others when I give the signal. The rest of you scatter among the houses along the street wherever you can. I’ll give you ten minutes and then we take off. You have to be in place by then.”

“Here, you might as well be using this.” Raymond pulled the strap of the Sten gun over his head and handed it to Antonia.

“Fine. Sandrine can use my pistol.” She draped the lanyard over Sandrine’s shoulder and they took off running toward the village.

At the first house, the baker admitted them without a word and followed them up to the attic room. The view of the street below was excellent, though Antonia was alarmed to see the detachment already lined up. She threw open the windows, and both of them knelt by the windowsill. Antonia aimed the Sten gun at the closest target.

But below them, the lineup wasn’t as they expected. Leading the line of soldiers was a personnel carrier she hadn’t seen before and that Cyprian hadn’t reckoned with. Positioned between the two trucks, it was out of reach of lateral fire from her and the others in the houses, but worse, it carried two machine guns mounted on the front.

The line began to move, and when the first of the trucks reached the end of the street, she heard the grenades detonate. The first truck exploded, but the sickening sound of the machine guns told her the worst had happened.

The whole battle lasted scarcely three minutes, and then the convoy continued on out of the village. After an agonizing wait, until the soldiers were out of range, Antonia rushed downstairs and into the street.

Half a dozen other doors flew open and people emerged from their houses, dashing toward the bullet-ridden milk truck.

Cyprian lay facedown on the ground where he’d fallen from the driver’s side. Someone turned him over, revealing a blood-drenched chest that contrasted hideously with his pale white face. The man who knelt over him closed the still-open eyes.

On the other side of the truck, Sandrine yanked open the door and Raymond toppled into her arms, bloody and no longer breathing. She pulled him away from the seat and Antonia clambered in.

Celine and Nicolas both lay crumpled on the floor in the back of the truck.

“Celine, Celine. Talk to me.” Antonia took the young body into her arms and pressed her lips on the still-warm forehead. Gasping weakly for air, Celine moved her lips, trying to speak. Blood trickled from a hole in the side of her throat and it was clear that blood also flowed into her lungs, for she choked. She struggled to form a final word. “Please…Suzi…”

Antonia stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry, darling. Suzi’s safe. We’ll take good care of her,” she promised, but Celine’s head lolled lifelessly against her shoulder.

Speechless with grief, she carried the body out of the truck. Sandrine came to her side, and together they laid the limp form on the ground next to Raymond and Cyprian. Behind her, someone else pulled Nicolas from the truck and laid him out as well. Sandrine knelt beside the four bodies, fighting back tears.

The baker—Antonia had never learned his name—appeared. “We’ll carry them back to their families,” he said. “Don’t stay here.”

“Her dog. She has a dog.”

“The Delcours have her, don’t worry,” the baker said. “But you, go back into the forest to some other camp. You can still fight.” He gripped her by the shoulder with a mix of urging and paternal affection. “Go. Take care of yourselves.”

“These are our friends, and we don’t even have time to mourn them,” Antonia said hoarsely.

Sandrine stroked a hair from Celine’s still bright young face. “Too many to mourn.” She stood up and wiped her face with her sleeve. “We have to go and meet your plane. It’ll take us until nightfall to reach the landing site.”

Antonia got to her feet, numb. “We’re forever walking away from death.” She laid the strap of her Sten gun over her shoulder. “When will it end?”

Sandrine took her arm. “Not for a while.”

*

They hiked all day and spoke little, saving their breath. Now and again, Antonia took Sandrine’s hand, just to feel her warmth. But she couldn’t bear to talk about the recent events. If she gave in to grief for Celine, she’d break down in anguish for all the others. Sandrine grieved as well, she knew, but lamenting would sap what little strength they had left for the escape.

When they reached the valley where the Lysander was to land, the sun was setting behind them. They crouched together partially hidden by growth, waiting. “Fleeing with the shirts on our backs again.”

“No point in owning a suitcase, is there?” Sandrine took a long drink from their water bottle and handed it to Antonia. “God, I don’t know what I’d do if that had been you killed back there in that truck.” She shifted her position and took Antonia in her arms. “You’re all I have left.”

Antonia closed her eyes, feeling Sandrine’s breath in her hair. “You too. You know, I thought I understood the sorrow of Dunkirk, seeing all those men hurt and dying. But that was sort of abstract. The real grief is losing someone you love.”

Sandrine touched the back of one finger to the scar that rose from Antonia’s shoulder blade to her neck. “If something had happened to me, at Breendonk or—”

“Shhhh,” Antonia whispered suddenly, and pointed toward the hill opposite them.

A German personnel carrier was just visible at the top of the ridge. Three men leapt out of it and threaded their way down the hillside toward the landing area.

“Crap,” Antonia muttered. How could they know? Had collaborators seen the previous landing and reported it? This was a disaster. Now the pickup would be impossible.

“They haven’t caught sight of us,” Sandrine whispered. “Otherwise they’d have started firing.”

Antonia did the calculations. The plane wasn’t due for a couple of hours, so they had time to ambush the men, assuming they could be silent. They were outnumbered, but they had the element of surprise. It seemed insane, but they had no choice.

“Our guns are no good for distance, Antonia whispered back. “We’ll have to get closer, much closer. We’ll let them settle in first and then work our way toward them.”

They watched for over half an hour, keeping sight of where each of the three men meandered and stood. Finally, Antonia handed Sandrine the Sten gun and whispered “now,” and they began to thread their way around the valley. They crept, excruciatingly slowly, in a wide circle, keeping to the underbrush. It seemed to take an hour, but finally they crouched within range of the first man. He sat, one knee drawn up, as if at a picnic, and smoked a cigarette.

Sandrine aimed the Sten gun, and holding her breath, she slowly caressed the trigger—until it erupted.

The man twisted sideways, hit in the shoulder and she let loose a volley of shots. He staggered to his feet but then dropped again onto his back.

The gunshot gave them away, but now the odds were even. The other two soldiers ran toward them firing wildly, and Antonia fired back whenever she caught sight of them between the trees. Sandrine fired twice, uselessly.

They both crouched quietly, waiting for the soldiers to take the initiative, but they remained silent. It was dark now, impossible to make out movement more than a few feet away. The men were obviously waiting for that.

Antonia moved ahead, in the direction she thought they’d be, needing to be close for the handgun. She saw something move in the brush and fired, threw herself to the side and fired again. The cracking of twigs told her he was untouched and had moved off to her side.

Behind her she heard another long volley. Sandrine was being profligate with the ammunition, and they had only that one magazine.

The twig cracking was closer, and she shot into the brush where the sound came from. He leaped again to the side and she fired again. She crouched near a tree, trying to stay behind it with respect to where her pursuer was, but he feinted again and she shot. Hell, he was playing cat and mouse, and meanwhile, Sandrine was peppering the darkness with the
rat-a-tat
of the Sten gun.

Something crashed at her side and she fired at it, only to realize he’d thrown a rock and she’d wasted another round on it. Did she have any left? She couldn’t remember now how many times she’d fired.

He must have been counting too, for suddenly he loomed up in front of her laughing, with his rifle pointed at her. He’d miscounted. In reflex, she pulled her own trigger and it fired one final shot, hitting him pointblank in the chest.

Toppling forward, he discharged his own gun toward her legs, the slug cutting past her into the tree. His momentum caused him to crash against her, knocking her head against the tree before they both slid to the ground. She lay stunned, underneath his limp body, and Sandrine was still firing wildly. Then she stopped. She’d emptied the magazine.

Christ.

Pinned down by the weight of her assailant, Antonia felt a sudden heat on her chest. The soldier’s blood was pouring over her.

She heard a thud, then nothing. Just the evening breeze. Then moaning, somewhere in front of her.

Sandrine was hurt.

Sandrine called her name, breaking her heart, but she resisted the urge to crash through the brush toward the sound. Then she made out the words. Mixed into what sounded like incoherent groans, Sandrine was warning her.

“He’s waiting. Don’t come,” she sobbed, though it sounded for all the world like cries of pain.

Antonia was torn. Was the woman she loved being used as bait, or was she dying? Or both. It was excruciating. The cries became weaker. “He’s waiting…waiting…waiting.”

She remained silent, immobile, under the dead weight of the soldier. Then Sandrine stopped calling out. Mad with indecision, she still waited. She lay in a dark, silent hell struggling to breathe and she asked herself what she was waiting for. If Sandrine was dead, what was left to fight for? Or to fight with, for she had no ammunition. Then she remembered.

She heard a rustling in the bushes and sensed that the third man had come closer. She tried to imagine his thoughts. He had to be wondering if she was still alive and wouldn’t stop until he’d assured himself she wasn’t. She relaxed under the body of her attacker, her arms outstretched.

She heard him creep around the dead man and sensed the brightness of his torch beam on her closed eyes. With his foot, he shoved aside the body of his comrade and stood over her. Would he shoot her out of vengeance, or to be sure she was dead? Or would the wide patch of blood on her chest convince him? She held her breath and tried to remain motionless.

He kicked her once in the side. She stayed limp and he kicked her again. Surely he could hear the noise of her pounding heart.

But he stepped away and returned to his other prey. Sandrine called out again, “No…no…no.” He laughed again and said something in German.

Once again in the dark and freed of the weight of the dead man, Antonia rose silently. Slowly, soundlessly, she unlaced her boot, then crawled forward, as if in a nightmare of paralysis, and a vast amount of time seemed to pass.

Then she saw him, a dark shape on top of Sandrine. She fought him, thrashed under him, and he grunted.

In a flash Antonia was on his back, looping the wire shoelace over his head and around his throat. She yanked him backward and pulled with all her strength. He rose, clutching at the wire, twisted from side to side, trying to throw her off, and then, trapped by his pants around his legs, fell to his knees. Panting through clenched teeth, she straddled him and rode him like a bull. She thought of Celine, of Sandrine’s torture, of Rywka’s sobs for her child, and her grip hardened to iron.