Waiting for the Violins (8 page)

Two men emerged from the hangar wheeling a handcart that held their suitcases and wireless kit. With a brief salute to the squadron leader, they slid the three items into the tail section of the aircraft, attaching them to a static line that would open their shared parachute.

The flight crew of pilot, navigator, and radio operator saluted as well before climbing aboard to prepare the flight.

“Off you go now, chaps.” The squadron leader shook both their hands again and clapped them once on their shoulders. “Godspeed.”

Antonia gripped the sides of the entry hatch and threaded herself inside, along with her bulky parachute. Once inside, she moved in a crouch to the center of the refitted bomber. She sat down and drew up her knees to make room for Lew to squat next to her. Directly behind him came the dispatcher, who would accompany them as far as the landing zone before returning with the flight crew.

The plane engines began, preventing any talk between them. They squatted in a compartment separated by a wall from the cockpit. Only the dispatcher had a headset for communication with the crew. While they taxied to the runway, he hooked her parachute to the automatic rip-cord system in the plane.

The dispatcher said something into his headset, and a minute later, with a roar of the engines, the plane lifted off the runway.

They had no porthole to look through at the night sky or the ground below, but Antonia found the isolation a sort of comfort. She didn’t want to be reminded of the darkness she would have to leap into over an unknown place.

It was cold inside the fuselage, and she shivered in spite of the woolen clothing she wore underneath. When the dispatcher handed her a sleeping bag and gestured that she should try to sleep, she slid awkwardly but gratefully into it. She was far too nervous to sleep, but welcomed the extra layer of warmth.

Slouched over her parachute pack amidst the roar and with nothing to do but wait, she was left prey to her wandering thoughts. How had she ended up here?

What would her parents have thought if they were still alive? Her father would certainly have been proud, but dear sweet Mum would’ve been in a panic. After all, in a few hours, her life would be on the line. At least that had been Dora’s argument as she’d slipped into bed with Antonia the night before. Dora herself was scheduled to be shipped out the same evening as Antonia, somewhere into France.

“This could be our last night alive. Don’t you want to make it a sweet one?” she’d cajoled, sliding a warm hand inside Antonia’s pajama pants.

The insinuating touch was like a charge of electricity that spread immediately upward to her sex. She would never have considered Dora or anyone at the school as a lover, but that night, the chasm of uncertainty that lay before both of them and Dora’s warm lips on her throat made an irresistible argument.

Dora was certainly skillful. Or perhaps, after the long dry spell since Dunkirk, Antonia was just unusually receptive. Whatever the reason, she returned Dora’s kisses ardently as the delinquent hand moved quickly from caresses to invasion. After the first shock of penetration, Antonia had been awash in simple lust. Within moments, she climaxed, and before the heat of orgasm had subsided, she slid halfway over Dora and returned the favor.

Afterward, they had both simply said “Good night,” and Dora had returned to her bed. Curiously, or perhaps obviously, Antonia had fallen asleep immediately, quietly resigned to her fate, whatever it was.

But now sleep was nowhere near. She did a rundown of what she needed to know to stay alive and undetected after leaving the plane: how to maneuver the chute to avoid treetops or water, how to tuck and roll upon landing, and how to bury her chute and overalls.

Under the roar of the airplane engine she detected a softer sound, and she smiled. Lew was snoring as if by a cozy winter fire. The big lug. She was confident that if they were captured, he’d hold out against the enemy and would be an inspiration.

She wiggled her fingers, practicing the codes for the reports she would be sending back. Her code name, Sophie Lajeune, was amusing, and gave no information about her except that she liked the opera
Rosenkavalier
.

A soft tap on her shoulder startled her. It was the dispatcher with a tin cup of tea.

She took off her gloves, warming her hands on the cup while she sipped, and tasted a good shot of rum in the tea. Rum that had been calming British sailors since the days of the tall ships comforted her now.

Lew was awake too, and when they handed back their mugs to the dispatcher, he signaled that they were almost at the drop zone. Slated to jump first, she checked all the buckles on her chute, tightened the strap on her jump helmet, and clambered toward the open hatch.

Her chute-release cord slid along the pipe over her head, and she stood with legs wide apart over the hatch opening, watching with dread as the dull-gray patches of ground slid by. The dispatcher tapped her again on the shoulder, pointing to the rip cord attached to the static line, reassuring her that all was well. She turned her attention to the signal box, waiting for the red light to turn green.

Tiny white lights sparkled on the ground below; a fraction of a second later she heard the detonation. Flak cannons. Her heart thudded with fear. They’d been spotted. In that instant the light turned green and the dispatcher shoved her out of the plane.

Scarcely two seconds after she plunged into darkness, the rip cord yanked her to a virtual standstill, and she began floating downward with a wild lateral sway. She tried to tilt her head upward and search the sky for Lew’s parachute, but the wind whipped her around and she had to look down to prepare for the landing.

As she struck ground and rolled over on her back, she saw one of the flak shells strike the fuselage. It belched out a spray of fire from its engine, then spiraled downward with a metallic scream and crashed into a distant field.

Dear God. Five men dead in an instant. Or had any gotten out? She saw no other chutes, only the distant red glow of the burning aircraft.

Not enough time to wonder. She was alone. No mission leader, no wireless radio, nothing but a compass, a side arm, and the contents in the pockets of her overalls.

She had surely been seen jumping from the plane, so there was no point wasting time burying her chute. She unhooked the straps, stepped out of them, and with the sound of men shouting in the distance, she ran full out for the nearest line of trees.

*

The spade proved useful after all, as she made her way to the center of a copse of trees where the soil was damp and loose. Sheer terror gave her strength and she frantically dug a shallow pit, just deep enough for her in her bulky jumpsuit. Lying on her back, she swept loose soil and underbrush back over herself, covering her face with the jump helmet. In her free hand, she held her revolver over her chest. If they found her, she would take at least one of them out with her.

The dirt and brush muffled all sound so she could hear nothing until they were literally on top of her. She felt the pressure of someone walk right over her legs and then back again. She held her breath, and even when the dull buzz of voices was gone, she remained under the dirt, breathing slowly into her helmet.

But however slowly she breathed, the oxygen was soon depleted and she began to feel drowsy. Fearing asphyxiation, she lifted her head and gasped in air, holding her pistol at chin level.

She tensed, fearing a boot or a bullet, but she felt only the dirt trickle from her collar down her back. The men were still within hearing range, but they were apparently headed away from her. She took a deep breath and tried to see around her.

The full moon shone through the branches with deceptive serenity. She knew the men had seen her come down, and her abandoned parachute made it clear she was alive and in the vicinity. They wouldn’t give up until they’d captured her.

Crawling toward the edge of the thicket, she surveyed the field in front of her. In the bright moonlight every protuberance was clearly visible in silvery blue and black shadow. Behind another row of trees an orange glow showed where the plane was still burning. On the south and west, dark patches of woods.

How many men were searching for her? If only two or three, she had a chance to evade them, as long as she kept to the shadows. Brushing the soil from her overalls, she made her way along the line of trees in the opposite direction from the voices. She kept her pistol in one hand and grappled with the underbrush with the other.

She forced herself onward, in spite of aching muscles and the accumulation of dirt inside her clothing. At the corner of the field was a barn, but she dared not hide in it. It would be the first place they’d search in the morning. She staggered onward, moving from copse to copse, and tree to tree, never stepping out into the moonlight.

After what seemed like the entire night, she took the risk of crouching over her wrist and flashing her torch on her watch for the briefest second. It was four in the morning. She’d been running for over two hours and didn’t have much strength left.

She chose another secluded place in a wooded patch and dug a second pit, deep enough to reach to her shoulders when she crouched in it. For her head, she gathered loose branches and leaves and wove them into each other to create a primitive roof. Satisfied with her cover, she set it aside and climbed into the pit. While every part of her hurt, her strongest sensation now was thirst.

She took a long pull on her water flask and, risking the brief use of her torch once again, she studied the other emergency rations. Besides the “compo-meal” for which she had no appetite, she found packets of salt, matches, service chocolates, powdered tea, a tiny block of soap, and toilet paper.

Ah, yes. That reminded her. That one last thing.

She struggled out of her hidey-hole and found a spot some ten paces away. Using her spade, she dug another hole. Then she undid her overalls, discovering in the process how filthy they were, and relieved herself with a quiet sigh. The toilet paper was rough but she was grateful it had been included, and when the business was done, she carefully covered the pit again, pressing the dirt down flat with her boot.

With that taken care of, she returned to her hiding pit. She gathered the branches and brush over her and settled into something approximating the fetal position, holding her holstered pistol to her chest like a lethal teddy bear.

She brooded for a while on her plight, with a mixture of fear, sorrow for Lew and the other good men who’d just lost their lives to the war, and an unfocused anger at the Nazis who’d caused it all.

Bastards
,
she thought. Murderous bastards. Then, in spite of the damp and the discomfort, and the sensation of being filthy, she succumbed to her exhaustion and fell asleep.

Chapter Eleven

Antonia was jolted awake by the bleating of a goat. She held her breath, gripping her gun to her chest. Agonizing minutes passed until she heard the bleating a second time, this time right over her head, and a moment later, a hand pulled away her brush cover. Pointing her gun out in front of her, she looked up into the face of a terrified woman.

“Please! Don’t shoot! I have babies at home.” The woman cowered, holding a kid goat to her chest as if it were one of them.

“No, of course I won’t. I’m sorry.” Antonia returned the gun to its holster and climbed out of her hole. The woman looked to be about thirty, had mousy brown hair drawn back into a single braid, and wore a tattered blue-patterned dress and jacket.

They stood as if paralyzed, facing each other, and the sound of the pattering rain all around them seemed suddenly loud.

“Is anyone else on the road with you?” Antonia asked.

“No. I just bought two goats and was bringing them home. One got out.” She pointed with her head toward the road, and Antonia stepped forward to look. In fact, a mule-drawn cart waited on the shoulder of the road holding straw and another goat.

“English?” the woman asked.

Given that she was hiding in a hole in jump overalls and with her face painted green, asserting she was Belgian would be ludicrous. “Yes. Can you help me? At least a better place to hide.” Antonia clutched her own shivering shoulders. “Out of the rain.”

The woman looked around nervously and hesitated, it seemed, for an eternity. “All right. Come on. Under the straw, but hurry.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” She dropped her jump helmet into the damp hole and spread the loose underbrush over it. The woman was back on the road now, urging the errant goat into the cart, and Antonia hurried toward her.

She climbed in next to the kid, and the woman covered her with armloads of straw. After bleating a brief protest, the goats resumed nibbling on it, and, a moment later, the cart jerked into motion. She pressed her eyes shut against the dust of the straw and the foul-smelling grit on the cart floor, but all of it adhered to her damp hair and skin.

The ride over the pitted road was a test of endurance, but after what seemed like an hour, the cart stopped. A gate creaked, and then they moved again, this time rocking violently from side to side. A yard, she guessed, with even bigger potholes.

The gate creaked closed again, and the goat hooves thumped lightly as the woman untied them and led them off the cart. Then the straw over Antonia’s head parted to reveal daylight.

“Please, wait for me by the door.”

“Gladly.” Antonia climbed over the side of the cart onto the thick mud of the yard. She glanced around while her rescuer unhitched the mule and led it into a stall. The yard was open to the rain, but on one side a covered area protected half a dozen chickens, and on the other, an elevated hutch presumably housed several rabbits.

The woman opened a door leading from the barn area to the house and frowned as she studied Antonia’s squalid state. “Please wait outside. I’ll bring you something to put on.”

Antonia stood obediently in a sort of vestibule, but the smell of boiled potatoes suggested she was right outside the kitchen. She unlaced her boots and yanked them off, along with the wet wool socks inside. Grateful for the warmth surrounding her, she also peeled off her filthy overalls and stood in equally wet but at least unmuddied women’s clothing. But she stank, and the rucksack she’d unrolled from her back was damp and malodorous as well.