Waiting for the Violins (9 page)

The woman returned carrying a man’s coat. “My husband says you can come in. So, umm, I guess you should tell us your name.”

“Sophie.” Antonia gave her code name.

“I’m Berta. And this is my husband, Albert.” Antonia stepped into the kitchen to confront a man sitting at the table. Like his wife, he was hard to place in age. His face was gaunt, with beard stubble, though he had the full head of hair of a young man. When he didn’t get up, she moved toward him and offered her hand. “Thank you for taking me in. I’ll try not to be a lot of trouble.”

He bent forward and shook her hand, and when he righted himself, she could see why he stayed seated. His right leg ended just below the knee. And on the floor under the table, just within reach, was a set of crutches. He glanced up at her matted hair. “Perhaps you would like to wash.”

“Oh, yes. I would love to. I’m afraid I smell like goats.” She touched her cheek and remembered that her face was still covered with camouflage grease. “And look like a monster.”

He smiled weakly. “We have no bathroom, only that.” He pointed toward a wide square sink that presumably served for all washing and laundry needs. “There’s hot water in the kettle. I’ll leave you to your privacy so you can bathe, and my wife will give you something dry to wear. Then you have to hide in the basement. The Germans come every day to requisition our eggs.”

“You are very kind.”

“Not kind. Just vengeful. I lost this leg last year to German shrapnel.” He groped under the table for his crutches and struggled to a standing position. “I wish we could do more for you, but we have the children to protect. It makes a man timid.” He hobbled toward the door of the other room.

Berta was already pumping cold water into a pitcher in the sink. She added boiling water from the kettle and tested the temperature of the mix. Satisfied, she drew a bottle of brown liquid from a shelf over the sink. “This is soap I make myself. Nothing like they have in Brussels, but it will clean.”

“Thank you. I’ll try not to use too much.”

Antonia unfolded her jumpsuit, transferring all the survival equipment from the pockets into the rucksack. “I need to destroy this.” She stood with the suit hanging over her arm. “Can you burn it, or should I bury it?”

“Give it here.” Berta laid the jumpsuit over the kitchen table and fetched a large pair of scissors from a drawer. “It won’t fit into the stove except in pieces,” she said, and began cutting it apart. When she’d reduced the garment to a pile of rags, she lifted the iron lid from the stovetop and fed the pieces one by one into the hole. Each section of the thick damp fabric smoked for a moment, then caught fire.

While it burned, Antonia tested the water in the pitcher and found it pleasantly hot. Leaning over the sink, she poured a portion of it over her head, then lathered her scalp thoroughly, stopping to pick out particles of leaf or straw. Probably worse things, she thought, recalling the goats. After the first rinse, she used the same soap to scrub the camouflage paint from her face and neck and then to scratch out the soil from under her fingernails.

She considered staying clothed, but she had never felt so dirty and couldn’t bear another moment of it. She unsnapped her money belt from around her midriff and then her brassiere, and with the remaining warm water, she scrubbed the grit from every place she could reach. Her nether regions would have to wait for more favorable conditions.

“Give me your clothes,” Berta said, and strung the articles on a line in front of the stove. “In the meantime, you can put on my husband’s coat.”

Antonia snapped on the money belt again and drew on the coat. It smelled of a man, though not unpleasantly.

“Can I come back in now?” Albert called through the door.

“Yes, please do.” Antonia buttoned the coat closed, then added her wet socks to the line of clothing over the stove.

Albert hobbled back into the room with a girl of about two next to him. One of her hands grasped the side of his trousers, while the other seemed attached to her mouth. “This is Elsbeth. The baby is with her grandmother.”

Antonia smiled at the child, who seemed baffled to see a complete stranger wearing her father’s coat.

“She’s precious. I’ll try not to endanger you and her very long. I just need to rest a bit and then get to Brussels, to the Rue des Bouchers. If I remember correctly, it’s close to the Grand Place, isn’t it?”

Berta hefted the child into a highchair while Albert, in spite of his handicap, insisted on pulling out a chair for Antonia. “Well, you’ll have no trouble finding the Grand Place. But Brussels is about five kilometers from here and nobody has a car.”

He paused and broke off a morsel of bread for his daughter. “You can get to the first tram stop in maybe half an hour by bicycle. But we have only one and can’t give it to you.”

“Albert, the parish curé has a bicycle. Two of them, in fact.” Berta brought the steaming pot of soup to the table. “And he’s sympathetic to anyone fighting the Germans.”

Albert nodded. “That might be a solution. I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, eat your soup and then go rest downstairs.” He began to slice bread as Berta ladled out the soup. Bean soup, Antonia noted and, after only a single meal of cold field rations since yesterday, it smelled heavenly.

*

Lighting her way with a lantern, Antonia descended the stairs to the cellar in her underwear and overcoat. The walls on all four sides were stone, joined by crumbling mortar. On the one side, shelves held preserves and empty jars; on the other side, a carpenter’s worktable stood looking neglected. In the corner, a broken easy chair, with a ragged blanket thrown over it, offered the only accommodation for sitting. Everything smelled of mold.

She slid her hand inside the coat to check that the money belt was secure. It was not only the money that she had to guard, but also her counterfeit ration cards and identification and baptismal certificates, artificially aged, all under the name of Sophie Lejeune. She’d soon find out how convincing they were.

The gloom around her reawakened the shock of the plane crash. The mission had seemed so brave, so promising. But now the lives of all those men were snuffed out, just like that, and she was crouching in a cellar at the mercy of strangers.

Turning the lantern flame low to save fuel, she waited. An hour, hour and a half, two hours. The inactivity caused her to doze.

She dreamed fitfully, of running to catch a train, which, upon her entering, proved to be a plane. She leapt from an open door and flew blissfully, high over what appeared to be the Paris of her youth, then awoke with a start at the sound of a woman’s voice.

A figure was silhouetted against the light. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I’ve brought your clothes. The curé is here now too.”

Berta handed over a pile of neatly folded garments that still retained a bit of warmth. “Clothes and daylight. That would be good. Thank you.”

She slipped on the skirt and sweater, feeling the pleasure of clean cloth against her skin.

“Your boots don’t really go with the clothing,” Berta said. “Didn’t they give you anything better?”

“No, these will have to do. Do you think I’ll attract attention?”

“Probably not. But take this. Sometimes they do just a quick search, so they feel like they’re doing their job and they don’t look any further.” She handed over an old purse, small, with a frayed strap and soiled leather. “It was my mother’s. She’s dead a long time now, but I’m sure she’d like you to use it.”

Antonia accepted it gratefully. She hadn’t thought about being searched, but now that she did, she drew her holster from her backpack and strapped it to her thigh under her skirt.

They were on the stairs now, and as she emerged into the light of the kitchen, the curé stood up to meet her. A slender, almost gaunt man, he wore a black cassock with an unbroken row of buttons from collar to hem. A biretta with a rather ragged pom lay on the table, and the white collar under the soutane was discolored. “Madam,” he said, taking her hand. His grip was firm.

“We are new at this, I mean in dealing with…um…visitors such as yourself,” he said without preliminary courtesies.

“First time for me too,” she replied weakly

“Yes, I suppose it is. Well, here’s the plan. You’ll travel on one of the bicycles to the first tram stop, which is at the end of the highway outside the village. I and a young lad from the parish will follow some distance behind you on the other one, but if you’re stopped we will turn away and leave you.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Ah, there he is now. Come in, Johann,” The priest stepped back as a boy of about fourteen came in and stood shyly near the kitchen door. “You must lock the bicycle near the tram stop,” he continued. “After the tram pulls away, we’ll fetch it and return. You should arrive in Brussels close to sunset but long before curfew.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper. “If you need a place to stay, go to this address. It’s not far from the Rue des Bouchers, which I understand is your destination. It’s owned by Christine Mathys, who lost her son in the fighting and has no love for the Germans. When last I heard, she had rooms available. If you’re able to pay some rent, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll be happy to pay it. I have Belgian francs.”

“All the better.”

The priest donned his biretta. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” She took hold of her pack. “All I have is this.”

“That will be—”

“Shit!” Albert sputtered suddenly, peering through the window. “The Germans are here. For the eggs. Come this way.” He snatched up his crutch and hobbled toward the door to another room.

Antonia lurched after him, though behind her the priest and his boy remained unperturbed.

He led her through the adjacent sitting room into a bedroom and threw open the window. “Wait until they’re in the kitchen. The curé will delay them a few minutes so you can get to the goat stall. Stay there until someone comes for you.” Without waiting for a reply, he limped back to the kitchen. He closed the bedroom door behind him, but as she slid one leg over the windowsill she could already hear German voices.

She scurried across the same yard she had arrived in that morning and saw the German motorcycle and sidecar. For the briefest moment she wondered if she could steal it, then realized it would mean a death sentence for her rescuers. She continued past the vehicle into the goat stall, which was as rank as the cart had been.

“Hi, kids,” she whispered to the two young animals, and snickered in spite of her fear. She stood pressed against the wall breathing through her mouth and hoped the egg transaction would be brief; she didn’t want to arrive in Brussels smelling of goat.

Finally she heard the two Germans emerge laughing from the house and start their motor. She waited for the sound to fade away, then crept from the stall. To her relief, the priest and the boy waited before the house, holding the handlebars of two bicycles.

Chapter Twelve

On the same morning as Antonia’s goat-cart rescue, Sandrine hurried toward the Café Suèdoise for an early meeting. Sixteen-year-old Celine kept pace beside her, leading her limping dachshund.

Sandrine still had misgivings about involving so young a girl in the operation. “Laura thinks you should stay in Marcouray where it’s safer, and I’m inclined to agree.”

“Look, I know what I’m getting into, so please don’t treat me like a child. Besides, I was already a courier for the maquis, so—”

She stopped abruptly, bringing Sandrine to a halt. Directly ahead of them were two of the countless German gendarmes that swept along the streets at all hours, making random identity checks.

One of the two gendarmes also halted. He stood with his feet wide apart, one thumb hooked in his belt, the other one cupping the sleek holster of his Lugar.

“You again,” he said, his face darkening. “I recognize that shitty little dog. It was you that got me demoted, you little bitch.”

Sandrine didn’t recognize him, but she remembered the incident. Was that all the punishment he got? Demotion? She took a step closer to confront him. “She didn’t get you in trouble. It was the governor general of Belgium who thought what you did was cowardly.”

His scowl ratcheted up a degree in intensity. “Who the hell are you to talk about cowardice? Your whole shit-country and its army is one big shithole of cowardice. Eighteen days, and you were on your knees.”

Sandrine’s voice turned to ice. “Our soldiers fought and died defending their own homes, and all you did was shoot a tiny dog.”

The gendarme’s eyes widened in rage.

“Come on, Heinz.” His companion took hold of his arm. “Don’t get yourself worked up again. It’s not worth it.”

Sandrine and Celine tried to pass around him, but he stepped sideward and blocked them again. “You’re going to pay for that, you bitch. Just wait…”

“Leave them, Heinz. Anything happens to them, you’ll just be in more trouble.”

“Oh, I won’t have to do anything.” He glowered at her. “But everyone breaks the rules some time, and you’ll break them too. Maybe you’ll steal a little fuel or buy on the black market. Maybe help someone avoid labor conscription. I’ll find out about it, and you’ll go down.”

He stepped back, to let them pass, then called after them, “I’ll be watching you.”

Sandrine took Celine’s arm and led her and Suzi down the alleyway to the service door of the café. “Don’t let him rattle you, dear. He’s just a blowhard. We just have to be a little more careful.” She didn’t sound terribly convincing, even to herself.

*

In the back room of the Café Suèdoise, Laura and Francis sat at the table that served as their business desk and turned at the sound of the door opening.

“Oh, good, you’re here.” Laura waved them over. “Francis has just been telling me how dire our finances are.”

Sandrine and Celine hung up their coats and unleashed the dog, who bounded over to be petted. Laura obliged her while Francis remained focused glumly on his account book.