Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (45 page)

“The problem is that the view from the lookout post on the highway bridge gives the Germans unobstructed observation for almost two kilometers down the main road. They will have plenty of time to spot an armored division moving up the road and to blow the bridge.”

Sam scowled. He seemed about to say something, but Jan continued.

“However, there’s another bridge, a much older one farther to the east, which Rolfmann referred to as the Pont van Enschodt.” Jan produced the map that Rolfmann had given him, which he had conveniently forgotten to return.

“I know the bridge,” Sam said, examining the map closely in the dim light.

“It’s not used very much except for local traffi c.”

“Well, it turns out that the Germans have pretty much discounted this bridge. They don’t think the Allies will use it because it’s out of the way and they may doubt that it would support the weight of their tanks.”

“Will it?”

“I took the opportunity to examine it quite closely. It’s very well constructed.

It’ll support the tanks. Rolfmann agrees with me, but he still doesn’t believe the Allies would attempt to use it. They’ve placed a few charges on it anyway, but they’re quite obvious and would be easy to dismantle. They’ve posted a few guards, but the sight lines from this bridge are obscured by buildings.”

“What are you suggesting?” Sam asked, examining the map.

“Someone must intercept the fi rst Allied units coming up from the south before they reach this intersection and warn them,” Jan said, pointing to a 308

Douglas W. Jacobson

location three kilometers south of the highway bridge. “The Allies should be directed to follow this older road to the east then turn north. They’d be out of sight until they were practically on top of the Pont van Enschodt. They could attack by surprise, take out the guards and get across the river on the older bridge.”

Sam was silent for a moment, staring at Jan. “If we have someone intercept them, will the Allied commanders listen? Will they take the person seriously?”

Jan nodded. “I’m an offi cer in an armored division. We’re trained to be fl exible and adapt to sudden changes in battle tactics. If whomever you send is credible and makes himself understood, they’ll listen. They’ll make their own decision, but they’ll listen.”

Sam folded the notes and diagrams, and slipped them into the breast pocket of his suit coat. “I’ve got to pass this information on right away. Time is short.

We’ve been receiving coded messages over the BBC to begin our fi nal preparations. The Allies could be here sooner than we thought, perhaps within the next few days.”

“That’ll catch the Germans off guard for sure,” Jan said. “They’re not expecting it so soon. I hope it’s true. One of the offi cers seems suspicious of me.

I’m not sure how much longer I can keep them fooled.”

Sam shook his head. “You know we can’t—”

Jan interrupted him. “
Oui, bien sûr.
I understand that.”

“There is one other thing you must know,” Sam said. “It just came up. As you arrived, I was talking with a young man. I’m sure you spotted him.”

“Oui.”

“He came to warn me that the Gestapo is hunting for me. They came to the home of a White Brigade operative in Merksem.”

“Was he arrested?”

“
Non,
and I’m sure that was intentional. They’ll be watching his movements very closely, though he may not be going anywhere for awhile because the boy said they broke his collarbone.”

Jan winced.

Sam continued. “We will not meet again until this is over. I’ll have to remain off the streets until the action starts. If you discover anything else that you think we need to know, go to the Café Brig between eight and ten o’clock any Night of Flames

309

night. It’s just over there, on the street facing the dock. Go to the bar and ask for a Trappist Ale from Liege. They won’t have it, so take any beer and have a seat. You’ll be contacted. It’s a last resort backup. Don’t use it unless you think it’s critical.”

“Je comprends,”
Jan said.

Sam paused and looked into Jan’s eyes. “There’s one more job you’ll have to do. As soon as you hear that the Allies have crossed that bridge and are about to enter the city, you must fi nd the telephone lines coming into their headquarters building and cut them. They’re probably in a utility room of some sort in the lower level.”

Jan nodded. “Then what?”

“White Brigade Resistance fi ghters will lead the fi rst Allied units through the city. They will guide them to the park and the headquarters building. Stay in the building, or close by, and surrender to any Allied offi cer. Tell them you’re with the White Brigade, and they are to take you to Antoine.”

“Antoine?”

“That’s all you need to know. Tell them to take you to Antoine. With any luck, they’ll know what to do.”

“I certainly hope so,” Jan said with a thin smile. “At least I’m not wearing a German uniform so they may not shoot me on sight.”

The two men shook hands and walked off in opposite directions.

Chapter 62

On the third day of Anna’s strange imprisonment, Otto fi nally consented to take her outside the house. It was early afternoon, and she had just fi nished another fi ne meal prepared by the massive man who was her jailer and private chef. She felt much better after three days of good food, soap and water, and fresh clothing, sleazy and garish as it was. Though the dread of Koenig’s return was like a rock in her gut, the lethargy and mental dullness induced by the horror of Drancy had subsided and she was able to think more clearly.

They stepped onto the wooden porch, and Otto indicated that she should sit in one of the two wicker chairs. Then he placed a handcuff on her right wrist and clamped the other cuff around the arm of the chair.

Anna gave him a coy smile. “Is that really necessary, Otto? If I tried to run away you could shoot me before I’d taken ten steps.” She gestured toward the pistol that was perpetually strapped around his waist.

He didn’t respond.

“Ah, ja . . . natürlich,”
Anna said. “If Koenig returned and found that you’d shot his little concubine, that wouldn’t be so good for you, would it?”

He stood, leaning against one of the pillars that supported the overhang, arms crossed over his mammoth chest and looked away.

The sun was warm and the tall grass in the meadow was waving in the soft breeze. Beyond the meadow was the dense forest that Anna remembered driving through when they arrived. She considered Otto and wondered what this man must think of the demented Koenig—or was he just as bad and she hadn’t found out yet?

So far Anna had been unsuccessful in her attempts to engage him in any Night of Flames

311

type of conversation, but she knew she had to keep trying. If she had any chance of escaping, it had to be before Koenig returned. “Where did you learn to cook?” she asked, hoping to get more than a one-word answer.

Otto appeared startled by the question. He hesitated then said, “From my mother . . . when I was a boy. We had a large family and my father died when I was young. I had to help out.”

“Well, she taught you very well. The food
ist wunderbar.
”

He nodded, uncertainly.

“So, where is your home?” Anna asked

“Munich.”

Anna smiled at him. “I’ve been to Munich, once, with my father. It’s a beautiful city.”

He nodded again.

“What did you do before the war?” she asked, still probing, hoping to fi nd some way to reach him.

“Polizei.”

“So, I suppose that’s why they made you a Feldgendarme. Do you enjoy your work?”

His face darkened. He turned away again. It was obvious she had struck a nerve.

“I’m sorry, Otto. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I enjoyed being a policeman,” he said, staring out over the meadow. “This is different.”

“Being at war you mean?”

He shrugged. “War is war. But the rest is different, not like being a policeman.”

They remained in silence for several minutes. Clearly, something was eating at him, Anna thought. “How long were you at Drancy, Otto?”

He turned slowly, glaring at her, his eyes narrowed. Then he abruptly reached over, unlocked the handcuff and led her back to her room.

The next day rain spattered on the roof as Anna sat at the table fi nishing the breakfast Otto had prepared. As usual, he sat across from her sipping coffee but not eating. When she fi nished, Anna expected that he would order her back to her room, but he just sat there and stared at her for a long time.

312

Douglas W. Jacobson

Finally, he set down the coffee cup and folded his hands on the table. “Why were you at Drancy?” he asked. “You don’t look like
ein Jude.
”

The thought of giving an honest answer to a German Feldgendarme was so foreign to everything that had been ingrained into Anna’s soul over the last fi ve years that she could scarcely bring herself to speak. Yet, there was something about this man. Something that suggested he wasn’t just trying to pry information out of her. “No, I’m not Jewish,” Anna said. “I was helping American and British aviators get back to Britain, and I got caught.”

Otto raised his bushy eyebrows, and Anna thought she detected the slight-est hint of a smile. “So, I don’t suppose your name is really Jeanne Laurent, then, is it?”

“No, it’s Anna Kopernik.” As she said this Anna realized she hadn’t spoken her last name out loud in fi ve years.

“Kopernik?” Otto mumbled. “That doesn’t sound—”

“It’s Polish . . . I’m from Krakow.”

Otto shifted in his chair, his dark eyes fi xed on her, but it appeared as though he were seeing through her, back to another time and another place.

He walked over to the sink, rinsed out his cup and leaned against the counter with his back to her, his broad shoulders twitching. He was silent for a minute then spoke in a low, gravelly whisper. “I was a guard at Auschwitz.”

Anna closed her eyes and a tingling ran up her spine. She had heard the name whispered among the prisoners at Drancy. There were stories, rumors, about a Nazi death camp at a town near Krakow called Oswiecim. The Germans had renamed it
Auschwitz.

“When were you there?” Anna whispered.

“1943. Then I was transferred to Drancy.”

Anna took a deep breath. It’s now or never, she thought. “Otto? Look at me.”

The big man turned toward her. His eyes were glassy.

“Otto, it’s not your fault. You were following orders, weren’t you? If you didn’t, they’d have killed you, wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe they should have,” he said.

Anna stood up and carried her plate and cup to the sink. She had never done this before. She looked up at him, not sure how far she could push this but knowing she might not have another opportunity.

Night of Flames

313

“There’s still time, Otto?”

“Time?”

“There’s still time . . . for some good to come out of this.”

He was silent. Anna could see he was trying to understand.

“You could help me, Otto.”

Suddenly, he stood up straight, his giant frame towering over her. He took a step back.

“We could leave now, before Koenig returns. You’re a Feldgendarme, you could get us to the border and we’d fi nd a way—”

“Nein!”
he growled, backing away another step. “I’ve said too much. Forget everything I told you. It’s impossible.”

“Otto, please, listen. I—”

“Nein!”

He grabbed her arm with a thick hand and pulled her to the door of the bedroom. He pushed her inside, slammed it shut and locked it.

Chapter 63

The British Eleventh Armored Division was moving so fast that Captain Steve Bradley, tank commander, Third Royal Tank Regiment, had diffi culty keeping up with their position on his map.

Charging through the French countryside, they crossed the Seine on August 28, and two days later reached Amiens. They crossed the Somme the next day, and by September 2 they were at Lille, where they dipped slightly to the southeast, crossed into Belgium near Tournai and spent the next day heading north.

As they clanked along on the narrow, dusty roads, Bradley was amazed at the lack of serious opposition. The terrain was incredibly fl at, and they constantly crossed small bridges over narrow canals where they should have been easy targets. Perhaps it was because they followed minor roads through small villages that they escaped detection but, whatever the reason, Bradley was thankful for the respite. He had been at Caen and at the Falaise Gap and had seen enough bloodshed for a lifetime.

On the night of September 3, in the fl ickering light of a kerosene lantern, Bradley examined the map another time. Word had just come down that tomorrow they would push into Antwerp.

At seven o’clock, on the evening of September 3, Willy Boeynants sat in the meeting room in the cellar of the Café Brig with Antoine and fi ve other offi -

cers of the White Brigade. The group was silent as they listened to the French language broadcast on the BBC. The string of coded messages began. Most of the messages were meaningless, intended to confuse the German agents who Night of Flames

315

were always listening. But others delivered instructions to agents of Resistance organizations who knew what to listen for.

The radio crackled a few times, and Boeynants strained to hear. Antoine held up his hand and leaned toward the radio as the announcer spoke in a dull monotone.

“Pour François la lune est clair.”

The Resistance leader slapped his hand on the table and looked around at his compatriots, his dark eyes gleaming. “That’s it! ‘For Francois the moon is bright.’ That’s the fi nal signal. They’ll be here within twenty-four hours. You all know what to do. Let’s get moving.”

One by one the White Brigade offi cers slipped on their armbands and left the café, dispersing throughout the city to initiate the call to action. Plans developed over the past two years would be thrust into motion. Units of armed White Brigade fi ghters would move into positions along the River Schelde, prepared to harass the movement of German troops stationed in defensive fortifi cations on the west bank. Other White Brigade units would set up locations along the roads leading into the city, while still others would take strategic posts along the Albert Canal.