Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (51 page)

He darted behind a truck. The gunner blew out its windshield, and Jan bolted away, sprinting across the other cobblestone lanes. He dashed into a side street as the machine gun ripped up the sidewalk behind him.

Catching his breath, Jan spotted the metal plaque on the corner of the building bearing the street name. He could just barely make it out in the gloom:
Frans de l’Arbrelaan.
He had memorized Boeynants’s map. Beukenhofstraat was two streets away.

Unteroffi zier Karl Dietrich ground out his cigarette in the muddy trench and shuddered at the concussion of the shelling. He guessed the Brits were trying to retreat back across the canal. This salvo was landing to the south, along the canal, but it still shook the ground and broke windows along Beukenhofstraat.

Dietrich fi gured he was secure for the time being. He and Bucholz had dug the trench the night before and concealed it so well that a passerby on the street wouldn’t even know it was there. Although he had a clear view for the entire length of Beukenhofstraat and Frans de l’Arbrelaan, he hadn’t seen a soul since they arrived.

Until now.

The movement startled him. In front of the row houses, fi fty meters up Beukenhofstraat, a shadowy fi gure was darting away from him. Dietrich couldn’t imagine how the son-of-a bitch had gotten past him.

He nudged Bucholz, but the lazy bastard didn’t move. How he could sleep through the shelling was a mystery. Dietrich peered over the top of the trench and stared into the gloom.

He spotted the fi gure again, crouched low, moving in spurts.

Dietrich wiped the raindrops off the telescopic sight of the Mauser K98

sniper rifl e. It didn’t help a lot in the dark—but he could see well enough.

The fi gure appeared to be dressed in black, wearing what looked like a Night of Flames

353

beret. Dietrich wiped his eyes and peered through the sight again. A tree was in the way. He waited, breathing slowly, grinding his right foot into the mud.

The shelling was slacking off.

The fi gure moved again and disappeared into a shadow.

Dietrich cursed under his breath but kept watching. His fi nger caressed the trigger.

The fi gure emerged from the shadow and took a few steps then paused, looking around.

Dietrich had a clear view. He squeezed the trigger.

The gun recoiled, the shot reverberating like a thunderbolt off the brick walls of the homes lining the street.

The fi gure spun around and stumbled backward . . . then slumped to the ground.

Chapter 71

Auguste, Elise and Justyn hunkered down in the cellar the night the shelling started as rumors spread through the connecting tunnels that British troops had crossed the canal. All the next day they heard sporadic gunfi re then, late on the second night, the shelling started again. It lasted about an hour and, just as it was slacking off, they were jarred by the unmistakable
crack
of a high-powered rifl e very nearby.

At noon the following day, Justyn was helping Auguste to the table for their daily portion of weak soup and stale bread when he heard a shuffl ing sound.

The curtain covering the passageway to the adjoining house parted, and Leo van Ginderen stepped into the dimly lit cellar with a neighbor from down the street. His name was Jo Philips. He looked pale and unsteady.

Elise set the pot of soup on the table and went to him. “Jo, what is it. What’s happened?”

“Last night . . . the gunshot . . . did you hear it?”

“Ja, ja natuurlijk,”
she said. “Come and sit.”

He went on as though he hadn’t heard her. “The shot was so close, so loud.

I looked out the window. I saw him lying there . . . right in front of our door.”

“What?” Auguste exclaimed. “A man was shot in front of your door?”

Jo Philips nodded, his hands shook and he clasped them together.

Justyn’s eyes darted around. He was concentrating hard to follow the conversation in Flemish.

Philips continued. “I opened the door and dragged him inside,” he said.

“I don’t know why . . . I just did. He was bleeding . . . there was blood everywhere.” He continued on, talking rapidly, hardly looking at them. “I sent my Night of Flames

355

son to Leo and they fetched a doctor. The man was unconscious when the doctor arrived . . . he cleaned the wound . . . said the bullet passed right through

. . . told us to watch him . . . to call if a fever . . .”

Philips stopped and stared at the fl oor. No one said anything for a moment then Philips said, “He had no identifi cation card on him. He’s a big man, broad shoulders, blond . . . my wife said he looks like a German and we should put him back in the street.”

Elise gripped a chair and sat heavily. “
Mijn God,
a German?”

Philips shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. He was awake this morning, for a short time but he’s drifted off again.” Philips took a breath. “The man was able to speak . . . only a few words in French. Fortunately, my daughter was there and she understood.” Philips turned to Auguste. “He asked for you.”

Auguste stared at him. “What?”

Philips swallowed hard then turned to Justyn. “He asked for you as well.”

Elise gasped and covered her face with her hands. “The Gestapo.”

They all started to talk at once, but van Ginderen held up his hand. “Wait, there’s more. Tell them, Jo.”

They fell silent.

“The man asked for his shoes,” Philips said. “He was very weak; we could hardly hear him. My daughter bent down close. He told her to look in his shoe.

There was something there, wrapped in a piece of brown paper.”

“What was it?” Auguste blurted out.

“It was this.” Philips removed a small item from his shirt pocket and held it out. It was wrapped in paper. “He said to give it to Justyn.”

They watched in surprise as Justyn took the thin packet. He held it for a long time then slowly unwrapped it with trembling hands. The brown paper fell on the table, and Justyn stared at the item lying in his palm.

“Justyn, what is it?” Elise whispered. “Do you recognize it?”

Justyn’s throat was dry. He tried to speak but couldn’t. He laid the item on the table. It was a tattered red and white fabric patch.

Auguste put a hand on Justyn’s shoulder. “What is this? Have you seen it before?”

Justyn’s eyes fi lled with tears. He coughed and took a breath, trying to compose himself. “It’s the . . . insignia . . . of the Wielkopolska Cavalry Brigade.”

They all stared at him. He knew they didn’t understand.

356

Douglas W. Jacobson

“You said he’s a big man,” Justyn said to Philips, “with broad shoulders . . .

and blond hair.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said.”

Justyn looked at Auguste and Elise through blurry eyes. “It’s Jan. It’s Anna’s husband . . . Jan.”

Chapter 72

A week had passed since Anna buried Koenig’s body in the woods, and she was desperate to leave. During the last few days she heard intermittent rumbles like distant thunder from an approaching storm. She knew it wasn’t thunder; but a storm was approaching—a storm of Allied troops descending on Germany.

Every day she stayed in the isolated house Anna felt more vulnerable.

German aircraft fl ew over the area several times a day, and the growl of heavy vehicles moving along the nearby roads drifted in when the wind was right. She was certain that a German patrol would show up at the house at any moment.

She stood on the front porch, clutching a cup of tea, and heard Otto shuffl ing through the parlor. She went inside to help him. He had been getting a little stronger each day and could walk from room to room for ten or fi fteen minutes at a time before he would have to sit and rest. As she entered the house, he motioned for her to hold the door open.

“I’d like to go outside and get some fresh air,” he said.

Anna thought his color was better today, and he wasn’t wincing in pain quite so often.

Otto stepped out on the porch and leaned against the railing, breathing heavily. He cocked his head to one side and listened to the muted, thunder-like reports.

“How far away is it?” Anna asked.

“Quite a ways, still west of Aachen, for sure.” He turned to face her, a twinge of pain in his eyes. “We should get going. We’ll leave fi rst thing in the morning.”

358

Douglas W. Jacobson

Anna was surprised. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“
Ja.
I’m sure that I’m strong enough to drive a car. Hopefully that’s all I need to do. Have you found your passport?”

“
Nein.
That’s a problem, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I’m still a Feldgendarme, and until someone fi gures out what happened we should be able to bluff our way through.”

The thought made her nauseated. “Bluff our way through where?”

“Aachen. If we can get to Aachen . . .”

“What? Go into a German city with no identifi cation?”

Otto laid a big hand on her wrist. “Trust me, it’s the safest way. It’s a big city, and we’ll be less conspicuous than if we try to approach the border out in the countryside.” He glanced into the sky as they both heard another low rumbling. “But we can’t delay any longer.”

They were up early the next morning. Anna had hardly slept all night, but she was wide-awake with anticipation. She prepared a hearty breakfast, realizing there was no telling when they might see another meal. Afterward Anna carried a basket of fruit and bread out to Koenig’s Mercedes. She helped Otto into his uniform, and he lumbered off to the car, squeezing behind the wheel.

Anna went back into the house for one last look around, making sure she had removed any traces of their presence. She walked through the kitchen and took one last look in the bedroom. It was fortunate that she did. Koenig’s handgun was still on the bureau. She had wanted to bury it in the woods with the other things, but Otto insisted on taking it along. She put it in the small bag she was carrying then walked to the front of the house, desperate to leave the memory of Dieter Koenig behind.

She opened the front door and froze. A car was coming up the driveway. She backed away from the door and peered out the front window.

The car stopped and two SS offi cers got out. She recognized the one who had been driving. It was Mueller.

Anna pressed her back against the wall, closed her eyes for a few seconds to compose herself, then peeked out the window again.

Mueller approached Koenig’s car. The front door of the house was still open, and she could hear what was being said.

“
Guten Morgen,
Otto. Are you going somewhere?”

Night of Flames

359

“Hauptsturmfuhrer Koenig asked me to drive him to Aachen this morning.”

“Aachen? He disappears for a week and now he’s going to Aachen, when he’s overdue to report back to Berlin?”

“I don’t know, sir. I just do what I’m told,” Otto said.

“
Ja,
I’m sure you do . . . like the good cretin that you are.” Mueller turned to the other offi cer. “Koenig’s been so busy fucking his brains out for the last week that he can’t remember his own orders. Let’s go see if he’s left anything for us.”

Otto opened the car door. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir.” His voice was strained.

“Why not? He hasn’t killed her yet, has he?”

“
Nein,
it’s just that . . . he might be . . . you know . . . busy.”

Mueller waved him off and headed for the house, motioning for his partner to follow. “All the better,” he said, laughing. “She’ll be all warmed up for us.”

Otto struggled to get out of the car. With his right hand, he fumbled to extract his gun from the holster. The pain was wrenching, and he was only about halfway out when a thunderous gunshot roared from the house.

Ignoring the pain, Otto pulled himself out of the car.

Mueller was on the porch. He staggered backward and spun around, clutching a gaping hole in his chest. He collapsed into the other SS offi cer, and they both fell down the porch steps landing with a thud on the gravel.

The other offi cer pushed Mueller’s body away and scrambled to his knees, reaching for his gun.

Otto looked up and saw Anna standing in the doorway, holding Koenig’s gun in both hands, smoke wafting from the barrel.

She pointed the gun at the other offi cer and fi red, striking him in the thigh.

The offi cer screamed and rolled on his side, still trying to jerk his gun from the holster.

Otto pulled out his gun and started toward the fallen SS offi cer, but Anna ran down the steps and fi red again at point-blank range.

Chapter 73

As the battle for the port wore on, Justyn felt the noose tightening around the neck of Merksem. Every night he listened to the reports of neighbors on Beukenhofstraat as they snuck back and forth through the tunnels. Wehrmacht soldiers patrolled the streets enforcing marshal law. Residents were restricted to their homes. Schools and businesses were closed, bakeries and butcher shops shut down. People became desperate, and rumors spread about a fl our mill and warehouse near the canal stocked with food for German troops. Night raids were attempted, and the streets were littered with corpses.

Through all of this, Justyn rarely left Jan’s bedside. He changed his bandages and wiped perspiration from his face with damp cloths. But mostly he just sat by the bed and looked at him, thinking, recalling those days in Krakow, kicking a ball in the park. Jan didn’t seem as big as Justyn remembered, and he looked older, his face pinched. Justyn twisted one of the cloths in his hands and thought about the last time he had seen Jan—and his father. They were in uniform, at the train station. His father had run a hand through Justyn’s black curly hair and kissed him on the forehead, whipering to him to be brave, that he’d be back soon. Now Jan was here . . . but his father wasn’t.

On the third day of their reunion, Jan’s fever broke and he became more lucid. Justyn brought him tea and thin soup made from the few remaining vegetables. Jan was able to lift his head and talk, though his voice was hoarse and he was weak from loss of blood.