Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (53 page)

On the Antwerp side of the canal it was quieter. Having been liberated for more than a month, the euphoria had subsided and people had set to the task of rebuilding their lives. In the early afternoon, Willy Boeynants sat at a table in the Café Brig sipping a beer and reading the newspaper, which had just resumed publication.

On the front page was an article about a mysterious explosion, two days ago, destroying several houses in the community of Brasschaat, eight kilometers northeast of Antwerp. The article went on. Yesterday, another explosion, this one in Antwerp, on Schilderstraat. A dozen people were killed, and an eye-witness reported seeing something “just dropping out of the sky.” Boeynants knew what was happening. Jan had told him about his mission to Poland.

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The V-2 had arrived.

He tossed the paper aside and took another sip of beer. It was still the same watery, tasteless brew, but he didn’t notice. Nor did he concern himself any further with the V-2 attacks. There was nothing that could be done except to end the war, and that was in the hands of others.

Boeynants had other things on his mind. He had spent nearly every hour of the last week trying to fi nd a trace of Anna and had come up empty-handed.

Frustrated and disheartened, he glanced at his watch. It was quarter to two. He tossed some coins on the table and left.

Fifteen minutes later, Boeynants sat in a conference room with a dozen other people at the Antwerp City Hall, waiting for a meeting to begin with the British SOE. The British had wanted Antoine to attend, but the White Brigade leader and his forces were with the Second Canadian Division, pursuing the Germans in the Schelde estuary, fi fty kilometers north of Antwerp.

At precisely two o’clock a portly, disheveled man entered the room and introduced himself as Colonel Stanley Whitehall. Boeynants was curious. He had never met Whitehall, but he knew that he had been the one who had selected Jan to impersonate Ernst Heinrich. It had also been Whitehall who had selected Jan for the V-2 mission in Poland.

Toward the end of the meeting Whitehall informed the group that a German Gestapo agent had been captured by the British and was being held in Antwerp. The Gestapo agent had decided to cooperate and had given up a signifi cant amount of information having to do with the arrests of Comet Line agents. When Whitehall mentioned the agent’s name, Boeynants felt a knot in his stomach. It was Rolf Reinhardt.

After the meeting, Boeynants lingered behind and, when the others had left, he approached Whitehall who was stuffi ng papers into his briefcase.

“Colonel Whitehall, may I have a word with you?”

The heavyset man peered at Boeynants over the top of his glasses. “Of course,” he said, glancing around the empty meeting room. “Please, take a seat, Mr. Boeynants.”

“Colonel, do you know a Polish offi cer by the name of Jan Kopernik?”

Whitehall appeared startled. He didn’t respond.

Boeynants went on. “I was the sole contact with Colonel Kopernik while he was impersonating Ernst Heinrich inside the German garrison in Antwerp.”

“Yes, I know Colonel Kopernik.” Whitehall paused. “Did he . . . ?”

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“He survived the mission,” Boeynants said.

Whitehall looked relieved.

“He was wounded in a subsequent action in Merksem, but he’s recovering.”

Whitehall pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Pleased to hear that. Good man, he is.”

Boeynants nodded. “Yes, he is. Colonel, did you know that his wife, Anna, escaped from Poland and was living here in Belgium?”

“Why no, I had no idea. He told me his wife had been arrested by the SS.

That’s quite remarkable. How is she?”

“Well, that’s the problem. We don’t know where she is. She was an agent of the Comet Line, and we believe she was arrested on a mission escorting a British aviator out of the country.”

Whitehall’s eyes widened. “Where? Do you know?”

“No, we don’t,” Boeynants said, shaking his head. “But we do know that she was using the code name, ‘Jeanne Laurent.’ We also know that Rik Trooz was aware of her mission.”

“Rik Trooz?” Whitehall sat upright in his chair and leaned forward. “Rik Trooz was SOE’s primary contact with the Comet Line. And we know that this animal, Rolf Reinhardt, was involved in his arrest. In fact, we’re quite sure that Reinhardt was the one who had him tortured . . . and murdered.”

“Yes, I know,” Boeynants said. “Our own contacts confi rmed that. In fact, Reinhardt has been hunting for me, but that’s another story.”

Whitehall stared at him.

Boeynants shrugged then asked, “But Reinhardt has said nothing about a redheaded woman using the name Jeanne Laurent?”

“No.” Whitehall’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Boeynants. “Apparently this chap hasn’t told us quite everything he knows. Would you like to pay him a visit?”

When the guard brought Rolf Reinhardt into the interrogation room, Whitehall and Boeynants were seated at a metal table. Boeynants thought he spotted a fl icker of recognition in Reinhardt’s eyes.

Whitehall motioned for Reinhardt to be seated, and the guard shoved him into a chair, then stood back, in front of the door.

“This is Willy Boeynants,” Whitehall said. “I believe you were looking for him a while back.”

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Reinhardt’s face paled, but he didn’t respond.

Whitehall stood up and walked around the small room.

Reinhardt stared straight ahead.

“When we last talked, Herr Reinhardt, you assured me that you had told us everything you knew about agents of the Comet Line.”

Reinhardt remained silent.

“Tell us about ‘Jeanne Laurent,’” Whitehall said, standing directly behind Reinhardt.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” Reinhardt said, in heavily accented English.

Whitehall motioned to the guard, who removed a pistol from his holster and pressed it to the back of Reinhardt’s head.

“You’d better move out of the way, Mr. Boeynants,” Whitehall said. “I wouldn’t want your suit to get stained when Sergeant Anders blows Herr Reinhardt’s brains out.”

The guard cocked the gun.

Reinhardt began to perspire. His hands twitched.

Whitehall leaned over and said. “Do you think for one moment I would hesitate?”

Reinhardt looked down at the table. “What did you say this person’s name was?”

“Jeanne Laurent. An attractive, redheaded woman. Ring any bells?”

Reinhardt nodded. “Now I remember.”

The guard removed the gun and backed away.

“Go ahead,” Whitehall said, returning to his chair.

Reinhardt looked up. “There’s not much to tell. She was arrested in France and held by the SS in a local jail for awhile. I tried to have her sent up to Brussels, but a certain SS offi cer blocked our attempts.”

“Who was this SS offi cer?” Whitehall asked.

“Hauptsturmfuhrer Dieter Koenig,” Reinhardt said. “After the retreat from the Falaise Gap, I tried again to have the woman sent to Brussels, but Koenig refused. I later learned that all of the prisoners in that jail were sent to Drancy.”

“Drancy?” Boeynants asked. He felt sick. He had heard rumors about the camp.

Reinhardt looked at him with a smirk. “Yes, Drancy. And from there they 372

Douglas W. Jacobson

were all sent to Auschwitz. She’s probably ashes by now.”

Boeynants jumped to his feet and smashed his fi st into Reinhardt’s face.

The next day, Whitehall attended yet another in an endless string of meetings.

He looked around the room and sighed; he’d attended too many during his visit to Belgium.

This one was a briefi ng about German concentration camps. But it was all sketchy, mostly rumors and hearsay. Whitehall had no doubt that places like Auschwitz existed. He believed the Nazis were capable of anything. But until they had actually liberated some of these camps, what good was all this conjec-ture? He was about to excuse himself when something caught his attention.

A young American offi cer at the end of the table had just said something about the Comet Line.

“Excuse me, Captain, could you please repeat that,” Whitehall asked.

The American looked up from his notes. “Uh, yes, certainly. I was saying that the Feldgendarme keeps telling us that the woman was an agent for the Comet Line.”

Whitehall realized he hadn’t been paying attention. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I was thinking about something else. I’m afraid I haven’t been following you. I’ve been involved with the Comet Line for a number of years. What is this about a Feldgendarme and some woman?”

The captain looked annoyed, but he deferred to Whitehall’s rank. He read from his notes. “A German Feldgendarme was captured in Belgium a few weeks ago while traveling in a car near the German border. A woman with no identifi cation was traveling with him. Both of them are now in custody in Liege on suspicion of espionage. The Feldgendarme confessed that he had been a guard at Auschwitz during 1943, and he has offered to reveal everything he knows, including the names of the SS offi cers in charge while he was there.”

Whitehall was impressed. This was important information. But he still couldn’t understand how the Comet Line fi t in. “Has he given us any information yet?”

“That’s what I had just started to say, sir. No, he hasn’t. He insists that before he tells us anything, we must fi rst release Miss Laurent, or whatever her name is.”

Whitehall was stunned. Had he heard that correctly? “Excuse me, Night of Flames

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Captain, did you say Laurent? Her name is Laurent?”

The captain shrugged. “Well, that’s what she and the Feldgendarme say her name is. Undoubtedly, they’re lying. But they both insist that she was an agent for the Comet Line and that she was arrested in France.”

Whitehall stood up and leaned over the table. “Is it Jeanne Laurent? Is her fi rst name Jeanne?”

The captain studied his notes. “Yes, that’s correct. Jeanne Laurent. Do you know this person, Colonel?”

Chapter 76

The train from Antwerp to Liege slogged through one village after another on what seemed like a never-ending journey. Jan stared out the window but saw nothing, mustering every ounce of his strength to keep his emotions under control. Was it possible, after all this time? Had they really found her, or would it turn out to be a cruel mistake, another wrong turn? He doubted he would survive that.

Sitting next to him, Whitehall chattered on about the lack of cooperation from the Americans, the confusion in command between the Allied armies now closing in on Germany. The war, he pointed out, was far from over, a fact Jan was keenly aware of as he shifted in his seat, a jolt of pain shooting through his right arm, bound tightly in a sling.

“Hope she’s still there,” Whitehall said. “The American captain I talked to kept mumbling about moving prisoners somewhere or other. Bloody hell, it was like talking with a brick.”

Jan glanced at the portly colonel then turned back to the window. A convoy of American army trucks, caked in dirt, headed east along the road that ran parallel with the tracks. Infantry troops slogged alongside. Jan sighed at the familiar sight, weary troops moving on to yet another battle. It was indeed far from over. He would be back in it, he knew, but fi rst . . . there was Anna.

The cellar room was damp and cold. A thin shaft of sunlight drifted through the only window, which was too small for even her head to pass through. The glass was long gone, allowing free access to the rodents Anna heard scraping and rooting around in the night. She sat on a bench next to the cot and stared at the tiny window and the angle of the sunlight. It was close to noon, Night of Flames

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she guessed. Soon the American soldier would pull open the creaking door, exchange the bucket that served as her chamber pot, and place a bowl of soup and a plate of bread on the dirt fl oor.

Anna looked down at yesterday’s soup bowl, overturned with a frustrated kick during her outburst at the soldier who never spoke. “I demand to see the offi cer in charge!” she had screamed at him. It hadn’t been the fi rst of her tirades, and it had produced the same result. Nothing. The taciturn soldier barely glanced at her, set the bowl on the ground and turned to leave. It was only when she kicked the bowl across the room and it clattered against the stone wall, splattering thick lentil soup in every direction, that he reacted. He stopped, looked at the mess, then turned to her and said, “I hope you’re not hungry. That’s all you get.”

She
was
hungry. She was cold and dirty—and beside herself with frustration. They had made it out of Germany. Otto had saved her life. Why wouldn’t they listen? What had they done with Otto? Was he in the barbed wire stockade across the road where they were stockpiling German prisoners?

She stood up, ran a hand through her sticky mat of hair and paced the small room to warm up. At least the silent soldier had found a sweater for her to wear over the fl imsy dress from Koenig’s obscene wardrobe. She tried to think. How long had she been here? She hadn’t bothered to keep track. Everywhere else she had kept track: in the jail in the unknown town in France, in the hideous bedroom at Koenig’s house, even at Drancy where she had scratched marks on the wall every morning. But here she hadn’t kept track. These were Americans.

Belgium was liberated. What was she doing in another prison?

The shelling started again, thumping claps of thunder that shook the ground beneath her. It seemed closer than yesterday. Or perhaps it was her imagina-tion. Who was shelling whom, she wondered? What if the Americans had to pull back? Would they leave her?

The door creaked open, and a soldier stepped into the dank room. It was a different soldier, an offi cer with an armband emblazoned with the letters “MP.”

He nodded and waved a hand at her. “Follow me. Someone here to see you.”

Anna followed the offi cer up the stone steps into a room that appeared to be a kitchen. It was the only time she had been out of the cellar, and the light caused her to squint. The MP motioned for her to wait while he stepped into an adjoining room.