Simple Faith (20 page)

And suddenly Peter remembered something that Anja had told him during the time of his recovery in Brussels. “There will be messages you are not expecting,” she had said. “Your guide is not the only contact watching out for you. You need to be open to other messages. Subtle messages that may seem to come out of nowhere.”

Even though she was miles away, she was still taking care of him, still teaching him. He slouched into the seat, took a swig of the whiskey, and let it dribble down his chin. He wondered if resting his head on his seatmate’s shoulder would be taking things too far and decided not to risk it. Instead, he lowered his chin to his chest and started muttering to himself in German. He watched the agents approach, their polished shoes in stark contrast to the muddy footwear of his fellow travelers. He kept up his monologue, low enough to be indistinguishable, but every word German. He would not be tricked.

One of the agents shoved him hard on the shoulder. He lowered his head further and kept muttering. A second agent shouted at him to hand over his papers. Instead of ignoring him, the three of them were now gathered in the aisle next to him. He heard one of them use the term for
drunk
and chuckle. The first agent shook him hard, and at the same time, he felt the gentle thrust of his seatmate’s elbow in his ribs.

He fumbled for his papers and handed them to the agent and prayed that they were good fakes. At least the lighting in the train was dim. The agent pulled out a flashlight and studied the papers. He made a show of it while his cronies urged him to move along. One of them yawned loudly. All the while, Peter played drunk, allowing his head to bob and his shoulders to slump.

After what seemed an eternity, the agent thrust his hand under Peter’s nose. “Flask,” he demanded in English.

Peter allowed himself the smallest of smiles before closing one eye and staring stupidly up at the agent. Pretending not to understand, he mumbled something in German. The agent slapped him hard across the mouth with the leather gloves he carried in one hand. He swore at Peter and flung his papers in his face, then reached in Peter’s pocket and took the flask before he and his fellow agents continued on their way into the next car.

Letting out his breath, he gently touched his lip. It was already beginning to swell, and there was a cut. He collected his identity papers and put them back in his pocket as he considered what his next move should be. The man with the newspaper was nowhere to be seen. The man next to him had gotten up and abruptly left as soon as the agents had continued into the next car. Everyone else in his car seemed oblivious to what had just happened. Either they were used to things like that or they simply did not wish to get involved—not even to offer him a sympathetic glance. Of course they all thought he was drunk, which might explain a lot. On the other hand, whenever the Nazis were around, fear became a sensory thing—it was reflected in the tightly drawn mouths and darting eyes of the people, in the silence with which they greeted their occupiers. It was something one could almost taste and smell. It was overpowering, and even though the Gestapo agents had moved on, the train car reeked of it.

He had no idea what to do. The man with the newspaper was his only hope. Peter moved forward one car and then another, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Had he jumped? There had been no other stops. Now what? Was the man who’d given him the flask his new contact, and if so, where was he?

Other passengers were beginning to notice him. Some wrinkled their noses in disgust, and he realized that the smell of the whiskey surrounded him like a woman’s cheap perfume. He saw some people lean protectively toward their children or make some whispered comment to their companions. He was drawing far too much attention and decided the only thing to do was to return to his seat and wait for the next stop.

Working his way back through the cars, he came face-to-face with a woman—heavyset and herding a couple of children back to their seats. She and the children took up the entire aisle. They did the dance that people do when trying to make room for someone to pass. The two children shot forward and ran for an empty seat. The woman gave him a toothless grin and grabbed his hand with both of hers. He felt the press of a paper into his palm as she pumped his arm up and down as if she expected to get a flow of water going. Finally, she patted his cheek and squeezed past.

Instinctively, he curled his fingers to hide the paper as he made his way to the platform between cars. A single light glowed at the end of the next car, and he huddled close to it to try and read the note. The paper was dirty and had been folded several times. When he finally got it fully open, he saw two words—in English:
Next stop
.

   CHAPTER 10   

A
nja could not recall a time when she had been so exhausted—even in her months of unceasing work in the Sobibor death camp. Even while on the run with Josef and Lisbeth after their escape. Even the two times she had led evaders over the mountains to the relative safety of the Spanish border herself. She blamed it on the inability to shut out her worries for her grandparents—knowing there was nothing she could do for them but pray for their survival. And what of Peter? And Daniel? What about her certainty that Schwarz would stop at nothing to find her—and eventually murder her?

Shortly after dark that first night, Mikel had led them to the river where a man waited and helped Anja and Daniel into a small boat while he and Mikel pushed it off the shallow beach and Mikel jumped in and began to row away from the city. He stayed close to the shoreline in case they saw something and needed to hide or make a run for it. Low-hanging branches brushed their faces, and Daniel swatted them away, making a game of it. Anja was constantly amazed at the resilience of children in such times as they were living.

After two days and nights of stopping every time they saw someone on shore or another boat, they reached the town of Fontainebleau. There they abandoned the boat and took bicycles—specially marked to show they were for the use of the Resistance—from a rack near the train station and peddled to Orleans. Cycling was a slower way to travel, but it gave them the advantage of sometimes cutting across fallow fields or through forests to get to their next destination. There was far less snow in this part of the country than in Paris—only patches of it spotting the fields and roadsides. At dawn they finally arrived in Orleans, where the streets glistened with the rain that had fallen overnight, drenching them as they peddled through the countryside. They arrived wet and cold and hungry.

“Mama!” Daniel tugged at her sleeve and pointed. In the middle of the town’s central square stood a carousel—silent on this early morning but magnificent in all its gaudy glory.

“It is closed,” she told her son, thankful that she would not have to refuse him a ride. “In spring perhaps.” It was the kind of empty promise she had taken to offering him, knowing there was no likelihood they would return to Orleans in spring and ride the horses tossing their wooden heads defiantly as they posed in mid-prance. “Let’s see if we can find a bakery or café open,” she said, and saw how Mikel looked at her in alarm.

“We must keep moving,” he said.

“We also must eat,” she replied, reminding him by holding up the emptied rucksack that the meager rations they had packed when they left Paris were long gone. She steered Daniel across the square, deserted except for a lone street sweeper and a farmer delivering eggs. She followed the farmer’s delivery truck down an alley where the stink of rotting garbage nearly overwhelmed her. Mikel pulled her into a doorway when the farmer stopped. Daniel clung to her hand but watched the farmer and the owner of the café, who came out to greet him as they exchanged morning conversation.

When the farmer carried the eggs and other goods he had brought inside, Mikel grabbed her hand and ran for the truck. He helped Daniel aboard first and then her. From inside the shop, they could hear the two men laughing. “Hurry,” Mikel ordered. “Hide behind those crates.”

“But you—”

“The vehicle is old, and the farmer will have an excuse to go more slowly if I ride the bicycle and keep him engaged in conversation as we go. He seems like a talkative sort, and when you hear me ask how far it is to Limoges, that will be your signal that we are well out of town and that it is safe to jump and take cover on the roadside until he’s gone on his way.”

The plan worked perfectly. The driver was indeed a talker, and they rode for some time before she heard Mikel say, “How far to Limoges?” The driver actually pulled to the side of the road and took out a map as he launched into a long explanation of the various routes and shortcuts that would bypass checkpoints. Anja and Daniel hopped down from the truck and ran to hide behind a rock wall that ran along one side of the road.

After several minutes, she saw Mikel wave to the driver and head off down a side road. The truck wheezed its way on down the road and disappeared around a bend, and shortly after that Mikel came riding toward them. “Hop on,” he told Daniel and helped the boy onto the handlebars. Anja walked alongside as they made their way across the field. In the distance, they could see a freight train stalled on a siding. It was a common sight. No doubt the engineer was waiting for permission to continue on his route.

“Come on,” Mikel said and peddled as fast as he could given Daniel’s added weight and the fact that he was traveling across such uneven terrain. Anja ran after him. Leaving the bike, they sidled through a partially open freight car door and found themselves aboard a car filled with hay and cattle. As the train began moving, they could only hope that it was on its way to Limoges.

Anja shepherded Daniel past the large, warm animals to a corner of the car away from the door. She made them a bed of clean hay, and Daniel—his hunger partially satisfied by the raw potato they’d found in the back of the truck—curled into a fetal position and instantly fell asleep. Anja sat next to her son and pulled him closer so that his head rested on her lap. She dozed as well while Mikel took up a position close to the door so that he could keep watch. He seemed never to need sleep, but she knew that eventually he would have to rest.

As the train picked up speed, the swaying lulled her into a deeper sleep, and Mikel had to shake her awake. “We must go,” he said. Daniel was sitting near the doorway, drinking something from the tin cup they’d put in their rucksack.

“Milk, Mama. Try some. Mikel milked the cow.” He giggled.

Anja looked at the man who was usually so serious and stern in manner and saw that he was smiling at her son. “Finish it. I have something else for your mama and me.” He pulled out a goatskin and offered it to her. She smelled the wine before she tasted it. It smelled rich and earthy like the garden after a summer’s rain. She took a sip and savored the bittersweet taste of it sliding down her throat. “It’s good,” she said and took one more swallow before passing the goatskin back to him. “Where did you get it?”

“Our friend with the truck.” Mikel took a long swallow of the wine and then capped the container and strapped it across his chest. “Ready?” he asked Daniel.

Anja saw in her son’s eyes that Mikel had captivated him completely. Daniel would follow this man anywhere. “Ready,” he replied and tugged his cap lower on his forehead.

“The train will slow as it approaches the outskirts of the town,” Mikel said as he slid the door open just enough so that they could slip through.

Anja gasped. It had snowed while she was sleeping, and the passing landscape was gray and barren under overcast skies that promised more snow to come. She tied her wool scarf around Daniel’s neck and mouth. “I’ll go first,” she said. “Then Daniel.”

Mikel nodded as she positioned herself for the leap into what could be hard-packed frozen ground or a drift of snow. “Now,” he said, his hand at her waist giving her a gentle push.

She tumbled from the barely moving train and hit the ground hard. She looked all around for any of the crew that might be watching and saw no one, so she struggled to her feet and motioned for Daniel to come to her as she tried to keep pace with the moving train. “Now,” she mouthed and saw Mikel give Daniel a shove. He let out a shout as he tumbled to the ground. She ran to him, aware that Mikel had jumped as well and was checking to be sure they hadn’t been seen.