Simple Faith (43 page)

“Peter is teasing you,” Anja assured him as she patted the place beside her on the bed and handed him a piece of the bread.

“Well, yes and no,” Peter said. “We are going to have to decide what this young man will call me.”

Daniel nodded and frowned. “You mean now that you are married?”

“Well,” Anja said, “you could continue to call him ‘Peter’ or …”

“What do boys like me call their fathers in America?” Daniel said, his eyes fixed on Peter. “What do you call your father, Peter?”

“I call him Dad.”

Daniel tried the word on for size. “Dad,” he murmured. “I like it. May I call you Dad then?”

Anja honestly thought that Peter just might burst into tears. He seemed completely at a loss for words. She suspected that he had thought this might be an ongoing discussion—one that they would make only small advances in solving. Here Daniel had put it to rest with one simple question.

“I would … I think that would be just … swell,” Peter finally managed to say.

Daniel turned his attention back to the food. “Is that really orange juice?”

“It really is,” Anja assured him as she handed him the glass.

Another tap at the partially open door, and this time Josef came in. “Dr. Alonzo says we need to get started,” he said apologetically, and Anja faced for the first time since her wedding the facts that nothing had changed really—they were still on the run. They were still in danger.

As she stood in the embassy courtyard an hour later and watched Lisbeth and the baby being taken onto the ambulance followed by Josef, she held out her arms to Daniel, and as always he came running to her embrace. As she held him, she prayed that this would be the very last time she would have to surrender him to the care of friends or strangers—that once they were reunited, it would be for good. The next time she wanted to have a scene like this was when Daniel was old enough to go away to university or to be married.

She held him away from her and combed through his thick hair with her fingers, then wet her thumb to wash away a smudge of the jam they had shared at their breakfast in bed earlier.

“We have to go,” Dr. Alonzo said. His voice was kind and filled with sympathy for what he was asking of her.

She hugged Daniel once more and watched as he offered Peter a manly handshake and instead Peter gave him a sharp salute. This made Daniel grin as he returned the salute, and Anja loved Peter a little more because, as her son ran to climb into the ambulance, he was waving and calling out to them. “Good-bye, Mama. Good-bye, Dad. We’ll see you in England.”

An hour later, the diplomatic car arrived to drive Vice Consul Formby, Peter, and Anja to Seville. Whether from the need to catch up or the fact that she was so weighed down by sadness, Anja had not been in the car for more than a quarter of an hour before she was fast asleep on Peter’s shoulder.

She woke as they were approaching the city with its tropical landscape and beautifully shaped buildings. The skies were clear, and it was hard to believe that only a few days earlier they had been crawling on hands and knees over the muck mixed with snow that had covered the goat paths on the mountains.

Anxious to get this part of their trip over with, she leaned forward, gazing out the window as she registered the sights of Seville—the cathedral, the town square, the river that their driver told them was deep enough to accommodate large merchant ships. When they reached the consulate, men in uniform opened the double gates so that the driver could park the car inside. He told them that they could now safely leave the vehicle. “You are on British soil,” he told them.

Inside the consulate, they were welcomed by members of the staff and shown to a room where they could rest and refresh themselves. Anja was grateful for the opportunity to soak in a tub filled with fragrant bath salts and as much hot water as she wanted.

“Anja?” Peter tapped at the door but did not come in.

Ever since the ceremony, she was aware of how very shy and uncertain they were with each other. “Come in,” she said as she wrapped herself in a large soft towel and pulled the plug to drain the tub. He pushed the door open, and she was surprised to see him dressed in a uniform—one she did not immediately recognize.

“What is this?”

“For the next few hours apparently, I am a member of the Norwegian merchant ship docked in the harbor and leaving at midnight for Gibraltar. There is to be a party to reward the crew for getting the ship loaded in record time.”

“And you are part of the crew?”

“I am, and you are one of the beautiful senoritas my captain has hired to dance with us.” He took hold of her hand and led her into the bedroom. On the bed lay a beautiful silk dress the color of a sunset. On the floor nearby was a pair of sandals with high heels. And standing at the dressing table arranging various bottles of cosmetics and perfumes was … Gisele St. Germaine.

“Hello, Anja. I understand congratulations are in order. Of course I saw it coming—this union between you.”

“Hello. Thank you. What are you doing in Seville?” Anja could barely get the words out fast enough.

Gisele gave her trademark shrug. “In Paris things got a bit—shall we say—uncomfortable for me. Your friend Schwarz was most persistent in his interrogation.”

“Were you …”

Gisele waved the question away. “The promise of torture is in itself torture,” she said.

In spite of her flawless makeup, Gisele looked different—older, less sure of herself. Anja stepped closer and took her hand. “I am glad to see you. I am glad that you are … here.”

“I have—as you Americans say—landed on my feet. I am working with the vice consuls of England and Norway to stage these little diversions such as the one you will attend tonight. You will see that the party is no more than a smokescreen to fool the Spanish Guard. Oh, make no mistake, they will be watching, but practically the entire city turns out for these parties. People come and go onto the ship, off the ship, and who can keep count?”

She indicated that Anja should sit at the dressing table. “Peter, Vice Consul Formby is waiting to speak with you.” She literally shooed him from the room and closed the door behind him.

“At the party, Anja, you must be very gay—very open. Not your usual reserved self. At the same time, do not call attention to yourself. I will see that you are handed a wineglass when you arrive. It will appear to be champagne but in fact be only seltzer. You must sip on that for the entire evening until you receive the signal.”

As she gave out these instructions, Gisele worked on Anja’s hair, twisting it into a tight roll and then covering it with a black wig. Then she began applying makeup—powder, rouge, eyebrow pencil, eyeliner and shadow, false eyelashes, and lipstick that she applied with a brush as if she were painting a portrait. When she had finished, she stood back and studied her handiwork. Then she snapped her fingers. “Perfect.”

Anja glanced in the mirror and then looked again. She did not recognize the woman staring back at her.

“Get dressed,” Gisele said. “I have to go now, but I will see you at the party. You must not appear to know me, all right?”

Anja nodded.

“Good. I will let Peter know you are nearly ready.” And then to Anja’s surprise, the actress leaned in and kissed her lightly on each cheek. “I had no idea of all that you … Not until I was arrested … I had no idea, Anja,” she repeated, her voice breaking as she fled the room.

Anja dressed, trying hard not to get any makeup on the outfit or disturb the dark wig. It amazed her that everything fit perfectly, and she knew that this had been Gisele’s unfailing eye for fashion and fit. In any other time, Gisele might have owned her own boutique or even designed clothes for the rich and famous. Instead, she was on her way to play the role of hostess to a party that was no more than a front to smuggle Anja and Peter and perhaps others onto the merchant ship and get them out of Spain.

Well, if Gisele could carry this off, then Anja was going to play her role to perfection. She draped the long silk scarf that matched the dress over her shoulders and went to find Peter.

The party was crowded and loud and exuded an air of pure phoniness as far as Peter was concerned. Was anyone fooled by this charade? He doubted it. The ship and dock next to it were packed with people who moved freely up and down the gangplank, laughing and flirting. Among them were members of the Spanish dictator Franco’s Guardia Civil—an elite corps that had been trained by the Nazis. They watched and listened as they wove their way among the partygoers, taking up their positions.

At nine o’clock the sound of shrill whistles brought everything to a stop, and the ship went silent. Over a public address system came the announcement that the party was over and all guests were to immediately leave the ship. Anyone not part of the ship’s crew was to line up along the dock and present their papers. Suddenly Peter saw that there were a great many more soldiers than he had first thought as they emerged from the dark and formed a human wall that left the partygoers between them and the water. The second announcement made it clear that the crew was to immediately assemble on deck and the ship would be searched.

In the confusion that followed, Peter looked around for Anja. He had worked hard to keep her in sight throughout the evening, but disguised as she was, it was difficult. Several women were dressed similarly with hairstyles that were like the wig she wore. He followed one woman as she hurried through the crowd toward the gangplank. He even reached for her arm to stop her, but then she turned and he looked down into the face of a stranger.

Someone brushed against him. “This way,” the sailor murmured, and not knowing what else to do, Peter followed.

“My wife,” he said as he hurried after the young man.

“This way,” his guide insisted, and Peter realized that the man neither spoke nor understood English but had been taught these two key words.

They passed a doorway, and the young man shoved Peter inside and closed the door without following. Peter was at the top of a metal stairway with nowhere to go but down. And down and down. By the time he reached the last step, he could hear the metal doors opening and closing above him and knew that the search was on.
Where was Anja?

Formby had told him that they would be hidden in the propeller shaft. He had even showed Peter a diagram of the ship’s internal rooms, but none of this looked like anything he had seen. And even if he came to a door clearly marked “Propeller Shaft,” he had no intention of going anywhere until he found Anja.

Footsteps behind him made him dodge into a narrow corridor. He held his breath when he heard the footsteps quicken. He’d been seen. Someone was coming. More than one—there were two sets of footsteps. He pressed himself against the wall, his head almost touching the low ceiling lined with pipes. There was little light except for that which came from small fixtures spaced several feet apart in the main corridor. He waited, hoping that the shadows would protect him.

“Peter?” A hiss. A whisper. But one he knew.

Anja!

He stepped out from his hiding place and nearly collided with Anja and Gisele—both of them now dressed in sailor suits like those worn by the crew. “This way,” Gisele instructed, and she kept moving while Peter took a moment to make sure that Anja was all right.

“Hurry,” Anja insisted as she grabbed his hand and ran after Gisele.

Toward the end of the corridor, one of the lights was out, leaving that area in darkness. A door opened a crack, sending a shaft of weak light and the thunder of engines idling into the hallway. Gisele ran inside, and Peter and Anja followed. With hand gestures, Gisele pointed to a small cubbyhole between the propeller shaft and the low ceiling. Then she slid beneath the shaft and emerged on the other side, where she scrambled up to an identical space there. Peter hoisted Anja onto the shaft, and she crawled to the hiding place. He followed and pressed in with her. The door below them opened and closed. Peter saw a Norwegian sailor study a chart. A moment later, the door opened again and two members of the Spanish guard entered the room and ordered the man aside. They showed him the burned-out light and berated him for not repairing it.

Another shrill whistle and the Spanish soldiers hurried away. As soon as they were gone, the Norwegian reached up and twisted the lightbulb all the way in so that it worked perfectly. After several minutes that felt more like hours, Peter heard the unmistakable sound of the propeller turning, and he felt the ship begin to move.

They were on their way.

“Next stop—Gibraltar,” he whispered, and he was not sure whether the tears he felt dampening his hands were Anja’s or his.

   CHAPTER 22