Tamar (7 page)

“Tell me what you do for these people.”

“Bugger all, frankly. We feed and protect them. There are drugs that would help, but we’ve no hope of getting hold of them. Before the war I had a colleague who used to wire patients up and shoot a dose of electricity through their brains. That would see off the demons for a day or two. And the angels, of course. But he joined the Nazi Party and went off to Germany to do ‘research.’ He made the right decision, seeing as how we’re lucky to get electricity one day a week, at best.”

Dart said, “But it’s a miracle, isn’t it, that the Germans haven’t shut you down? The Nazis don’t have what you would call a kindly attitude towards the mentally ill.”

Veening watched the plane trees lose a few more leaves before he replied.

“We used to have a large number of inmates who were mentally handicapped, rather than mentally ill. I’m sure you understand the difference. Many of them were the kind of people who get called village idiots. Perfectly harmless. In 1941 the Germans came and took them away. Rounded them up and piled them into two trucks. Some of them were in mortal terror; others thought they were being taken out for a treat. It was a lovely summer day.”

He stubbed his cigarette out and pocketed it.

“I don’t know what happened to them. I think that if I did know, I’d be wearing a white uniform and trying to trap shadows with my feet, like Gerard over there. Now there are just twenty-four patients and seven staff, including me. We rattle around in this huge great place like dried peas in a bucket. But, as you say, it’s a miracle that we are here at all. Perhaps Sidona’s angels are watching over us.”

He turned to face Dart. “Sorry. I tend to ramble. Now, come with me to the office. I promised to show you the telephone.”

Dart stood. “Albert,” he said, “I hate to correct you, but it’s not seven staff. It’s eight, including me.”

Veening bowed his head, a gesture of apology. “Of course, Dr. Lubbers. I get forgetful sometimes. I find it helps.”

The asylum superintendent’s office had once been rather grand. The leather-topped desk was the size of a bed, but there was nothing on it except a stained cup, a novel, and dust. A large statue stood at the back of the room: a white marble woman, her upper body naked, one arm outstretched in a caring gesture. Veening had hung his coat, hat, scarf, and umbrella on it. The ceiling was covered in fancy plasterwork, and the walls were dark oak panelling. Dart glanced around.

“Over there,” Veening said.

In a corner, half hidden among a heap of unwanted furniture and old files, was a huge and ancient contraption mounted on a thick slab of mahogany: a pair of round bells with a little hammer between them, a brass winding handle, a handset on a brass hook. The mouthpiece looked like a black cup and saucer. It was connected to the rest of the machine by what looked like frayed grey rope.

“You’re joking,” Dart said.

“I found it in one of the cellars, a week after the Germans took our proper phones away. Dates from about 1900, at a guess. It’s a beauty, don’t you think? The wires run up behind the panelling. As I said, we are connected to only two other phones, one in Apeldoorn and one in Amersfoort, but there’s a relay system. You have to wind it up with that handle thing before you can use it.”

Dart ran his fingers through his hair. There were things he hadn’t been briefed on, he realized. “London didn’t say anything about this.”

“I don’t suppose they know. It’s a local thing. Something we put together ourselves. And it’s only for emergencies, mind. It usually only rings when some new kind of hell breaks loose.”

“Albert, may I ask you something? How long have you been working for the resistance?”

“Since the day the Germans took my village idiots away,” Albert Veening said.

Tamar propped himself up on the pillows so that he could see Marijke’s face more clearly in the weak candlelight.

“Are you tired? Do you want to go to sleep?”

She shook her head. “I want to talk.”

“We have lots of time.”

“Perhaps. Listen. There, did you hear it? The owl again.”

“Tell me about the Germans coming here,” he said. “When was this?”

“A couple of weeks into the new year. We were half expecting them. A boy from one of the other farms ran over here to tell us that German soldiers had been at his place. We hoped they would pass us by, like most people do. But they didn’t. They came the next day. Eight of them, in two trucks. We’d had time to hide quite a lot of food. They managed to catch about half the chickens, but the rest ran off into the orchard. Two of the Germans chased them, shooting at them with rifles. Can you imagine? It was almost funny. They were lousy shots.”

“That’s encouraging,” he said.

“I suppose it is. But they took the tractor and both the horses. I bribed one soldier with a jar of butter not to take the bike or the tyres. They took most of the hay and half our firewood, the bastards. They took the sheets and blankets from our beds. Lots of stuff. They looted us.”

“Did they . . .” He hesitated, not sure how to ask the question, or if he wanted to. “Did they hurt you, or anything?”

She reached up and touched his face. “No. They looked at me, you know? But nothing happened. I was well wrapped up against the weather, anyway; they probably weren’t sure if I was a woman or a man.”

“So they were stupid as well,” he said, kissing her.

A little later, she said, “Don’t worry. We’ll survive. We’ve worked hard on the garden. That’s all we can do now. We should have enough food to last until spring, if we’re careful. After that —”

“After that,” Tamar said, “the Americans or the British or the Canadians will be here. It’ll all be over.”

“I’d love to believe that.”

“I’m sure of it. Believe me.”

In the hidden room at the asylum, the wind moaned softly at the gap in the window, but Dart couldn’t hear it. He was wired to the transceiver, the headphones clamped over his ears. His right hand wrote fast, translating the stuttering Morse into meaningless sequences of letters. His pistol lay on the desk. At one point a moth crash-landed on Dart’s notepad, and his hand brushed it away without pausing in its writing. Now and again he danced his feet against the floor, warming them.

When London signed off, Dart removed the headphones and massaged the tense muscles in his neck. As he went to disconnect the antenna, he heard something calling on the wind. An owl, perhaps. Or a lunatic. He spread the silks on the desk and began the laborious task of decoding.

Dart was finishing his meagre breakfast in the asylum’s huge kitchen when Sister Agatha walked in, holding an infant.

“This is Rosa.” She made it sound important.

“Ah,” Dart said, getting to his feet. He hadn’t known that a child would be involved in his mission, and he was rather puzzled.

“My niece. Well, actually she’s my sister’s daughter’s daughter.”

“I see,” Dart said, untruthfully. The little girl regarded him with gravely suspicious eyes.

“You’ll be seeing quite a bit of Rosa, I imagine,” Sister Agatha said. “Her mother is Beatrix Greydanus. Trixie.”

“Oh, right. Our, er . . .”

“Your courier, yes. Come and meet her. She’s outside, talking to Sidona.”

“The lady who has conversations with angels?”

“That’s right. She’s giving Trixie the latest news from heaven. Things aren’t going too well up there, apparently.”

Trixie and Sidona were sitting in a rather sorry-looking summerhouse at the rear of the building. When the old lady saw Dart approaching, she clamped her hands over her mouth and fled. Agatha handed Rosa to her mother and set off in unhurried pursuit.

Dart shook hands with Trixie. “I seem to have upset Sidona,” he said.

“She’ll be fine. She worries about strangers overhearing her when she’s reporting on angels. She’s quite security conscious in her own way.” She smiled. “Now, if you want to get your things, we’ll walk to town. We’re expected at the Marionette House at ten o’clock.”

The road into Mendlo was not in good condition. It had been hastily patched up, here and there, with rubble or concrete. In several places the verges had been crushed down into the ditch by the caterpillar tracks of German tanks. At one point, the road had been reduced to half its width by a British bomb; fifty metres off to the right, a second bomb had exploded in a field, and the crater was now a small pond. A single moorhen trailed ripples across it. Dart and Trixie took turns to push the bike and its trailer. Dart’s medical bag with the pistol in it was slung over the handlebars. He was worried about what the jolting might do to the suitcase transceiver concealed below Rosa’s slumbering body.

Trixie glanced sideways at him. Was he good-looking? Well, yes. Nice hair, a profile like that American movie actor whose name she could never remember. In fact, the two of them, he and Christiaan, looked similar. This one was tense, though. You could see all the muscles in his jaw standing out under the skin.

“So then, Dr. Lubbers,” she said, “tell me what you know about the Marionette House.”

Dart thought back to his briefing at Ashgrove. Only six days ago. And a world away.

“It’s at the corner of two small streets that run down from Old Church to the market square. The building is wedge-shaped, with the narrow end facing the square. It’s got three floors. The ground floor is the shop, with a workshop at the back. The living rooms are on the first floor. There’s a single attic room at the top of the house, which is where I’ll be operating from. It has a shuttered window overlooking the square. The shop entrance is on Church Lane, but I can come and go via the workshop if I need to. The owners are Pieter Grotius and his wife, Barbara.”

“Bibi,” Trixie corrected him. “No one calls her Barbara.”

“Bibi. Thank you. They’re in their sixties. Used to run a travelling puppet theatre called the, er . . . Blue Moon Theatre. Toured all over Europe during the twenties and thirties.”

“All over the world,” Trixie said. “America, everywhere. They were quite famous.”

“Okay. They bought the Marionette House in . . . 1936, was it? They make, repair, and sell puppets of all sorts. I don’t suppose business is very good right now.”

“No. You’re not going to be disturbed by hordes of customers. Actually, the place is more like a museum. Pieter and Bibi collect all kinds of stuff. Books, toys, all sorts. It’s a crazy place.”

Dart saw that the morning mist had condensed on Trixie’s auburn hair. It was coated in beads of moisture, tiny glass pearls.

“Bibi suffers from a terrible ulcer on her leg,” she continued. “The dressings need to be changed every few days.”

“Ah,” Dart said. “That’s why I am a frequent visitor.”

“Of course. It’s also why Bibi spends long periods sitting in her parlour, keeping an eye on the square. She’s resting her leg.”

So that’s my lookout, Dart thought. An old woman with a bad leg. “What about German radio detector cars?”

Trixie drew in a long breath. “Well, the nearest ones are in Apeldoorn. We’ve positively identified two of them — a dark blue delivery van and a black car that used to be a taxi.”

“There’s got to be more than that. It takes at least three to get a fix on a transmitter.”

“I know. We think they use ordinary army vehicles as well.”

Trying to keep his voice level, Dart said, “And what’s the procedure if they show up in Mendlo?”

“While you’re transmitting, I’ll be hanging around in the square with a girlfriend of mine, chatting and so forth. A couple of lads called Douwe and Henk will be kicking a ball about over on Kuyper Place; any traffic from Apeldoorn is almost certain to go through there. We have three other people as well; if any of them see the cars, they tip me off. Then I take my shoe off and shake it, like this. Like I’ve got a stone in it. That’s my signal to Bibi, who’ll be watching me. She’ll run to the stairs and warn you. Then you shut down immediately and leave through the workshop. Pieter will be out the back, making sure the coast is clear.”

Dart had stopped walking. Trixie turned and looked at him. He had thrust both hands into his coat pockets and was staring at the ground.

“Ernst? What is it?”

He looked up. “Mrs. Grotius will run to the stairs? This is the same Mrs. Grotius, I assume? The elderly woman who has trouble moving about because of the ulcer on her leg? Are you serious? Do you realize —”

He shut up because Trixie Greydanus had a big grin on her face. He was astonished when she slipped her arm inside his and squeezed it.

“Lord love you, Dr. Lubbers,” she said, “for being such a trusting soul. Bibi hasn’t really got anything wrong with her leg. It’s just bandages. She’s as fit as a flea.” She smiled up at him. “I wouldn’t mind betting she’s a faster mover than you are.”

The open road became an avenue between scarred and wounded trees. Now buildings appeared on either side, many of them broken and abandoned. Then, ahead and off to the left, the humped outline of the town itself emerged: a looming church tower, wet light on grey roofs, smokeless chimneys like rows of teeth.

Trixie said, “Right. We’re nearly there. Now then, the quickest way to Pieter and Bibi’s is to turn left at the first crossroads after the station and then go over the bridge by New Church.”

“Yes.”

“But we’re not going that way. We’re going to go straight on, through what they call the Merchants’ Gate.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s always a German checkpoint there.”

Dart looked at her. “What?”

“The Germans are used to me coming and going,” Trixie said. “Nine times out of ten they just wave me through. Unless it’s the skinny one on duty, the one that likes to feel my backside. And they need to get used to you too. They need to get to know your face. This morning, they are going to check you out, have a good look at your papers, all that. Next time, the next few times: the same. After a while, they won’t bother. You’ll become as familiar to them as I am.”

Dart forced a smile. “Do I have to let the skinny one feel my backside too?”

Trixie laughed, a little snort of delight. “I don’t think he’s that way inclined. But you never know.”