by John Wilson
“Where are we headed, Manon Wouters?” Albert asks.
“Somewhere that I hope is safe.”
“Is it far?”
“It will take us most of the night,” I say. “I think it’s too dangerous for us to cycle side by side, especially with you still in your uniform. If we stumble on someone in the dark I might be able to talk my way out of it, but you won’t. I think you should drop back.”
“But if I’m too far back, I won’t be able to see you if you turn or have to stop.”
“I still have Étienne’s flashlight. I’ll tuck it under my arm so that it shines behind me. You drop back until you can just see the light and follow it. If the light goes out, get off the road and hide as fast as you can.”
“All right,” Albert says.
He drops back and I tuck the flashlight under my arm. It’s a bit awkward to keep it in place, but it’s impossible to go very fast in the dark in any case.
I’m quite pleased with my flashlight idea, but what I haven’t told Albert is that if I do run into a German sentry, my chances of talking my way out of it, especially after what happened at the airfield, are virtually nil. If I run into trouble, Albert’s on his own.
As we cycle along the tree-lined road, I wonder if I’ve made the right decision. The only refuge I could think of is Pieter’s house in Maldegem. He has the space to hide Albert and seems to have the contacts to smuggle him across the border into neutral Holland. I hate to put Pieter in so much danger, but Albert couldn’t stay with Étienne and Adelle. The Germans will sweep the surrounding countryside as soon as they find the crashed plane, and Albert would be shot or captured almost immediately. And of course I can’t hide him in Damme with Florien and his friends around.
I don’t have a choice. We have to keep going. At the very least, Pieter will have an idea where we can go. And if I’m honest with myself, I’m thrilled at this new adventure. Of course I’m scared, but I’m doing something real. I have destroyed a hated zeppelin and now I’m rescuing a crashed pilot. And I like Albert. With his cheerful and uncomplaining attitude, he reminds me of Alec. “Did you get the letter I wrote you in London?” in my head, in a one-sided conversation, I ask Alec. “I wish I could have written more. Did you try to find out where I was? What are you doing now? Still digging holes in the ground?” I smile into the darkness.
We make good time, and as the half-moon rises, we stop and eat the food that Adelle provided. But Albert is having trouble keeping his eyes open and slumps against a tree. I check his head wound. The bandage is still in place, but the wound remains open and blood is trickling down his cheek. I clean him up as much as possible and retie the bandage more tightly.
“Thank you,” Albert says when I’ve finished. “I’m lucky to have my own private nurse. I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Albert’s comment is meant in fun, but it makes me strangely angry. Alec’s the only patient I want falling in love with me. “Don’t be silly,” I say, more harshly than I intend. “Every man falls in love with his nurse. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m grateful for your help, even if you don’t love me back,” Albert says with a smile. “Are you ready to tell me where we’re going?”
“I have a friend, Pieter, who I think might be able to hide you until you can be smuggled across the border into Holland.”
“Is it far?”
“Far enough that the Germans won’t think of looking for you there.”
Albert falls silent and his head slumps onto his chest. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then he says, “Perhaps I should just have surrendered.”
Thinking that he’s worried about the distance we have to travel, I say, “The moonlight will help us and we’ll make better time from now on. Even if we stop for rests, we’ll be at Pieter’s well before dawn.”
“Oh, I’ll push on,” Albert says, lifting his head. “Don’t worry about me. But I’m getting a lot of people into trouble—Étienne, Adelle, you, and now your friend Pieter. Maybe you should just go on and I’ll wait here until a German shows up to capture me. I can say I stole the bicycle and got lost. The head wound will help my story, and life in a German prison camp can’t be too bad.”
“No!” I say, surprising myself with the firmness of my voice. “You must never give up. Yes, Étienne, Adelle, Pieter and I will be at risk, but we accept that. It is the price of the struggle to free our country from these invaders. If nobody is prepared to pay that price”—I think of Florien and my anger increases—“or if people collaborate with the Germans, we will never be free. Even if the Allies win the war and liberate Belgium, we cannot hold our heads up if we have done nothing. What will we tell our children after the war—that we sat back while others fought our battles for us?”
Albert has been staring at me throughout my rant. “But you’re so young to be so bitter,” he says. “And you’re a girl.”
“A girl!” I exclaim, my anger boiling over. “Are you so arrogant that you think a girl cannot be as intelligent, powerful or courageous as you? What do you do—fly around all day, dropping bombs on people? Let me tell you about a girl.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Albert begins, but I hold up my hand to silence him. I don’t want to hear his apology.
“Gabrielle Petit was a nurse like me. Like me, she also became a spy. Through 1915, she created a network of couriers and passed on vital information about the German army to the Allies. In February last year, she was betrayed and captured. Despite torture, she wouldn’t give the names of her fellow spies. On April 1 she was tied to a post and shot. She refused to wear a blindfold and stared straight at her executioners. Many of the soldiers on the firing squad closed their eyes and fired high. An officer had to administer the coup de grâce. Gabrielle’s last words to her jailer were ‘I will show you how a Belgian girl can die.’ She had just turned twenty-three years old.”
A STATUE IN BRUSSELS HONORING GABRIELLE PETIT
I stare hard at Albert, daring him to argue with me. But he just looks at me with his jaw hanging open.
“Well, then,” he says eventually, “I think I’m very lucky to have met a girl like you, Manon Wouters. Shall we get back on the road?”
Still angry, I push my bicycle out of the trees and almost collide with a German soldier. He’s even more surprised than I am and stumbles awkwardly. His uniform is unbuttoned at the neck and he’s having difficulty standing straight. I realize that he is drunk and is probably trying to find his way back to camp after a night in a local bar.
His wandering gaze finally fixes on me and he blinks several times as he attempts to focus. A smile spreads across his unshaven face. “Fräulein,” he slurs, stepping forward. My bicycle is between us, which makes it hard for him to reach me but also difficult for me to defend myself. I’m still wondering what to do when a shadow appears behind the soldier. There’s a surprisingly loud thump, and the man crumples to the ground as if his bones have turned to water. Albert is standing over the body, clutching a large rock.
I drop my bicycle and bend over the fallen soldier, feeling his neck for a pulse. “He’s alive,” I say.
“Then we should finish him off,” Albert replies, lifting the rock.
“No!” I step between the two foes.
“We don’t want him to wake up and raise the alarm.”
“I won’t let you kill him,” I say firmly. “He’s roaring drunk. I doubt he’ll remember anything when he comes around.”
Albert stands and stares at me for a moment, and then tosses the rock into a ditch. “All right,” he says, “but we should get him off the road.”
Together we drag the man into the trees and prop him against a trunk. He’s breathing regularly and I take time to make him as comfortable as possible.
“We need to go,” Albert says urgently. “He may have mates on their way back from the bar, and we want to put as much distance as we can between us and him before he wakes up.”
“Yes,” I agree. “A
nd thank you.”
“Always happy to help a lady in distress,” Albert says with a smile. When he sees the flash of anger on my face, he quickly adds, “Even one who can obviously look after herself.”
It’s still dark when we arrive at Maldegem. Hiding our bicycles near the road, we approach Pieter’s house cautiously, working our way through the trees at the edge of town. The first sign that something is wrong is the smell of burning. I tell Albert to wait and he sits gratefully at the foot of a tree. I move forward carefully, but even so, I almost fall over the remains of Pieter’s shed. The burned wood is still warm, and so are the bodies of the dead pigeons scattered around the ruins. What’s happened? Was it an accident, or something much worse?
I edge out of the trees and into Pieter’s vegetable garden, where the moonlight is brighter, picking my way across to his house. I knock gently on the back door. There’s no response. I try the handle. The door’s unlocked, so I slip inside. I call out softly, “Pieter. Pieter?” But there’s no reply. I feel my way carefully from room to room. The house is empty. What has happened? Has Pieter been arrested?
I grope my way to the front door. It’s broken, hanging off its hinges. I slump down against the wall. Clearly someone’s forced his way in, taken Pieter away and burned down the pigeon shed. I’m drained. I can’t go on. The bombing raid, the zeppelin, cycling all night, the German soldier, and now this—I have nothing left. What if Pieter was betrayed? What if the whole organization’s been betrayed? Maybe there are German soldiers waiting for me outside my house. All I want to do is sit here in the darkness and let the world happen. If the Germans find me, I don’t care. It would be a relief, in fact—there would be no more stress, no more strain. I wouldn’t have to think and make decisions anymore. My head slumps onto my chest. I’m so tired.
I jerk awake at the sound of the back door opening. “Pieter?” I ask.
Shuffling footsteps come closer. “No, it’s me, Albert. Are you all right?”
“Pieter’s gone,” I say, hauling myself to my feet. “I think he’s been arrested.”
Albert stands beside me and puts a comforting arm around my shoulder. “Well, I guess you can’t stay here. I’ll wait until daylight so you have a chance to get far away—I could use a nap anyway—then I’ll walk into town and surrender. I’ll tell the stolen bicycle story and play up the head wound.”
“No,” I say, brought back to life by the idea of surrender. “We’ve come too far to give up. Remember all the things I said about being able to face our children after the war? Gabrielle Petit would never give up. Let them catch us if they can, but we’ll keep fighting until the end.”
Albert stares at me for a long moment. His eyes are red with exhaustion, his skin is ghostly pale and a thin stream of blood is once more trickling down his cheek.
“Manon Wouters,” he says at last, “you are an extraordinary person. Let’s give them a run for their money. Where shall we go?”
“South of my home, there’s a deep wood on an old estate where my brother and I used to play as children. It’s private land, but we knew the secret ways in. We used to take picnics and go far into the woods to build forts and pretend that we were explorers living in the wilderness. There’s a ruined hut in there—I think it used to be the gamekeeper’s place. It’s just overgrown walls, but it will give you some shelter and no one will think of looking for you there. You can hide and I will bring you clothes and food until I can contact someone to help.” If there’s anyone left to help, I think.
Albert smiles weakly. “Good idea, but I hope this estate isn’t too far. I’m not sure I can last much longer.”
“It’s not far,” I say as encouragingly as possible. “One last effort and then you can rest.”
“Right you are,” Albert says. “Let’s get going.”
—
By sunrise, Albert is safe in the gamekeeper’s hut and gratefully asleep. He’s under strict instructions not to move during the day and to wait for me to return with clothing and food. If I don’t show up it means I can’t, and Albert is to walk out of the woods and surrender to the first person he meets.
I’m leaning against a wall, peering out of the alley across the road from my house, trying to spot anything unusual. The house looks undisturbed and there are no German soldiers waiting to ambush me. I know I should watch for awhile to make sure it’s safe, but my legs feel so heavy that I’m not certain I can even make it the short distance across the road. If I collapse here from exhaustion, I’ll be discovered as soon as anyone passes by.
I scan the street once more. There’s no one around, so I take a deep breath, mumble a soft prayer that there are no soldiers waiting for me to show myself and stumble across the road using my bicycle for support.
With a sigh of relief, I drop the bicycle beside the door and enter the house. Mama is sitting at the kitchen table and jumps up as I come in.
“Where have you been?” she asks frantically. “I’ve been worried sick.”
If I wasn’t so drained of energy, both mental and physical, I could have thought of an explanation, but my mind’s not working properly. “I had something to do,” I say.
“What? What did you have to do that kept you out all night? Are you seeing a boy?”
“No, Mama. I’m not seeing a boy. There are things I have to do, but I’m too weary to talk about them now.”
“Are you in danger?”
The answer’s yes, but instead I say, “I’m all right, Mama. I’m safe. I’m just very tired. I’ll explain everything later.” I go over and give her what I hope is a reassuring hug. “I have to go to the hospital today, but I need to sleep a bit first.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
I give her another hug. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. Can you wake me in two hours?”
I head for my room and bump into Florien in the hall. “Back late,” he says with a sneer.
I push past him into my room and collapse on the bed. My muscles unclench with gratitude. The last thing I remember thinking before Mama knocks on my door to wake me is that I have never been this comfortable in my entire life.
—
“I’ve made some bread and jam and a hot drink,” Mama says when I am awake enough to grunt a reply to her.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I reply. I haul my aching body off the bed, splash some cold water on my face from the bowl by the window and change into some clean clothes.
In the kitchen, I give Mama an abbreviated version of what I have been up to. I don’t mention any specifics, and I certainly don’t talk about the danger I’ve been in. I simply say that I’m collecting information, and that sometimes it means being out after curfew.
I suppose I expect Mama to respond with tears and beg me not to do anything dangerous, but she surprises me.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says, giving me a huge hug. “Papa would be too.”
“Do you think so?” I ask.
“Of course. When the Germans invaded, the roads were filled with people heading west. Papa and I talked about joining them and crossing into Holland, but he refused to leave. He said it would be running away, and he had never run away from a problem in his life. He said it was our responsibility to stay and make life as difficult as possible for the invaders.”
“If I had known that was how he felt,” I say, “I would never have left.”
Mama smiles. “You were old enough to make your own decisions. Besides, you did help. You used your nursing skills to help the British soldiers. And now you’re back, doing what Papa would have done.”
A knot of emotion almost chokes me. I suddenly feel as if Papa is watching over me—as if, whatever I have to do, I will never have to do it alone. Papa will always be with me. Then a darker thought intrudes. “And Florien?”
Mama’s smile vanishes. “Papa would have been disappointed in the path Florien has chosen, but don’t be too tough on your brother. He worshipped Papa. He took his death very har
d. You didn’t see it all after Papa died, but Florien sat in his room for days, not eating or sleeping. I heard him crying at all hours.
“He eventually came out, but he wasn’t the same. There was a coldness in him that I had never seen before. When the Germans came to conscript him for work on the docks, he went without a murmur, even though several of his school friends went over the border into Holland. Then he fell in with that crowd of layabouts and began drinking. I’ve tried talking to him, but he just gets angry and storms out. It’s as if he’s a different person now.”
“I know,” I agree. “He’s changed so much since I left. But I’ll keep trying to talk to him. Maybe if I tell him how Papa felt about the Germans?”
“Please don’t tell him that.” Mama’s pleading surprises me. “I tried to explain that to him once. It was the worst fight we ever had. I truly feared he would hit me in his anger, but he just walked out instead. I didn’t see him for three days after that.”
“All right, Mama. I won’t say anything,” I assure her. I look at the clock and gulp down the rest of my drink. “I have to go now. I’m already late for my shift at the hospital and I have information to pass on.”
Mama nods. “Be careful,” she says.
As I cycle along the canal bank, I think over the past couple of days. Spying has turned out to be much more complicated than I expected. I’ve photographed secret enemy airplanes, destroyed a zeppelin and rescued a British pilot. Three times I’ve almost been captured. If it weren’t for Étienne and his cart, Albert and his rock, and my own flare gun, I wouldn’t be here now.
To complicate things even more, Pieter has disappeared, and the path to send messages to the British has been destroyed. But I’m oddly happy. Now I’m doing what I do not just for Belgium but also for Papa.
I’m halfway through my shift before I get a chance to talk to Amelie. We retreat to the supply room and speak quietly. She says nothing, only nodding occasionally as I swiftly give her an outline of my adventure.
