The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  He pulled out a chair at a table and sat down. Glancing up at the bar, he rapped imperiously on the dark oak.

  The barman hurried over, then stopped, taking in his uniform, his glance lingering for a moment on the medical staff with its snake. ‘Monsieur?’ he enquired.

  It was the first time Anthony had heard French spoken since leaving England. He gave an almost imperceptible nod to the man and replied in French. ‘Coffee and jenever.’

  Jenever was a variant of gin and the national spirit of Belgium. It wasn’t an impossible request but an unusual one. A German would tend to drink schnapps.

  This time it was the barman’s turn to give an almost imperceptible nod. ‘A good choice, Monsieur. Does Monsieur require any cigarettes?’ he enquired.

  ‘Do you have Athikas?’

  The barman was apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur, no. We have Eckstein.’

  ‘I’ll have two packets.’

  ‘Certainly, Monsieur.’

  Recognition, sign and counter sign complete.

  With a glint in his eye, the barman gave a small bow, crossed to the bar and returned minutes later with a tray containing coffee, jenever and two green packets of Eckstein cigarettes. As usual, the barman had slit open the paper top of one of the packets of cigarettes.

  Anthony drained the jenever at a gulp, wincing at the taste of the raw spirit, sipped his coffee, took out a cigarette and lit it, looking idly round the cafe. No one was paying him the slightest attention. He looked down at the note that had been put in the packet of cigarettes. It was written in French.

  Ten o’clock. Becker. St Pierre side door. Go inside and wait.

  The destruction is great. But not complete.

  Technically speaking, the cathedral of St Pierre was still a building, if having the remains of walls and part of a roof constituted a building. The broken roof timbers drooped forlornly into the grey sky above him. What had been the steeple was an empty shell. The floor was a heap of rubble, with timbers and stone from the fallen vault. Mixed in with the rubble were pools of melted metal slag. Anthony crouched down and picked up a piece, weighing it in his hand. Where on earth had it come from?

  Part of the metal had a familiar curve. Anthony ran his hand over the curve, searching for the memory. Bells! These had been the bells. Anthony dropped the piece of slag and stood up with a shudder. How fierce had been the fire to have melted bronze?

  There was nothing accidental about the destruction. In what had been the side chapels off the nave, bonfires had been made by piling up altars, furniture and pews. Some of the bonfires had been infernos, others still clearly showed the charred remains of the wood tossed on them.

  If anyone was interested, they could work out easily enough which direction the wind had blown that night, but Anthony suddenly wasn’t interested but, for the second time that morning, furious.

  A memory of Westminster Cathedral came to him and with it that choking anger that had possessed him in the cafe. This could be Westminster. He wanted to leave this smoke-blackened ruin with its bullet-pocked walls and hunt down every man responsible.

  ‘La destruction est grande.’

  He turned sharply as the voice spoke out of the shadows.

  The destruction is great. He couldn’t see anyone but remembered the countersign. ‘Mais pas terminé.’ And the destruction wouldn’t be complete, not if he could do anything to stop it.

  A man emerged from the shadows beside the wall. ‘Who are you, Monsieur?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘For the moment, I am Dr Erich Lieben,’ Anthony replied. He spoke in French and kept his voice low. ‘You are Monsieur Becker?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Becker was dressed like a workman, in thick boots and a heavy jacket with a scarf instead of a collar, but his accent wasn’t that of a labourer. The mere fact he spoke French singled him out in this Flemish town. ‘What do you want, Dr Lieben?’

  ‘I want to know where I can find a Sister Marie-Eugénie. I believe her to be in the convent of the Sisters of the Blessed Mercy of God.’

  Becker raised his eyebrows. ‘The orphanage?’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Anthony, his spirits lifting. Although he was sure he was on the track of Milly and Sister Marie-Eugénie, he’d had plenty of time on the barge to worry that their reasoning was tenuous and his quest futile. To know there really was an orphanage was very reassuring.

  ‘I don’t know the nuns by name, but I know the convent.’ Becker looked him up and down and nodded slowly. ‘You’ll fit in.’

  Anthony was puzzled. ‘Why? Why should I fit in, I mean?’

  ‘Because you are a doctor,’ said Becker. ‘You are a doctor? In truth, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Becker’s face cleared. ‘Good. The convent of the Sisters of the Blessed Mercy of God is now a hospital for infectious diseases. A Seuchenlazarette,’ he added, using the German word.

  Although this was a possibility that had been mentioned in London, it seemed extraordinary to have it confirmed in this burnt-out shell of a cathedral in Louvain.

  ‘That’s good. If it’s a hospital, that could be a way in. What illnesses do they treat?’

  Becker shrugged. ‘Typhoid?’

  ‘Do they, by George?’ said Anthony in satisfaction. It wasn’t surprising. Typhoid, highly contagious and almost inevitable in cramped, dirty, living conditions, was common in the trenches. It was a condition Anthony had become very familiar with over the last few months.

  Becker’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile. ‘The hospital is supposed to be excellent. The Boche take good care of their own.’

  That chimed in with what Anthony knew. Medical research had been highly advanced in Germany before the war. It was for that very reason that he had chosen to spend his meagre funds studying in Berlin.

  Doctors were honoured in Germany, both in and out of the army. Unlike Britain, where, before the war, army doctors were viewed as the scrapings of a fairly unsavoury barrel by their professional colleagues and military superiors, German army doctors commanded respect. The Germans did, indeed, look after their own.

  ‘When the Boche burnt Louvain, they killed many religious,’ continued Becker, ‘but the Sisters of the Blessed Mercy of God they spared. The convent is a large building and the Boche took up residence there. When the fighting moved on, it became a Seuchenlazarette, and the sisters became their nurses, working for the Boche. The sisters said they had no choice.’ His mouth twisted. ‘They said they had to protect the children in their care.’

  From Becker’s expression, it was evident he thought this was a pretty lame excuse. Anthony had a lot of sympathy for the nuns. Mind you, he reminded himself, he hadn’t lived through the burning of Louvain.

  Becker looked at Anthony appraisingly. ‘You’re dressed as a colonel. Why is that?’

  ‘I’ve lived in Germany. Germans respect authority,’ said Anthony.

  ‘They do,’ agreed Becker. ‘So it wasn’t part of a plan to get into the hospital?’

  Anthony shook his head. ‘I’ve only just confirmed that this convent is a hospital too. No, I haven’t a plan yet. I was going to take a look around, see how the land lies and perhaps try and get in tonight, under cover of darkness.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ agreed Becker. ‘I wondered if it was part of your plan because Colonel Anschütz, who was in charge, died last month.’

  ‘That’s worth knowing,’ said Anthony. ‘If I’m spotted, I could say I’m on an informal tour of inspection, although I couldn’t get away with that story for long. All in all, I think a better idea is to persuade one of the guards to swap clothes with me, if you see what I mean.’

  Becker nodded. ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Either that or dress up as an orderly or a male nurse.’

  ‘Not a nurse,’ said Becker. ‘All the nursing is done by the nuns. You’re too tall and broad to be a nun.’

  Anthony grinned. ‘I can’t see myself taking the veil, that’s for sure. Whe
re’s the convent? The Seuchenlazarette?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a large red-brick building set back from the road in its own grounds on the Rempart de Malines.’

  Anthony recalled the map he had studied on the barge. The Rempart de Malines was on the western outskirts of the town, about half a mile or so away. If the town still resembled the map, he could probably find his own way. The trouble was that the Rempart de Malines was a long road which had boasted some of the finest and largest houses in the town. To pick out the hospital could be difficult.

  ‘I can show you the way,’ said Becker, much to Anthony’s relief. ‘I’ll go in front and you can follow. We cannot walk together, as that would cause suspicion.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Belgians and Germans are not friends.’

  TWENTY

  Becker left the cathedral first. Anthony gave him a couple of minutes, then slipped cautiously out of the side door after him. A quick look around showed him they were unobserved. Becker was waiting by a broken wall on the corner. Without exchanging glances, Becker set off, Anthony following some distance behind, picking his way through the blasted rubble of what had been the street.

  Everything was broken, grey and dirty. The dust that the wind blew in clouds from the hollowed-out skeletons of the houses, choked him. The only new things were the posters that were fastened to every post demanding the requisition of virtually every good, from cotton and rubber to timber and tin. The penalty for hoarding, for withholding any demanded material, was death.

  When he had lived in Kiel for those first few nerve-wracking months of the war, things had been tough for the Germans, suffering under the British blockade, but Germany was like paradise compared to this apocalypse.

  They had been walking for about twenty minutes when a squad of Germans, herding a group of weary-looking civilians, swung round the corner. The captain, in charge of the squad, saw Becker.

  ‘Halt!’

  Anthony slid into the shadows, watching the soldiers surround his guide.

  ‘Your papers!’ demanded the captain.

  Becker handed over his identity card. The captain gave it a cursory glance. ‘You are under arrest. Do not resist.’

  This wasn’t in the plan. Anthony straightened his shoulders and marched towards the men. ‘What is happening here?’

  The captain took in Anthony’s uniform and saluted. ‘We have orders to round up able-bodied men, sir.’

  Anthony nodded. ‘Very good, Captain. However, I have need of such a man as this at the hospital.’ He snapped his fingers at Becker. ‘You! Come with me.’

  Becker looked at him sullenly, playing his part. ‘What about my work?’ he mumbled.

  ‘That is not important,’ said Anthony icily.

  The captain didn’t look any too pleased either. ‘I have orders to bring in twenty men, sir.’

  ‘And I am sure you will fulfil those orders admirably, Captain.’ Anthony inclined his head. ‘Dismissed!’

  The captain swallowed, turned, barked out an order at his men, and the squad marched off.

  ‘Does that happen often?’ asked Anthony, once they were safely out of earshot.

  ‘All the time. They have deported thousands of us as slave labourers to Germany.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens.’

  He could be mentioning that it might rain, thought Anthony, his admiration for Becker growing. ‘Can’t you escape to Holland?’

  ‘I have work to do. The White Lady needs me. I’m a useful man. I speak German and it’s remarkable what can be picked up by a good listener.’ He grinned savagely. ‘I can fight back.’ Becker glanced at Anthony. ‘I did wonder, when we spoke before, how you could be a German officer. Your uniform is excellent and your German is good, but you lacked arrogance. Arrogance is the mark of an officer.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You were arrogant then. Remember, my friend, be arrogant. I want you to succeed.’

  The ground started to rise gently upwards and, quite suddenly, as if someone had drawn a line across the landscape, the blasted remains of the town were behind and they were amongst trees climbing up a gently sloping grassy verge.

  Cresting the slope, Anthony could see a broad, unpaved road. The road was peppered with ruts and potholes but it was flanked with gracious houses that could’ve surrounded Oxford or Cheltenham. The contrast with the destruction behind them was astonishing.

  A low thrum and a billowing cloud of dust in the distance made him step back into the trees. A car was approaching and that, of course, meant the enemy.

  Becker had already taken cover behind a bush and together they watched as an open grey-painted Opel, cases strapped to the back, drove slowly past. Both the driver and the officer in the back were well wrapped up, scarves round their faces, against the choking dust.

  A few yards up the road the Opel hit a pothole, gave a terrific jerk, bouncing both driver and passage high in their seats. Anthony winced as he heard the bang of a ruptured tyre.

  The car ground to a halt. In the bush beside him, Becker gave a hiss of annoyance. They could hardly cross the road with the car there.

  Up ahead, the driver got out of the car, ruefully inspected the wheel, then went to report to the officer in the back.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to change the tyre, sir,’ he said, saluting.

  Anthony heard the passenger sigh. ‘Oh, very well. I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it. These roads are an absolute menace.’

  Anthony frowned. That voice, with its slightly fussy, old-maidish quality, was oddly familiar. Who the devil was it?

  ‘I’m very sorry, but you’ll have to get out of the car, sir,’ said the driver apologetically. ‘I’ll have to jack the car up to change the wheel, you see. I only hope the suspension isn’t damaged.’

  ‘I hope so, too,’ said the officer. The driver opened the door and the officer got out, brushing the dust from his uniform. He pulled down the scarf from his face, coughing. ‘Will you be long?’

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, sir, but it’s going to take at least ten minutes, maybe longer.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the officer unhappily. He shifted on the spot, obviously uncomfortable. ‘I think I’d better have a little walk.’

  Baumann! It was Baumann! Talk about a small world. Anthony had known Baumann in Kiel, when, during the first few months of the war, he had worked at the university hospital as Dr Conrad Etriech. That period of Anthony’s life had come to a sudden halt when, with his cover blown and the German army on his tail, he had escaped from Kiel.

  Anthony couldn’t help grinning. Baumann had a passion for coffee – even the ghastly ground acorn liquid that passed for wartime coffee – and many a conversation had been abruptly terminated because of Baumann’s urgent desire to use the facilities.

  His grin faded. Things must be getting pretty desperate if they’d rounded up the likes of poor old Baumann. Not that he was so very old, of course, and, like all Germans, he had served in the army and was in the reserve. It was only natural Baumann should be called upon, he supposed. But Baumann! He was a kindly, pernickety soul, generous and sentimental, devoted to his wife and five children. Anyone less like the stereotypical swaggeringly brutal Prussian officer it was hard to imagine.

  What on earth was he doing in Belgium? As a matter of fact, thought Anthony, Louvain was probably the perfect posting. It was well out of the front line and Baumann was not a martial type.

  A movement beside him made him look round. Becker had opened a large clasp knife and was feeling the blade with his thumb.

  ‘No!’ Anthony’s whisper was urgent. ‘We can’t kill him.’

  He really couldn’t kill him. Yes, they were at war and Baumann was the enemy, but to kill the poor beggar was far too close to murder for Anthony’s liking. He might be a spy in enemy country but before anything else, he was a human being and a doctor. First do no harm … To the best of his knowledge, he had always lived by the medical oath. Besides that, it was Baumann for heaven’s sake.

  He saw the disdainful look in Becker
’s eyes and tried for a reason the Belgian would understand. ‘If he dies, we’ll be hunted down. There’ll be reprisals.’

  And there would be. One dead German officer would mean quite a few dead Belgians, shot in revenge.

  Becker sighed and lowered the clasp knife.

  Up ahead, Baumann was inspecting the trees. There was very little undergrowth and Baumann obviously wanted some privacy. He always had been rather prim.

  Anthony shrank down behind the bush. All he wanted was for that damn driver to change the wheel and summon Baumann back to the car.

  Instead, to his dismay, he heard footsteps swishing through the grass. Baumann was getting closer. Not here, he thought urgently. Anywhere but here …

  Baumann came round the bush. For a moment he didn’t see them, then, his eyes widening in incredulous horror, he opened his mouth to call out.

  Anthony sprang.

  There was nothing else for it. He simply couldn’t allow Baumann to call for help.

  Taken completely by surprise, Baumann went down, flattened by Anthony’s leap. Anthony sat astride him and clamped a hand over his mouth.

  ‘Baumann? You recognize me?’

  With bulging eyes, Baumann nodded. He looked terrified. Anthony knew what he was thinking. To Baumann he was Conrad Etriech, the spy. He’d never thought how his untimely departure from Kiel had affected anyone who’d known him there but, in the university at least, the truth about their erstwhile colleague must’ve been endlessly discussed.

  ‘We are English spies,’ Anthony continued.

  Becker, kneeling beside Baumann, knife at the ready, looked startled at his change of nationality but, thankfully, said nothing.

  ‘If you do what I say, you will not be harmed.’

  Baumann grunted in disapproval. He was a stubborn devil, remembered Anthony.

  ‘Becker,’ said Anthony, continuing to speak in German. ‘Unwrap his scarf and gag him with it.’