The Iron Shadow

by Stefano Siggia

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Lieutenant Summers,” Dunn-Hamming said, “this operation is unlike anything you have experienced so far. Remember at all times that this is not the RFC. You are not on a team; you are on your own. There will be no camaraderie, no cricket games, no pats on the back, no dinners with other people. You are thoroughly, completely alone.”

  “Do not trust anyone,” Boulger said. “You are not the only spy in that city, and spies by definition look entirely innocuous. Clergymen, school teachers, store clerks, shoe shiners, gardeners, anyone could be an enemy spy. And they are out there to find and kill people like you. Do you understand that? Trust no one.”

  Melbourne felt his heart race. “Yes.”

  The eyes of all three men fixed him. He felt trapped, and nervous.

  “Are you genuinely ready for this, Lieutenant?” It was Colonel Dunn-Hamming’s husky voice that broke the silence. “There is no turning back once we leave this room.”

  Melbourne had faced death many times before, but never like this. But if Henry could do it…

  He took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  XII

  - 8 days

  The short man at the border control booth placed his glasses on his nose and read the name on the document out loud. He pronounced it slowly, as to get a feel of the name. “Monsieur Remy Bourgin.” He removed his glasses and took a good look at the man standing in front of him. “And what is your business coming here to Brussels, Monsieur, if I may ask?”

  “I am a journalist,” Melbourne said. “I write for the Swiss Times.”

  He opened his luggage and began fumbling through his unfamiliar possessions until he found a copy of the newspaper. He held it up to the short man, whose disinterest was more than apparent. “I am writing an article on the improvement of the Belgian administration and the governing facilities by the German authorities.”

  The short man waved his hand as if to cut him off. “And where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know yet. I shall rent a room or find a hotel, I suppose.”

  “Very well. Wait here, Monsieur Bourgin.”

  He disappeared in the back of his office and returned after a few minutes later with a German officer.

  Melbourne’s heart stopped.

  The German officer, dressed in a khaki uniform with the classic spiked helmet inspected Remy’s documents and then moved his gaze towards Melbourne himself. Melbourne tried to act as natural as possible but felt he was doing a bad imitation of a dressmaker’s dummy.

  The German officer turned towards the small man and chatted briefly with him in German. Melbourne caught enough to realise they were discussing him. The officer then nodded and proceeded outside the booth and towards Melbourne.

  “I will need to inspect your luggage, Sir,” he said in broken French.

  Melbourne nodded and opened his suitcase, his heart in his throat.

  The German officer carefully checked everything inside – clothes, notepads, shaving kit. Melbourne had been told that everything was appropriately Swiss and comfortably worn. He had to trust that was true. The officer removed the copy of the Swiss Times and carefully went through it. It only took a few minutes but to Melbourne it felt like much more than that.

  The officer turned to the short man and with a nod handed him Melbourne’s – Remy’s – documents.

  With an enormous stamp that barely seemed to fit in his small hand, the border inspector punched a mark on Melbourne’s travelling document and handed it back to him. “Monsieur Bourgin, your documents are all in order. Your pass has been granted for ten days. Welcome to Brussels.”

  Melbourne thanked the man, saluted the officer, and left the booth quickly but calmly. The Gare du Nord, Brussels’ main train station, felt abandoned. There was not a single person waiting for a train and not a single train entering the station. The one he had taken from Switzerland was most likely the only train that anyone would see that day.

  He headed for the doors of the exit in front of him. He needed to get out.

  Swinging the doors open, he entered Brussels.

  Unlike the train station, the city outside was full of life. Men, women, and children of all ages scurried about. Carriages led by horses and sputtering taxicabs filled the street. A newspaper stand stood in a corner of a sidewalk with its vendor waving in his hand the latest edition giving information on the war. His shouts attracted the people nearby and many gave him a few cents to buy the paper. On the opposite sidewalk were a group of ladies, each equipped with a cart holding a large cauldron of soup, which they would serve to whoever had a few cents to spare and was hungry.

  A hotel with a café stood to the left side of the station. Each and every table was filled with German soldiers and officers. Melbourne had been told not to lower his gaze, so instead looked up at the roofs of the palaces that surrounded him. They were littered with German flags.

  He looked around him and knew that Melbourne was going to be dead for the next two weeks. Long live Remy, he hoped.

  He took out his pocket watch and adjusted it one hour ahead. Since the Germans had taken control of Belgium they imposed, among other things, their own time.

  Melbourne took a map from the pocket of his brown trench coat and analysed his route to the house he was going to be staying in for the next ten days. He adjusted the homburg the curious Monsieur Dulont had given him and proceeded down the road.

  He had barely walked a few metres when a small group of German soldiers, rifles in their hands, came towards him, chatting among themselves. They belonged to the military police; their iron-shod boots rang when they walked, and their grey uniforms were embellished with a large Imperial eagle on the side of their jackets. A large chain hung from their necks, the word ‘Polizei’ clearly embossed on a metal disc. Melbourne tried to act natural.

  The German soldiers barely paid him any attention and continued on their way.

  His heart raced and he began noticing many more around him. Some were patrolling the streets, others were standing and monitoring their surroundings. Wherever one looked, they were there. Melbourne had never seen the enemy face to face but always in a flying machine some distance from him. He felt the tension rise in him once more. He needed to get used to seeing them everywhere. But especially, he needed to calm the hell down.

  He reassured himself that if ever they stopped him, they had no real proof of his true identity. The Foreign Office had taken very good care to create a brand new human being from nothing. He ran his false biography in his head once more just to be safe. Safe, well, that is unless they found the envelope containing the letter and the poem, safely tucked it in a secret pocket of his coat.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Everything was going to be all right.

  A tram stopped to pick up a group of passengers and Melbourne ran to catch it. He pulled out a few cents needed for the ticket and gave them to the driver.

  The driver eyed him strangely, and then looked down at his luggage. “Are you carrying any potatoes in there, Sir?”

  Did he just hear that? Was it a colloquialism of some sort? A popular local joke? “Excuse me?”

  “I said, are you carrying any potatoes in your luggage, Sir?” The driver pointed to a poster next to him that read, Transporting potatoes is illegal! Fines shall be applied to anyone caught!

  “Well, no, no potatoes in here,” Melbourne said.

  “Good!” The driver started the tram’s engines.

  Melbourne made his way to the back and took a seat next to an elderly man. He turned to greet him when he noticed something curious sticking out from the man’s black coat. A sausage. The man noticed it and quickly tucked it back in, giving Melbourne a fearful glance. Melbourne simply smiled at him and paid him no more notice. At least it wasn’t potatoes.

  The tram wound its way through the busy streets of Brussels, sometimes slowing down for the carriages and cars that drove in front of it, other times speeding up when the street was empty. Me
rchants sold flowers and vegetables at little stands on the sidewalks with the vendors shouting that they had the cheapest prices in the neighbourhood. Very few seemed to believe them or even care. Melbourne took note of the state of things, in case anyone asked how his article was coming.

  One thing he did note – and that would never go into an article by the German-friendly press – was that there was tension in the air. He could feel that something was out of place and did not belong there. The terror of an invading army had doubtless died down, but its aftereffects could be felt and seen. Not a smile was found on anyone’s face. Not a laugh. Not a child playing. The people passing on the street walked like the living dead with their heads down, not looking at the men dressed in brown khaki uniforms who were staring at them, monitoring that none of their rules were being broken.

  Foreign flags flew on buildings where the Belgian flag had once flown, and the populace knew it.

  Melbourne noticed long lines of people in front of stores that sometimes even went around the bend of the sidewalk. He wondered what in the world was going on.

  Seven stops later he grabbed his suitcase and left the tram. He took his map out once more and followed the instructions that were written on it in pencil. After finding himself lost a couple of times and having to ask instructions from an elderly woman in the street, he finally found the house.

  Avenue Legrand was a narrow road, lined up with compact and characteristic houses all attached together for the entire length of the street. Each house bore a different design but they all had in common slanted red roofs and many windows on their façades. Some were made of red bricks with the wood around the windows painted blue. Others were constructed with soft yellow coloured bricks and grey doors.

  Melbourne found house number 34 and knocked. It seemed like the largest of the surrounding houses. He heard footsteps approach the entrance, and a man opened the door.

  He was short in stature and by the look of his white hair, Melbourne guessed he must have been somewhere in his sixties. Small round glasses sat on his nose and a short, neatly cut white moustache, bent slightly upwards at the tips, resided above his upper lip. He was quite well dressed, in a tweed suit with a red bow tie, and bore good quality leather shoes. Melbourne could tell that he cared about the way he looked. He also imagined that if he took a needle and poked a hole in the man’s puffy, red cheeks, wine would begin flowing out freely. The man held on tightly to a cane as if it to reassure himself that he would be standing vertically at all times.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s quite a lovely day despite the clouds. Did you already take a walk today?”

  An awkward silence fell between the two.

  Finally, the man spoke. “What?”

  “Um, lovely day despite the clouds. Did you already walk?”

  The man stood there, motionless, only rubbing his chin with a hand. The silence felt extremely awkward.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. I must have the wrong house,” Melbourne said.

  He began walking away when the man spoke up.

  “I took a walk in the nearby park and it was lovely! Have you been there? That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Melbourne let out a sigh of relief. He was at the right house.

  He spun around. “No, but the café on the corner is quite nice.”

  The man began laughing and slapped Melbourne’s shoulder. “Welcome, and damn those complicated passwords! We were expecting you, young lad! Come in, come in. Welcome to my house.”

  XIII

  Melbourne stepped inside and found himself in a cosy, comfortable home. The entrance was slightly narrower than he was used to and faced a long staircase that led to an upper floor.

  “I am sorry about before,” the man said. “I sometimes forget the ridiculous pass codes they come up with. It must be the age catching up with me. My name is Jacques Esmond.”

  Melbourne shook his hand. “Nice to meet you Monsieur Esmond. My name is Remy.”

  Monsieur Esmond took a good look at Melbourne. “Remy, huh? What an imagination they have. You must be the third Remy in this damn house. Whatever, just follow me.”

  He led Melbourne up the stairs and into another corridor lined with closed doors. The door facing the adjacent wall was open, and he ushered his guest inside.

  Melbourne found himself in a large room adorned with bright red carpets on the floor and beautiful paintings of the countryside on the walls. Amidst the paintings was a well sized drawing of King Albert I of Belgium. Large windows overlooked the street below where Melbourne had come in and were covered by well-kept curtains that draped to the floor. A chimney made of stone sat on the right side of the wall and a big wooden dinner table sat in the centre of the room. The left side was furnished with large, comfortable looking chairs covered in scarlet cloth with a small 19th century wooden table between the chairs. A woman sat on one of them, knitting absent-mindedly.

  “Darling, come and meet our new guest,” Monsieur Esmond said. “And guess what his name is? Remy.”

  She raised her eyes to Melbourne and smiled. “Another one?” She quickly put down the sweater she was working on and walked over to him, fixing her hair and her dress. She wore a simple yet elegant dark blue dress and seemed slightly younger than her husband. Her brown, shoulder length hair only had odd strands of white.

  “Welcome, Remy!” She shook his hands with energy. “I am Madame Esmond. Did you have a nice trip? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Tired? You look tired.”

  “I am fine Madame, thank you,” Melbourne said with smile.

  “Really, because I could fix you tea, or something to eat or — ”

  “He said he’s fine, darling.”

  “You know our friend Demetrius Boulger I hear?” the lady asked.

  “Oh, a wonderful person,” Monsieur Esmond said. “But a terrible chess player. The man can’t even tell the difference between a knight and a rook.”

  “You look tired, and I am sure you have had a long trip. Show him to his room, darling. I will see you later.” She winked. “Remy.”

  “I would like to thank you so much for your hospitality,” Melbourne said.

  Madame Esmond smiled and placed a hand on Melbourne’s shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”

  Monsieur Esmond led Melbourne up another staircase right next to the door of the living room that led to a similar corridor with two doors opposite one another. His host opened the door on the left and ushered Melbourne inside.

  The room was small but cosy, with a bed, a table, and a two-shelf bookcase, all furnished with taste.

  “This is your room. Breakfast is at eight, lunch at twelve thirty, and dinner at seven. Don’t be late. Well, I will let you take a care and rest. The bathroom is just next door.”

  He left Melbourne in the room and closed the door behind him.

  *

  At seven o’clock precisely, Melbourne seated himself at the dinner table just as Madame Esmond walked in with a large dish filled with rice, beans, and some lard.

  She forced a smile. “I am sorry that dinner tonight is quite poor. Times are hard these days.”

  “Oh, no, please, pay it no mind,” Melbourne said.

  She divided the portions on each plate and after a short prayer, the three began eating.

  “Rice!” Monsieur Esmond said. “When will potatoes be back in this house?”

  “When the prices aren’t so high, darling. Now be quiet and eat.”

  Monsieur Esmond forced a spoon of rice into his mouth. He looked as if he was swallowing a bitter pill.

  “The situation here in Brussels is really not that easy since the occupation,” she said. “The Germans have cut off our main source of food supplies to be able to feed their armies in Germany and on the Front. We are left with very little and the prices have soared so high.”

  “Sugar has basically become non-existent,” Monsieur Esmond said. “So has coffee. Bastard merchants set prices higher and higher and get richer and richer. Bah! If I were still a lawyer I
would teach them a little lesson.”

  “Thank goodness we have the CNSA,” said his wife.

  “What is that?” asked Melbourne while putting a spoon full of beans in his mouth. He had eaten far worse in his day.

  “The Comité National de Secours et d’Alimentation. They bring together existing charities that help the population here in Brussels. Through local committees in municipalities they distribute food, clothing and coal to us and everyone in the city.”

  “And thank God for the Americans too!” Monsieur Esmond tried to force another spoonful of rice in his mouth. “Those bloody Boche have taken everything from us! May they drown in their hatred!” He was about to spit on the floor when a hard look from his wife cut him off.

  “Let’s change the subject,” she said with a smile. “Where are you from originally?”

  “Darling, you cannot ask those sorts of questions to our guest. Remember? No private or personal questions.

  She sighed. “You’re right. How boring.”

  Melbourne noticed a nice and well decorated standing clock on one corner of the room. The time shown on it was an hour early.

  “I note that you haven’t changed the time on your clock.”

  “Nobody changes the time on the clocks here. Only out in the streets do we do that, but in our houses we will never adopt the German time. Plus, it gives us a patriotic reason to be late.”

  Melbourne took a bite of a slice of bread that was placed in the bread basket and recoiled. It was horrible. He kept a straight face, not wanting to offend his kind hosts. Monsieur Esmond noticed his facial expression. Melbourne took another bite just to show that he found it to his liking.

  His host got suspicious and took a slice as well. He took a bite and spat it on his plate.

  “Honey!” Madame Esmond said.

  “That bastard of a baker! He mixed the flour with chalk again!”

  Melbourne quickly placed the bread on his plate.