The thought of giving an honest answer to a German Feldgendarme was so foreign to everything that had been ingrained into Anna’s soul over the last five years that she could scarcely bring herself to speak. Yet, there was something about this man. Something that suggested he wasn’t just trying to pry information out of her. “No, I’m not Jewish,” Anna said. “I was helping American and British aviators get back to Britain, and I got caught.”
Otto raised his bushy eyebrows, and Anna thought she detected the slightest hint of a smile. “So, I don’t suppose your name is really Jeanne Laurent, then, is it?”
“No, it’s Anna Kopernik.” As she said this Anna realized she hadn’t spoken her last name out loud in five years.
“Kopernik?” Otto mumbled. “That doesn’t sound—”
“It’s Polish…I’m from Krakow.”
Otto shifted in his chair, his dark eyes fixed on her, but it appeared as though he were seeing through her, back to another time and another place. He walked over to the sink, rinsed out his cup and leaned against the counter with his back to her, his broad shoulders twitching. He was silent for a minute then spoke in a low, gravelly whisper. “I was a guard at Auschwitz.”
Anna closed her eyes and a tingling ran up her spine. She had heard the name whispered among the prisoners at Drancy. There were stories, rumors, about a Nazi death camp at a town near Krakow called Oswiecim. The Germans had renamed it Auschwitz.
“When were you there?” Anna whispered.
“1943. Then I was transferred to Drancy.”
Anna took a deep breath. It’s now or never, she thought. “Otto? Look at me.”
The big man turned toward her. His eyes were glassy.
“Otto, it’s not your fault. You were following orders, weren’t you? If you didn’t, they’d have killed you, wouldn’t they?”
“Maybe they should have,” he said.
Anna stood up and carried her plate and cup to the sink. She had never done this before. She looked up at him, not sure how far she could push this but knowing she might not have another opportunity.
“There’s still time, Otto?”
“Time?”
“There’s still time…for some good to come out of this.”
He was silent. Anna could see he was trying to understand.
“You could help me, Otto.”
Suddenly, he stood up straight, his giant frame towering over her. He took a step back.
“We could leave now, before Koenig returns. You’re a Feldgendarme, you could get us to the border and we’d find a way—”
“Nein!” he growled, backing away another step. “I’ve said too much. Forget everything I told you. It’s impossible.”
“Otto, please, listen. I—”
“Nein!”
He grabbed her arm with a thick hand and pulled her to the door of the bedroom. He pushed her inside, slammed it shut and locked it.
Chapter 63
THE BRITISH ELEVENTH ARMORED DIVISION was moving so fast that Captain Steve Bradley, tank commander, Third Royal Tank Regiment, had difficulty keeping up with their position on his map.
Charging through the French countryside, they crossed the Seine on August 28, and two days later reached Amiens. They crossed the Somme the next day, and by September 2 they were at Lille, where they dipped slightly to the southeast, crossed into Belgium near Tournai and spent the next day heading north.
As they clanked along on the narrow, dusty roads, Bradley was amazed at the lack of serious opposition. The terrain was incredibly flat, and they constantly crossed small bridges over narrow canals where they should have been easy targets. Perhaps it was because they followed minor roads through small villages that they escaped detection but, whatever the reason, Bradley was thankful for the respite. He had been at Caen and at the Falaise Gap and had seen enough bloodshed for a lifetime.
On the night of September 3, in the flickering light of a kerosene lantern, Bradley examined the map another time. Word had just come down that tomorrow they would push into Antwerp.
At seven o’clock, on the evening of September 3, Willy Boeynants sat in the meeting room in the cellar of the Café Brig with Antoine and five other officers of the White Brigade. The group was silent as they listened to the French language broadcast on the BBC. The string of coded messages began. Most of the messages were meaningless, intended to confuse the German agents who were always listening. But others delivered instructions to agents of Resistance organizations who knew what to listen for.
The radio crackled a few times, and Boeynants strained to hear. Antoine held up his hand and leaned toward the radio as the announcer spoke in a dull monotone.
“Pour François la lune est clair.”
The Resistance leader slapped his hand on the table and looked around at his compatriots, his dark eyes gleaming. “That’s it! ‘For Francois the moon is bright.’ That’s the final signal. They’ll be here within twenty-four hours. You all know what to do. Let’s get moving.”
One by one the White Brigade officers slipped on their armbands and left the café, dispersing throughout the city to initiate the call to action. Plans developed over the past two years would be thrust into motion. Units of armed White Brigade fighters would move into positions along the River Schelde, prepared to harass the movement of German troops stationed in defensive fortifications on the west bank. Other White Brigade units would set up locations along the roads leading into the city, while still others would take strategic posts along the Albert Canal.
Armed with the drawings and diagrams Jan had provided, Antoine went immediately to the port to take command of the units he had organized to seize the Kruisschans Lock.
Willy Boeynants, driving a borrowed auto, set off in the opposite direction, to the south of Boom, where he intended to intercept the first Allied units and direct them over the Pont van Enschodt. As he sped along the nearly deserted roads, Boeynants gripped the steering wheel, concentrating, focusing all of his thoughts on the upcoming task. Everything was in place for the long-awaited uprising against the German oppressor. The hour was at hand…and everything depended on the Allies arriving in time.
The next morning Jan showed the badge identifying him as Ernst Heinrich to the Feldgendarmes and passed through the checkpoint into the park. He flashed the badge again at the main bunker and proceeded through the tunnel to the headquarters building.
As he climbed the stairs to the third floor he looked out the windows, wondering if today would be the day. It was the same thought that he’d had each of the last three days—the most stressful he’d ever experienced.
Commanding troops in battle had been dangerous, and the killing and maiming had been appalling. But that was a job he’d been trained to do. What he was doing now was something so completely foreign he didn’t know what to expect from one hour to the next. He’d never felt so isolated, so vulnerable, in his life.
Jan entered the command center and gathered up the stack of reports that had been left for him by the night duty officers responsible for inspecting demolition emplacements. He glanced around the room. The usual officers were going about their usual tasks. The radio was quiet. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Either no attack was imminent, or, if it was, it would take them by surprise.
He put the papers in his briefcase, poured a cup of coffee and walked down the hall to the office that had been provided for him. He stepped into the office, set the briefcase on the desk and abruptly turned around, startled by the sound of footsteps behind him.
Leutnant Wernher Graf stood in the doorway. “You look a little jumpy this morning, Herr Heinrich,” Graf said.
“Christ, Leutnant, I didn’t see you in the hall. What’d you do, drop from the ceiling?”
“Well, I guess you are a little jumpy. Sorry if I frightened you.”
“Nein, you surprised me, Graf. There’s a difference.” Jan took off his jacket and hung it on a hook next to the metal filing cabinet. “What can I do for you?”
/> “It’s ‘Leutnant’ Graf to you,” he said, glancing around the small room. “I’ve come for your notes.”
“My notes?”
“Ja, your notes, Herr Heinrich. The notes you’ve been taking the last few days. And all the drawings you’ve been making.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Leutnant? They were just scribbles; what would you want with them?”
“It’s none of your goddamn business what I want with them,” Graf snarled. He took a step closer to the desk. “Just hand them over, Jetzt!”
“I don’t have them.”
Graf glared at him, and a thin smile appeared on his face. Jan sensed that was exactly what the devious son of a bitch expected to hear.
“What did you do with them?”
“I destroyed them, every night in my hotel room. When I was done with my calculations, I burned them. Certainly you—”
“Verdammt! Who do you think you’re fucking around with?” Graf shouted. “You’ve taken notes on a military installation and now you say you don’t have them? I could arrest you for treason right here, you—”
“Graf!” another voice shouted. “What the hell is going on?” Leutnant Rolfmann stepped into the crowded office.
Graf whirled around. “I’ve asked Herr Heinrich for the notes he’s been taking and the drawings he’s made. Now he’s tells me he doesn’t have them.”
Rolfmann seemed perplexed.
Jan looked at him and spoke slowly, trying to stay calm. “I’ve tried to explain to Leutnant Graf that it has been my practice each night to destroy the notes I’ve taken after I finish my calculations. I’ve been told that the Resistance is very active in Antwerp and there could be spies anywhere. This is certainly not information I wanted to carry around with me.”
Rolfmann turned to Graf. “Well, Wernher, that certainly makes sense, don’t you think?”
“Not to me it doesn’t,” Graf snapped as he pushed his way past Rolfmann and stalked off down the hall.
As they approached Boom, the Third Royal Tank Regiment came to a halt. Standing in the open turret of his Sherman tank, Captain Bradley peered ahead to see what had caused the delay. A tall, silver-haired man wearing an armband on his left sleeve stood in the middle of the road, gesturing to the lead tank commander. The tank commander leaned over the side of the turret.
A Jeep roared up the column and skidded to a stop next to the silver-haired man. A scout officer jumped out of the Jeep, and the strange man unrolled a map. A few minutes later they both climbed into the jeep and roared off to the east.
Bradley’s headset crackled. The regiment was making a detour.
As the tank column passed behind several large factory buildings, Bradley stood in the turret, glancing around. He was nervous, this wasn’t the plan. A few minutes later they turned north, and barreled at top speed along a gravel road with buildings close by on either side.
When Bradley first saw the bridge ahead of them, he was certain they had made a mistake. It looked too narrow and too old. But, with no hesitation, the Jeep and the lead tank roared onto the bridge, machine guns blazing. As his big Sherman tank bounced along the road, Bradley spotted a group of German soldiers running off the other end of the bridge. A battered wood sign at the base of the bridge read Pont van Enschodt.
The tank column roared over the bridge and followed the Jeep to the left, through a maze of narrow streets. Suddenly, dozens of men—civilians, armed with rifles and submachine guns, emerged from between the buildings and out of the ditches along the road. They ran alongside the clanking tanks, cheering and pumping their fists in the air, dressed in all manner of uniforms, berets and helmets. But they all wore the same armband as the silver-haired man, a white band with red, yellow and black diagonal strips. Bradley stared at them in amazement, wondering where in the hell they had come from.
They rounded a corner, and Bradley saw another bridge, a huge highway bridge spanning the same river they had just crossed. Suddenly, a burst of enemy machine-gun fire blasted at the tank column from two bunkers at the entrance to the highway bridge. The lead tanks returned fire and, in an instant, the German gunners bailed out and scrambled down the embankment toward the river.
The Jeep and two tanks roared onto the highway bridge as another unit of German soldiers fired at them from the middle of the span. Bradley’s tank was still twenty meters from the bridge when a gang of the civilians wearing armbands ran past him. They charged onto the bridge, firing rifles and submachine guns, and tossing hand grenades. In less than a minute, the German guards broke ranks and retreated off the other side.
The Jeep stopped in the middle of the bridge, and the silver-haired man climbed out, holding some papers in his hand. A second Jeep barreled up from the rear of the column and three demolition engineers jumped out. They looked at the papers then climbed over the side of the bridge.
Bradley stopped his tank and watched. Twenty minutes later an officer waved the all-clear signal, and Bradley’s headset crackled. He listened to the message then bent down and yelled to his tank driver. “Turn to the north, Eddie. We’re heading into Antwerp.”
• • •
At ten o’clock that morning Leutnant Graf finally got in to see Hauptmann Gunter Hermann. He stood at attention in front of the desk, staring at the usual picture of Hitler on the wall until Hermann looked up and waved for him to take a seat.
“I’m concerned about the civilian, Heinrich,” Graf said quickly, knowing that Hermann had no patience for small talk.
“Why is that?” Hermann asked, leaning back in his chair.
“He’s been taking a lot of notes and making diagrams of all of the demolition emplacements that Rolfmann has shown him.”
Hermann’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond.
“Earlier this morning I asked him for his notes,” Graf said. “He told me he had destroyed them.”
“You obviously don’t believe him.”
“Nein. As you know, the train wreck was very unusual, and there’s just something about him that bothers me. Now these notes—”
Hermann held up his hand as the signal that he’d heard enough. “I’ve been making some inquiries about that train wreck,” he said, motioning for Graf to close the door. “Last night I received a very interesting phone call. It seems that one of the conductors recalls seeing three Wehrmacht soldiers running from the train right after the wreck. There was a fourth man with them. It appeared to the conductor as though the soldiers were leading the man away from the train.”
“Was the conductor able to describe the fourth man?” Graf asked, sitting on the edge of his chair.
“He said the man was a civilian. He was tall and had blond hair.”
Graf jumped to his feet. “Give me an order, sir.”
Hermann was about to respond when there was a knock on the door. With a look of annoyance, Hermann barked for the person to enter.
His aide, a young Unteroffizier named Boettcher, stepped into the office and stood at rapt attention.
Hermann motioned for him to speak.
“Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but General Stolberg has called an emergency meeting in the command center.”
“What the hell’s happened?” Hermann snapped.
“The Kruisschans Lock has been attacked, sir.”
“What? The Kruisschans Lock? Attacked by whom?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” the young enlisted man said. “I heard something about Resistance forces…the White Brigade.”
“Mein Gute!” Hermann burst from the office with Graf running behind him.
General Stolberg stood at the head of the table in the command center. The radios squawked and the telephones rang. The operators furiously jotted notes and passed them to the general’s aides who read them and scribbled responses.
The rest of the garrison’s officers were already in the room as Hermann and Graf burst in. The general began speaking immediately. “Fifteen minutes ago, we received a report that Resistanc
e forces have seized the Kruisschans Lock.”
“They’ve seized it? Already?” Hermann blurted out.
“They attacked from three directions and apparently overtook the guard unit within minutes. At least four of the guards were killed.”
A murmuring broke out among the officers but stopped abruptly as the general continued. “We’ve also had reports of armed Resistance forces firing on Wehrmacht soldiers along the Schelde, the Albert Canal and in the central city.”
Before any of the officers could respond one of the general’s aides handed him a radio message.
The general read it and glanced at the aide.
The aide nodded.
General Stolberg cleared his throat and addressed the group of officers. “British armored units have crossed the Rupel River at Boom and are heading toward Antwerp.”
“At Boom? That’s…that’s not possible,” Hermann stammered. “That bridge was set for demolition. The guards…they had a clear sight line over two kilometers down the road. Graf, isn’t that…”
The aide handed General Stolberg another message. He read it and glared at Hermann. His voice was acidic. “They apparently crossed the river on the Pont van Enschodt and circled through the town, taking the main highway bridge by surprise from the rear.”
“The Pont van Enschodt?” Hermann turned toward Graf. “How could they have known?”
Graf pointed his finger at Rolfmann. “You took Heinrich to Boom, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” the big man said. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. “I took him everywhere. I…Oh Christ…nein… he couldn’t have.”
“He took notes! He made drawings!” Graf screamed.
“What the hell are you talking about?” the general demanded.
“It’s Heinrich, sir,” Hermann said. “He’s a traitor. Graf…go get that schweinhund! Jetzt!”
Chapter 64
JAN’S OFFICE WAS JUST AROUND THE CORNER from the command center, and when he noticed a group of officers racing down the hallway he knew the moment had arrived. He left the office and headed for the back staircase.
Night of Flames Page 33
