She finished the meal in silence, pondering the situation. A sharp knife was close at hand, but Anna dismissed the foolish thought in an instant. Even if she somehow managed to grab it before she was subdued, it would do little good against this mountain of a man. She glanced about the kitchen and realized that the windows were shuttered from the outside. The only other door was the one that led into the dining room, which was now closed and, she guessed, locked.
When she was done, Otto stood and motioned that she was to return to her room. The door closed behind her, and the key turned in the lock.
Chapter 59
AT PRECISELY NOON a black Citroen pulled up to where Jan stood outside the hospital in the center of Antwerp. A young Wehrmacht officer sprang from the vehicle and opened the right rear door. Jan handed the officer his suitcase and slid into the backseat where another officer sat.
The officer appeared to be about Jan’s age but smaller and thinner. He extended his hand, speaking crisp, cultured German. “Guten Morgen, Herr Heinrich. Ich bin Oberstleutnant Erich Bucher. How are you feeling?”
Jan shook the officer’s hand and forced a smile. “I’ll be fine, thank you. Just some stiffness in my neck. I guess I was lucky.”
Bucher nodded then turned to the front of the car and waved his hand to the driver, who pulled out into the busy street. “Well, at least you weren’t injured,” he said. “I’m not sure General Stolberg could handle any more setbacks.”
“Ist das so?” Jan replied, looking out the window. Anna had described the city to him many times, but he didn’t recognize anything. “What’s the situation here?” he asked.
“We’ve had a devil of a time,” Bucher said, removing a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He offered one to Jan, who accepted with the fleeting thought that he hadn’t been told whether Ernst Heinrich smoked or not. Bucher lit both cigarettes and continued. “When we arrived in June, the state of the garrison was a mess. No proper defenses, the troops were just a bunch of fucking prison guards and invalids along with some Flemish renegades—schwein—you couldn’t trust out of your sight. There was no artillery to speak of and nobody trained to use it anyway.”
“I assume you’ve shored it up since then,” Jan asked, shocked at what he heard and trying to look disappointed.
“Ja, natürlich. But there’s a lot more to do. Fortunately, we still have time, at least a couple of weeks, before the British get here. We’ve built a ring of fortifications around the perimeter, but we’ll get into all that soon enough. We’ve almost arrived.”
Jan looked out the window again as the car turned into a large park ringed with barbed wire and concrete bunkers. They passed through a heavily guarded gate and stopped in front of a triangular grouping of three large bunkers surrounded by another barbed wire fence. They got out of the car, and Jan followed Bucher into one of the bunkers, down a flight of steps and into an underground tunnel.
The tunnel was about a hundred meters long, lit by bare electric bulbs hanging from wood rafters. When they exited the tunnel they were in an office building on the edge of the park.
“This is our headquarters building,” Bucher explained as they climbed a staircase. “It’s a former bank building, now inaccessible from the street. The only way in or out is through the tunnel. There are several other buildings around the park, all connected by tunnels to the main bunker, so none of the locals—and more important, none of the fucking Resistance groups—know exactly which building is the headquarters.”
Jan kept silent, glancing out the windows, allowing Bucher to talk. He followed him into a large room that looked like a command center on the third floor.
The room had no windows and practically every available inch of wall space was covered with maps and aerial photographs of the city and the port. There was a bank of radio equipment along one wall, manned by two officers in shirtsleeves. One of them spoke into a microphone while the other tapped out a coded message.
Three other officers sat at a conference table, rummaging through a pile of documents and filling out a variety of forms. Bucher took Jan around the room and made quick introductions. Then he took off his coat, hung it on a hook and invited Jan to do the same.
“We’ll be meeting with General Stolberg for dinner,” Bucher said. “My instructions are to brief you in the meantime. Shall we get started?”
“Ja,” Jan said, ignoring the drops of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the tremors.
Bucher led him to a giant map of the city of Antwerp hanging on the wall opposite the radios and picked up a pointer. “I’m told you’ve been to Antwerp before, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m telling you some things you already know, but I don’t want to overlook anything. The Americans and British are kicking our asses in France, and we don’t have much time.”
Jan nodded, thankful for German thoroughness.
Bucher tapped the pointer on the map, pointing to the River Schelde. “Antwerp, as you know, is one of the best natural harbors in Europe, its geography dominated by the river, which is more than a half kilometer wide. Here, on the river’s east bank, is the center of the city and immediately to the north is the port, which extends along the east bank for more than nine kilometers. There are several vehicle and pedestrian tunnels that run under the river, connecting the central city to the west bank. They have all been prepared for demolition. We’ll want you to inspect them, of course, but they’re not the first priority. Verstehen Sie?”
Bucher glanced at Jan who nodded again.
The officer continued, tapping his pointer at a canal. “This is the Albert Canal, which enters Antwerp from the east and flows into the River Schelde. North of the canal is the suburb of Merksem. It’s a workingman’s town, and many of the dockworkers live there. The bridges across the canal, connecting Merksem to Antwerp, have also been prepared for demolition. The main road from the port into Merksem, the Groenendallaan, is heavily protected with machine guns and artillery. If worse comes to worst, our escape route out of the city is to Merksem…after we destroy the port.”
Bucher looked at the floor for a few seconds as though the thought of this happening was more than he could fathom. Then he took a deep breath and returned to the map. “Now, as you can see, the Albert canal cuts through the center of the port. The older docks, Bonapartedok, Willemdok and Kattendijkdok lie to the south, and the newer, larger docks, Albertdok, Leopolddok and Hansadok lie to the north.”
As he said this, Bucher painstakingly traced the outline of the various docks. “Right here, downstream from the Hansadok, is the crucial point: the Kruisschans Lock.”
Jan took a step closer to the map.
Bucher continued. “This lock not only allows ships to pass into and out of the docks, but it also regulates the flow of water to and from the river, maintaining the proper level within the port.”
Bucher glared at Jan. His eyes were intense. “Here, at the Kruisschans Lock, we have placed our most important demolition devices. Both the inner and outer gates have been rigged with carefully concealed explosives. We have kept this lock under tight security. None of the dockworkers are allowed anywhere near the area. The lock is manned and operated around the clock by Wehrmacht troops.”
Bucher laid the pointer on the table and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Jan accepted the offered cigarette, grateful for something to do with his hands. Bucher leaned against the wall, exhaling a precise ring of smoke as he spoke. “If we can’t defend the city, the Kruisschans Lock is the first thing that gets blown. With the gates out of commission, the water level in the entire port will fall with the tide. The lack of water pressure will then cause the walls of the docks to collapse. The port will be out of commission for years.”
Bucher took a drag on the cigarette and blew another smoke ring. “This, Herr Heinrich is your first assignment. I will show it to you today, and you will tell us if we’ve done our job properly. General Stolberg is counting on you.” He smile
d at Jan and slapped him on the shoulder. “Jetzt, some lunch? And a nice bottle of Bordeaux?”
Chapter 60
IT TURNED OUT THAT the luncheon included three bottles of Bordeaux, consumed primarily by Bucher and the two officers who joined them. Jan drank as little as possible using the excuse that he had been given pain medication the night before and warned not to drink. He needed to stay sharp for the afternoon and the dinner that evening with General Stolberg.
The other two officers were both leutnants who reported to Bucher. One was a big, affable fellow with thick glasses named Karl Rolfmann, who was in charge of the demolition detail. He talked in rapid, clipped sentences, going into great detail about the types of explosives they had used, the detonators and timers, and the clever tricks that had been employed to conceal the charges.
Jan concentrated so hard he was getting a headache. It had been years since he had had any real hands-on experience with demolition devices, and he struggled to absorb as much as possible without asking stupid questions.
The other officer was Leutnant Wernher Graf, short and stocky with intense, black eyes, a bald head and a dour disposition. It was unclear what his function was.
“It was a curious thing, the train wreck, stimmt das, Herr Heinrich?” Graf said during a lull in the conversation. “Obviously the work of one of the Resistance groups…but it was strange.”
“Strange, in what way?” Jan asked.
“Normally these terrorists go after freight trains carrying munitions—or troop transports. This was just a passenger train, it doesn’t make sense. Why would they waste the effort on a train with no strategic value?”
“I don’t know,” Jan said, “but it scared the hell out of me.”
Graf glared at him with a strange look in his eyes. He appeared ready to pursue it further when Bucher summoned the waiter for dessert.
The security at the Kruisschans Lock was impressive. The land approach was heavily guarded at two checkpoints with barricades across the roadway and machine-gun emplacements on either side. Barbed wire fencing extended well into the scrubland, and flamethrowers were positioned in front of the outer and inner gates. Jan counted at least twenty heavily armed Wehrmacht soldiers in the immediate vicinity.
They spent almost two hours crawling around the massive structure with Rolfmann pointing out the placement of explosive charges and the well-hidden copper wires that ran back to the main guardhouse. As a competent and thorough German officer, he provided Jan with details about the size of each charge and the timing and sequence that had been set for the explosions.
Jan took notes and made a number of sketches for the presumed purpose of doing his own calculations. All the while, Graf hovered around while Bucher stood off at a distance, chatting with the guard detail.
Rolfmann knew a lot more about this than he did, but it was apparent to Jan that the explosive charges had been well placed for maximum damage and were cleverly concealed. Without his notes it would be impossible for anyone to locate them.
Knowing that he needed to make some intelligent-sounding contribution to the discussion, Jan asked several questions about steel I-beams and whether or not the concrete was reinforced.
Rolfmann thumbed through a notebook and produced the answers. Consulting his notes and sketches, Jan faked some mental calculations, asked another question about the time increment between explosions and nodded.
Graf wandered up and glanced at Jan’s notes. “Will this do the job, Herr Heinrich?”
“I’ll need to do some further calculations but, yes, I believe it will be quite sufficient, Leutnant,” Jan replied. Then turning to Rolfmann and stuffing the notes in his pocket, he added, “Sehr gut, you’ve done your work well, Leutnant Rolfmann.”
Rolfmann beamed at the compliment and, just as Graf started to ask another question, Bucher stepped up, pointed at his watch and announced that the general was expecting them for dinner.
It was an elaborate, protracted affair held at a small, out-of-the way restaurant just two streets from the cathedral. It was a favorite of General Stolberg’s, who was obviously enjoying Antwerp’s reputation for excellent cuisine.
The group of nine officers and Jan were the only patrons, and Jan had no doubt that the occupying Germans had commandeered whatever fine food and wine was left in Antwerp for the pleasure of the officers of the Wehrmacht.
Stolberg arrived late and when he was introduced to “Ernst Heinrich” he extended his hand and smiled. “Willkommen, Herr Heinrich; we look forward to your assistance.”
“Danke, General. I’m pleased to help in any way I can,” Jan said, aware that all eyes in the room were upon him.
“I understand you were with the engineers in Normandy preparing for the invasion,” the general said affably. “Did you meet Field Marshal Rommel while you were there?”
Jan blinked with an instant of hesitation. “Nein, I did not, general,” he replied, praying it was the right answer.
The general shrugged and took his seat at the head of the table. As Jan returned to his chair, a portly officer who had come in with the general grabbed his arm and said, “I hope you’re going to do a better job for us than you did at Normandy, Heinrich. All those fancy mines didn’t do much good, did they?”
Jan hesitated before responding. “That was quite a different situation, sir. From what I’ve seen today, your people have done an excellent job in the port.”
The room became quiet as the officer glared at Jan.
General Stolberg interceded. “Gunter, Herr Heinrich is our guest. Setzen Sie, bitte. Let him enjoy his dinner. I believe Marcel has prepared a nice trout for our first course.”
At that instant a proper-looking Belgian man wearing a dark blue suit appeared, followed by two waiters who began serving the group.
General Stolberg, Oberstleutnant Bucher and the portly officer Jan knew only as Gunter excused themselves after desert. Jan attempted to leave a few minutes later, hoping he would be able to slip away and meet Sam at the Kattendijkdok, but Rolfmann grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the table, refilling his glass with cognac.
“Kommen Sie, Ernst, enjoy yourself,” Rolfmann said with an easy laugh. “There probably won’t be many more meals like this. Isn’t that right, Wernher?”
Graf propped his elbows on the table and fixed Jan with a piercing stare. “So, you think we’ve done an ‘excellent job.’ Is that right?”
“Lay off him, Graf,” another officer said from farther down the table. “The poor bastard just got here.”
Graf grunted and picked up his snifter of cognac. “Ja, I know he just got here. Just what we need…a fucking civilian expert looking over our shoulder.”
It was almost midnight before the bleary-eyed officers finished off the cognac and cigars, and stumbled out of the restaurant singing loudly about the glory of the Fatherland. Faking the words of the song as best he could, Jan tried to keep away from Graf as the group crossed the cobblestone square under the towering cathedral.
“Don’t know the words very well, do you?” Graf said as he sidled up to Jan. “Care to suggest another song?”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a singer,” Jan replied. “I’ve never paid much attention to music.”
“This isn’t ‘music,’ you dumb shit. This is patriotism. This is for the honor of the Reich!”
Suddenly Rolfmann stepped between them. His normal pleasantness had disappeared. “Verdammt, Wernher! What the hell’s the matter with you? You’re acting like some Gestapo shithead. We’re all tired. Leave him alone.”
Graf mumbled an expletive, then shoved his hands in his coat pocket and fell back to another group.
The next morning Rolfmann pulled up in front of Jan’s hotel in a Volkswagen. As they drove out of town, heading south, Jan glanced around the interior of the innovative “people’s car,” whose development had been one of Hitler’s brighter ideas to help revitalize the moribund German economy shortly after he came to power. He had seen pictures of t
he vehicle, but this was the first time he had ridden in one. It was smaller than he had imagined with simple round dials on the dashboard and stiff cloth-covered seats. Jan’s knees were cramped and he was amazed that Rolfmann was able to squeeze his even larger frame into the tight quarters.
Jan knew he couldn’t ask any questions, of course, because Ernst Heinrich would almost certainly have ridden in a Volkswagen, perhaps even owned one. He had a fleeting thought about how little he actually knew about the man he was impersonating. It scared the hell out of him.
They rode in silence for a few moments. Then Rolfmann glanced at him and asked, “So, what is there to do for fun in Langenfeld?”
Jan flinched. He had no idea. Had Rolfmann ever been there? Hopefully not, or he probably wouldn’t have asked. “Well, we have a small concert hall in the center of town,” Jan said, wondering if it was true. He coughed once to clear his throat, thinking as fast as he could. “I took my wife, Frieda, to a Brahms concert there last month. She enjoys Brahms. But I haven’t been home very much the last few years.”
“Nein,” Rolfmann grunted, “none of us have.”
“What have I done to offend Graf?” Jan asked, eager to change the subject.
Rolfmann glanced at him, his eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “Ach, don’t worry about it. Wernher’s kind of a fanatic…naturally suspicious. He’s a member of the party, you know.”
“Ist das richtig? I’m surprised he’s not in the SS.”
Rolfmann gave him an intuitive smile and nodded. “Ja, it’s been a sore spot with him for a long time.”
“What happened?”
“As I understand it, he was a Brownshirt before the war and figured he’d step right into the SS after his officer training. But he’s kind of a hothead, and he apparently mixed it up with the wrong person. He didn’t get selected and found himself in the Wehrmacht. He’s been pissed off about it ever since.”
Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II Page 31
