“It is better if you say, ‘Dank u,’” she said in passable English. “Speaking German almost got you killed.” She pulled herself into the hatchway and sat on the edge of the opening, and obvious interest in her eyes.
“What happened? Where am I?”
“You’re far from the sea,” she explained. “They brought you here to avoid the search.” She paused, studying him in the faint light. “You were lucky…two young men were trying to escape to England in a small boat and saw you crash in the sea…. They got to you before the Germans…. When you spoke German, they almost threw you back into the water. Then you started speaking English, mumbling a name. You were in a daze. They were going to drown you but thought twice and came back to shore.”
“Ruffy,” Zack said. “I was asking about Pilot Officer Andrew Ruffum. Have they found him?”
The girl shook her head. The news drove a wedge of unbearable sadness into Zack, his face clouded and he took three quick breaths. Another, more positive emotion eased the pain in his chest as he refused to believe that Ruffy was dead—his best friend was missing in action, much better than being a known casualty. The girl watched him as he struggled with his inner turmoil. Then she said, “Finish your food. A man will come to talk to you tonight. I’ll get your uniform.”
“What’s your name?”
“Never ask names,” she said. “It is better that way.”
The girl was back in moments with his freshly laundered and mended uniform. He almost passed out when he sat up. “I can’t believe I’m so weak,” he muttered. The girl scooted across to him and helped him dress, now very interested in his body. “How long was I out?” he asked.
“You’ve been delirious with fever for four days. You are very badly hurt. Rest for now.” She disappeared down the crawl hatch and left him in darkness.
The ‘man’ that came to see him that night was a stout woman in her fifties. She quickly explained that she was from the Dutch underground and they had to move him. “An informer…the Germans know you are around here…hurry.” She helped him out of the crawl space and into the kitchen below. A man was there to catch him when he fell through.
“Where is the doctor?” the woman demanded. Zack could hear a hardness in her voice and she almost spat when she said “doctor.”
“She’s waiting in the car,” the man answered. They helped Zack change into civilian clothes, don a heavy topcoat, and then walk outside to enter the backseat of a large black Mercedes. They made no attempt to hide him and covered his legs with a blanket.
The man slipped behind the wheel to drive and the older woman was beside him in the rear seat. “Your name is Jan van Duren. You’re my son and were attacked and beaten by Dutch bullies. You suffered head injuries and we’re taking you to a specialist clinic for treatment. When we get stopped by a patrol or come to a checkpoint, say nothing and let her do the talking.” Zack could only see the dark silhouette of the doctor’s head in the front seat.
They drove in silence through the night until they reached a well-lighted and permanently constructed roadblock. An officious-looking German sergeant approached the car as the doctor stepped out with their papers. In the light, Zack could see she was wearing a heavy cape. The sergeant jerked the papers out of her hand as she explained their business. She spoke with a distinct French accent. The sergeant scanned their papers and he suddenly became courteous and respectful. “A moment, please, Frau Doktor,” he said and disappeared into the guard shack. The woman stood patiently and another guard came up and offered her a cigarette, which she declined. The guard was not offended and stood there, shifting from one foot to another. Then she turned and Zack saw her face in the light for the first time.
She was beautiful. Her dark hair was pulled severely back in the manner of nurses and accentuated her high cheekbones and finely arched eyebrows. Her mouth was set in a grim line but held the promise of a beautiful smile. With a rush of emotion, he realized what made the guard so uncomfortable. “She’s the flame unto the moth,” he said in German.
The older woman glanced at him. “Men,” she fumed. “You speak excellent German. Remember, you have a serious head wound so slur your words and act dazed.”
The sergeant hurried out of the guard shack and handed their papers to the woman. He gave a short bow and held the car door open for her. She settled into the seat and from the look on the sergeant’s face, Zack was certain she had given him a smile. He stood back at attention to let them pass. “Everything is in order,” the woman said over her shoulder, her voice soft and lyrical with its heavy French accent. Zack wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice, and look at her while she answered.
“Of course,” the older woman snapped. “The only thing false is the patient. Drive on,” she ordered as the barrier in front of them lifted. As it came up, Zack could see the distinctive plaque announcing “Zoll” mounted on the bar. They were crossing a border.
“What country are we in now?” he asked.
“Germany,” the woman answered.
“This is crazy,” Zack protested. “I want to escape from the Germans, not jump into their arms.”
The woman started talking in a low voice. “The manhunt for you in the Netherlands is closing in and this is the quickest way to get you to safety.” There was pain in her words. “My husband is working with the Nazis…”
“Madeline!” the driver barked, “that is enough. No more.” The woman nodded. She would not tell the American that her husband was fiercely loyal to the House of Orange and was using his position in the headquarters of Reichskommisar Arthur Seyss-Inquart to pass information to the Dutch underground.
“Our son was brutally beaten by Dutch students because of my husband’s activities. He suffered head injuries and it was arranged to transport him to a special clinic in Baden-Baden, Germany, for treatment…” It was becoming harder for the woman to continue, “But we are moving you in his place…. It has all been arranged.”
“But what’s going to happen to your son?” Zack asked.
“He was murdered yesterday as he slept in his room. That’s when it was decided for you to take his place.”
“I’m sorry,” Zack murmured. Then more strongly, “Who killed him?”
“Her,” the woman said and jutted her chin in the direction of the woman in the front seat.
Confusion swirled through Zack’s head as he tried to tie all the loose ends together. Supposedly, he was in the hands of the Dutch underground but he was now in Germany traveling in the guise of a Dutch traitor’s son who had been murdered by a beautiful French doctor sitting less than three feet from him. His head ached with it all.
A sign announced they were entering Monchen-Gladbach. “You board a train here,” the older woman said, “for the rest of the journey. We have to return to The Hague.” Zack said nothing as he was helped into a wheelchair that had been strapped to the back of the Mercedes. The older woman pushed him into the train station while the young doctor walked briskly ahead. The driver followed carrying two suitcases, As they entered the main concourse, the doctor asked two young German soldiers for directions and they willingly escorted the small group to the correct platform. The soldiers gave the group an appearance of authority and the conductor ushered them to an empty compartment on the waiting train.
The woman and driver left and Zack found himself alone with the doctor as the train started to move. She raised her chin and turned her gaze onto Zack, studying him. Her pale blue eyes were incredibly bright and drew him in. “You are Jan van Duren,” she reminded him. “I am your attending doctor. Please remember you have a serious head wound.” For the next twenty minutes she filled him in on the real Jan van Duren. Occasionally, she would pause and have him repeat back all she had told him.
The conductor knocked on their door and entered to examine their tickets and travel papers. “We’ll be stopping at Düsseldorf in a few minutes before continuing to Cologne,” he explained. “You need to change trains at Cologne for Mannheim. Chan
ge trains again at Mannheim for Karlsruhe. From there, you can transfer to a train to Baden-Baden. So far it is quiet and the British are staying home tonight.” The train slowed as they pulled into Düsseldorf. “I must go,” the conductor said. “I’ll try to ensure your privacy.”
“What’s your name?” Zack asked his traveling companion when they were alone. He was captivated by her accent and wanted to hear her talk. She ignored him and stood up, lowering the window to their compartment as the warning shriek of an air raid siren started to build. A sense of utter helplessness and fear cut through Zack as the wail filled the small compartment. All the lights in the train went out and the woman sat down and huddled in a corner.
He stood at the side of the window so he could see forward. “We’re pulling into the station,” he said. “We’ll be okay.” He was surprised at how calm and assured his voice sounded. Then he realized that the sixth sense that warned him of danger was quiet, sending no signals.
“How can you be so sure?” the woman asked, her voice betraying how young she was.
“Inbound bombers are usually detected and tracked while still over the North Sea,” he explained. “We’ve got plenty of time before they reach here—if they’re even headed our way.” The first bomb exploded, making a liar out of him.
“Get away from the window!” she shouted.
But Zack stood there, drawn by the sight of the building inferno around them. A geyser of flame erupted in front of them as the train continued to pull into the station. The exploding bombs pounded at his senses and he could feel the concussions in his bones. Now the entire train station was a wall of flames and still the train kept moving. He felt the train cross a switching point and pick up speed. “He’s not going to stop,” Zack yelled, doubting if she could hear him.
Ahead, he could see a platform off to their right and people running out of the flames across the tracks and toward the moving train, desperate to escape. “My God” was all he could say as another stick of bombs rained down on the station, rocking the train with their concussion and momentarily blinding him. When he could see again, the tracks were littered with bodies. The train was still moving.
“Get away from the window!” she shouted again and pulled at his coat.
He pushed her away, vaguely aware that the glass in the window had blown out, somehow missing him. “I’ve got to see this,” he said, not understanding what was driving him to witness the hell they were passing through. More people were running for the train now. He watched in horror as a burning man emerged from the flames holding a child at arms length in front of him. He stumbled crossing the tracks and went sprawling, throwing the child clear of him. A woman scooped up the child and kept running for the train, which was now picking up speed. She reached the train and disappeared from his view. “She made it!” he shouted, only to see her fall back away from the train without the child.
“My God” was all he could manage. “I didn’t know…” The horror of saturation bombing had come home to Matthew Zachary Pontowski and he would live with this, his personal version of hell, for the rest of his life.
Now they were pulling free of the station and picking up speed. Shouts in the corridor broke the iron bands of the horror that still held him. The compartment door slid open and the conductor yelled, “Doktor, we need you…the goddamn British…” The woman hurried from the compartment and Zack sat down, wondering if the conductor had noticed he was standing by the window.
Time had no meaning for Zack as the train moved southward toward Cologne. The engineer saved us by not stopping, he thought. But how many people did he condemn to a sure death? What if he could have stopped long enough to…No, he decided, that wouldn’t have worked. We’d have been a sitting duck.
Then it came to him—no man should have to make decisions like the one the train engineer had just made.
The lights came back on and Zack pulled the curtains over the open window. But the wind kept blowing the curtains back, so he turned the lights off, blacking the compartment out. The conductor came through and grunted something unintelligible. “Hans, here,” he shouted down the corridor before moving on. A maintenance man appeared carrying a precut board and fit it into the window. He turned the lights back on and swept up the broken glass. It was a well-practiced after-action drill.
The train was slowing when the woman came back. Her clothes were spotted with blood and she was visibly shaken. “Are you okay?” he asked. She said nothing and sat down.
“There are many injured,” she finally told him as the train drew to a halt in the Cologne Hauptbahnhof.
The conductor opened their door. “Frau Doktor, may I thank you? I will report what you did to the authorities. We are very grateful for such allies like yourself. The newspapers carry such terrible reports about the French.”
“My father is a loyal Nazi,” the girl said, “and I am working in the Netherlands. We all do what we must.”
The conductor shouted and two men came to help them off the train. Zack was certain his fever was coming back and was grateful for the help and the waiting wheelchair. The conductor ushered them into a large waiting room and found her a seat at a crowded table and made room for Zack’s wheelchair. “I will tell the stationmaster to get you on the next train for Mannheim,” he said. Then he turned to the people sitting at the table and told them they had the privilege of sitting with a loyal French ally who had saved many German lives when the train had been bombed. A wave of friendly nods and comments went around the table as the conductor left.
A feeling of relief swept over Zack when he realized the waiting Germans had readily accepted them into their midst. So much like the English, he thought, remembering the time he and Ruffy had waited in the train station at Leeds when they were on their way to their first assignment at RAF Church Fenton.
The loudspeaker announced an arriving train bound for Berlin and the room cleared, leaving them alone in a sea of empty tables and chairs. He almost twisted out of his wheelchair when he heard an English voice behind him say in a distinct cockney accent, “In here, mate. I think they want us to wait inside.”
“Right,” another British voice said. “Too bloody cold out here.” Then the same voice added, “Not much warmer in here.”
Zack forced himself not to turn and look. He could hear the scraping of chairs behind him as the group sat down. “Who are they?” he mumbled to the woman.
“Three British prisoners, air force,” she answered. “Two sergeants and a flight lieutenant, I think. Four guards.” She touched his forehead and examined the bandage on his head. “Your fever is back,” she said. A woman attendant directed her to a private office where she could tend to Zack. She pushed him out of the room as it started to fill with more passengers from the newly arrived train. When the door closed behind them and they were alone, she quickly examined his leg wound. “It’s septic,” she told him and replaced the bandage. She shoved the old bandage into his coat pocket. “We must hide this. Your travel papers say you only have a head wound. If I take you to a hospital with a leg injury, someone will become suspicious and turn us in. We’ve got to hurry and find help.”
“Where will you find help in Germany?” he asked.
She shook her head. “We’re going to France.”
“How can we do that?” The woman ignored him and packed up her medical bag. “Then at least tell me your name,” Zack protested.
“So like the English,” she said. “You must have proper introductions.” Zack heard a new tone in her voice. Was it amusement?
The little break in her reserved attitude drew him in and he looked up at her face, smiling. “But I’m not English. I’m an uncouth Yank.”
A slight smile played across her face and he thought how pretty her mouth was. “Mijnheer Jan van Duren”—she gestured gracefully at him with her right hand, reverting back to his cover—“may I present Mademoiselle Chantal Dubois,” and she turned her hand toward herself.
“Ah, Miss Dubois,” he answere
d, wanting to keep the moment going, “I have broken through your proper French reserve. Perhaps we can now enjoy the rest of our journey?”
Chantal Dubois’s face turned sober and the rigid facade she maintained flashed back into place. “There is nothing to enjoy.” She opened the door and pushed him back to the waiting room as a group of soldiers entered. A man at their table had held their places and Chantal adjusted Zack’s wheelchair so he could see the English prisoners and watch the new arrivals.
The soldiers that had entered stood inside the door looking for seats as more soldiers poured in. Zack estimated there were at least sixty of them and from the way they wore their uniforms and carried their weapons, they were hardened combat veterans. “From the eastern front,” a woman at the table said in a low voice, “Many of them are wearing the Iron Cross.” A nine-year-old boy at their table scurried across the room to talk to the soldiers. One of the soldiers smiled, squatted, and talked to the boy. Carefully, he showed the youngster his submachine gun and then stood up, playfully rubbing his head and sending him back to his mother.
“They were at Stalingrad,” the boy told them breathlessly. “They fought their way out and wouldn’t surrender.” The table went silent in admiration. “They are being reassigned to France.”
Zack could sense Chantal stiffen at the news.
The soldiers came to attention when a major entered. It was not the disciplined posturing of the Prussian military but rather the mark of respect willingly given by soldiers to their leader. The German major reminded Zack of his high school chemistry teacher; middle-aged, close-cropped thinning brown hair, ordinary-looking in the extreme. He took time to speak to most of the men individually. “Well, Rudi, still studying French?” A mumbled answer and the major moved on. “Erich, have you heard from home yet? I will send you on leave if you want.” The man shook his head and the officer turned to another man. “Manifred, are you better? You should be in a hospital and thinking about going home with such a wound.”
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