by Robert Rigby
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To G
PROLOGUE
Southern France, late August, 1940
The leader of the Andorrans was built like a bull, but he moved with the lightness of a mountain goat. Not once had he stumbled or tripped as he led the small group further and deeper into the towering Pyrenees.
They were high now, long clear of the winding footpaths through the birch forests, way past the rows of mighty beech and the plunging, thundering waterfalls. Here it was quiet, eerily quiet. Here there were few trees, the air was thinner and the paths narrow and steep. Here the ascent was over jagged fragments of rock and long scars of loose scree, which shifted dangerously underfoot, digging into the soles of heavy boots or flimsy, unsuitable shoes. Shoes like the three pampered Parisians wore.
But the Andorran and his two countrymen didn’t care about the Parisians or the state of their feet. All they cared about was the money they were being paid to take them – the little Jewish man, his wife and their twelve-year-old son – over the mountains and into Spain, and freedom. Escaping France while they still could. Escaping the Nazis and their distant camps of death.
This was not the first time the Andorrans had trodden this route with frightened escapees, and it would not be the last. Business was brisk. War was not bad for everyone. There were rich pickings for the enterprising.
The early evening was warm, though soon the warmth would go as the sun dipped behind the peaks. They had been lucky with the weather; no driving rain to soak them through, or low, swirling cloud to swallow the pathways. Instead, on both days, the sun had blazed kindly in clear, cloudless skies.
At the head of the line, the bull-like Andorran stopped and turned. He lifted the leather strap running from shoulder to waist to free the shotgun he wore slung across his back.
“Stop here,” he said to the family. “Rest. Eat.”
The Parisians nodded, father and son sinking gratefully to the ground while the woman delved into her bag to bring out their meagre provisions.
The Andorrans moved away a little, rested their shotguns against a massive slab of fallen limestone and began rolling cigarettes, muttering to each other in low voices. Soon, the acrid smell of their black tobacco drifted on the air.
They watched the Parisians eating, the man chewing slowly, the woman giving most of her share to the boy, who greedily devoured whatever came his way; cheese, a slice of meat, crusts of stale bread, his tongue flicking out to snatch the last crumbs from his chubby fingers.
Taking another deep drag at his cigarette, the Andorran leader licked his dry lips and blew a long stream of smoke from deep in his lungs. He coughed loudly, rolled a thick globule of phlegm around his mouth and spat it onto the ground. The woman stared but quickly looked away as he caught her eye. For her, at least, the Andorran felt some grudging admiration. She had not complained once, unlike the whining twelve year old and the wheedling husband.
The boy had grizzled constantly that he was tired and needed to rest – apart from when he was eating. And the nervous husband, with his suit and raincoat, hat, gold-rimmed glasses and brown leather case – he was a moaner too.
None of it mattered to the Andorrans. They simply ignored it. They knew the leather case contained the family’s remaining wealth. Jewellery, no doubt; perhaps even gold. And cash – their cash had to be in the case too. That was why it never left the man’s side.
With another loud cough, the Andorran took a final drag on his cigarette and threw down the butt, grinding it into the earth with the sole of his boot.
Suddenly a terrifying, piercing scream rang out and echoed across the narrow valley, seeming to bounce off the rock faces surrounding them.
The Jewish man froze and the boy grasped his mother’s arm and cried out, “Mamma!”
But the woman remained calm, quickly seeing that the Andorrans had not flinched at the sound of the scream. There could be nothing to fear, for them at least.
A shape passed in front of the sun and they glimpsed a moving shadow cast on the craggy rocks opposite. The scream came again, even more agonized this time.
And then they saw it. High above the rising shadow, an eagle flew towards a peak. In the bird’s talons, a marmot writhed and shrieked. As they watched, the screaming stopped, the animal went limp, and the eagle continued majestically upwards.
Muttering something to his friends, the leader of the Andorrans beckoned to the Parisian, who was clutching his leather case like a shield against his rigid body.
Much of their communication had been though signs and gestures, as the Andorrans’ mix of Catalan, Spanish and rural southern French was as puzzling to the Parisian family as their standard French was to their guides.
Before they left Saint-Girons, the Parisian had tried to tell the Andorrans about the long and anxious flight south; about being smuggled across the Demarcation Line into the Free Zone, and the nerve-jangling train journeys to Toulouse, Carcassonne, Foix, and finally Saint-Girons, where they waited to be met. And, all the while, the accompanying fear, the dread that at any moment their forged papers and passports would be too closely scrutinized.
“This has already cost a small fortune,” he had moaned, handing over to the Andorran leader the thick wad of bank notes that made up half the fee for leading them safely over the mountains. The rest was due when they crossed into Spain. The Andorran simply shrugged and pocketed the cash, and the Parisian fell silent, wisely deciding to save his energy for the long, gruelling walk to freedom.
Now they were almost there; they had to be. The Parisian stood up, nodded to his wife and son and, with the case still grasped tightly in one hand, walked over to the Andorran, who smiled at him for the first time since their journey had begun, and then pointed in the direction they had been travelling.
“Spain,” he said. “Almost in Spain.”
The other man nodded, understanding.
“Come, I’ll show you where we go next,” the Andorran said, striding away and beckoning for him to follow.
The Parisian hesitated for a moment, glanced back at his wife with a look of confusion, and then hurried after the Andorran. He caught up with him, rounding a turn in the narrow path, and they continued for another twenty metres or so to where a small plateau gave a clear view through distant peaks.
The plateau was little more than a ledge with a steep drop down one side to a dense mass of bushes and vegetation far below.
Standing back from the edge, the Andorran pointed into the distance. “There, to the right, the two peaks close together. Through there, that is where we are going.”
The Parisian shook his head. “I don’t underst
and. You speak too fast. Speak more slowly.”
The Andorran smiled again and gently took the nervous Parisian by the shoulders, manoeuvring him across and in front of him. He leaned down and forward, his cheek close to the other man’s and pointed again. “There, follow my arm to where I am pointing. To the right, the two peaks.”
Squinting through his gold-rimmed glasses, the Parisian craned forward. “What am I looking at? Is that Spain? Is that where…?”
They were his final words. With incredible speed, the Andorran whipped a long-bladed hunting knife from somewhere in the depths of his sheepskin jerkin, and in one fluent move, pulled back the man’s head with his left hand and drew the sharp blade across his throat with his right. Blood spurted in an explosion of crimson as the blade sliced through his windpipe. His legs buckled and the Andorran let him drop to the ground, where he rolled onto his back, choking on his own pumping blood, his eyes staring in disbelief. His body twitched twice.
The Andorran bent down and wiped both sides of the knife’s blade on the dead man’s raincoat, leaving two bloody streaks. He plucked the gold-rimmed glasses off the staring face and slipped them into a pocket. Then he prised open the dead man’s fingers, which were now clasping the handle of the leather case even more tightly. It was locked but the catches were easily forced with the strong blade.
Exactly as he had suspected, there was cash inside. Wads of notes, each neatly folded and secured. He slipped one into a pocket; the rest would be shared later with his companions and the contact who had given them the tip about the fleeing family. There was plenty to go around, especially as the case also contained jewellery: bracelets, necklaces, rings and a carved wooden box containing gold coins.
Grinning at a job well done, the Andorran closed and fastened the case, stood up and, with one foot, pushed the dead man off the edge, watching him tumble over and over, down the steep mountainside and into the vegetation. The body seemed to snag on a branch and was somehow held so that an arm and a leg were still visible. The Andorran sighed. This meant climbing down to free the corpse; they could leave no visible evidence for others passing that way. But then the branch snapped and the body moved again, vanishing from sight, continuing down into the hidden abyss.
All that remained was the man’s hat. The Andorran plucked it from the ground and stuffed it into his pocket. It was a good hat; too good to waste.
A sudden anguished scream cut through the air and the Andorran glanced back towards where he had left his friends with the woman and her son. A second scream rang out and the Andorran laughed out loud. This time they were not the screams of a marmot.
ONE
Antwerp, Belgium
War wasn’t so bad. Or at least it could have been a lot worse. That was how Paul Hansen saw it. And he wasn’t the only one. He had discussed it at school with his friends and at home with his parents. All right, no one actually wanted the Germans here in Antwerp, but here they were and not much could be done about that. Nevertheless, life, in general, wasn’t too bad.
The shops still had food. Antwerp was one of the largest ports in Europe and the mighty river Scheldt was still busy with cargo ships coming and going, so the city would always be well supplied. The trains and the trams were still running. Paul still went to school. He could still ride his two-stroke motorcycle over the cobbled streets near his home on the Nationalestraat and all the way down to the docks and the office where his father worked. And when Paul was on the bike, most German soldiers gave him a smile and friendly wave as he went chugging by.
A night-time curfew was in place, but Paul was rarely out after dark. There was talk of young Belgian men being taken away to Germany to work in munitions factories, but it hadn’t happened yet. There was always gossip; it rarely came to anything. Besides, Paul was only sixteen. The talk was of eighteen year olds going. By the time they got around to him, if it happened, the war would be over. Everyone said it would.
Paul was on his bike, riding towards his father’s office. Edward Hansen was an important man on the docks, a senior manager, responsible for a huge stretch of the waterfront and the hundreds of dockers who worked there.
Dodging the tram rails, Paul guided the motorcycle around the wide Groenplaats, where elderly Belgians and German army officers sat on café terraces, basking in the late afternoon sun. He rode past the towering cathedral and the civic buildings of the Grote Markt and on down to the waterfront, his favourite part of the city.
After less than three years in Antwerp, Paul knew his way around its roads and walkways as well as almost anyone.
Turning northwards, with the Scheldt to his left, he bounced along the cobbled road for half a mile, past huge wharves with forests of towering cranes, glimpsing every so often the bulk of a vessel. Finally he came to a long stretch of iron railings and then a pair of tall gates, which opened into the yard. On the far side, a flight of rickety wooden steps led up to his father’s office.
Paul pulled the bike to a sudden standstill as he saw, almost too late, that the gates were closed. Usually they were left open, the yard humming with activity – dockers hurrying everywhere, cranes swinging out over the water and back again, a queue of waiting railway trucks swallowing up the cargo. Now there was no one to be seen. And nothing was moving.
For a moment, Paul was unsure what to do. He cut the bike’s engine, climbed off the machine and rested it against the railings. Slowly, he walked to the gates and tried the handle. They were locked.
Glancing around, he realized the street was deserted too, as though everyone had shut themselves away behind closed doors. But he sensed that curious eyes were watching him, peering from shaded windows, waiting to see what he would do.
He looked at his watch. Four forty-five, exactly the time he’d arranged to meet his father. He tried the gate handle again, rattling it noisily, pushing harder this time. But it made no difference.
Paul heard footsteps hurriedly approaching and then felt a strong hand grip one shoulder. “Quiet, Paul,” a voice hissed. “You’ll bring the Germans if they hear that racket.”
Paul turned to see Jos Theys, his father’s closest friend. “What’s happening?” he asked. “Why is the gate locked, and where is my—?”
“There’s no time, Paul. We must get away from here.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue,” Jos snapped. “I’ll tell you later. We must go. I’ve a car nearby.”
“But my bike—”
“Leave it!”
Jos yanked the boy’s arm, but before they could move they heard shouting from within the yard and saw Edward Hansen run from behind the corrugated tin wall of a warehouse. He was sprinting towards the gates, still fifty metres away.
“Dad!” Paul shouted. “Dad!”
“Get away, Paul!” his father screamed. “Run! Run!”
Paul couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the spot. His father was still thirty metres from the gates when two German soldiers raced from behind the warehouse. One of them raised a submachine-gun.
“Halt!” the soldier yelled. “Halt or I fire!”
But Paul’s father didn’t stop; he tore desperately onwards.
A single short burst from the weapon knocked the running man off his feet, propelling him forwards even faster for an instant and sending him sprawling. As he hit the ground, a large bunch of keys spilled from his right hand and Paul watched them skid towards the gates and stop a few metres away.
Edward Hansen lay motionless as the two soldiers started to run again, one of them shouting to Paul and Jos.
“You there! Halt!”
Paul was staring at his father’s lifeless body as a German officer came into view. He bawled a furious command at the soldiers, who instantly stopped and turned back.
Jos gripped Paul’s arm. “Run, Paul! With me, now!”
“But my dad—”
“Now!”
Jos almost pulled Paul off his feet. Suddenly they were running, and Paul found himself being drag
ged across the road and into one of the many narrow lanes fringing the dockside.
TWO
Paul gazed down from the second-floor window onto the early morning gloom shrouding Sint-Jansplein. A light drizzle fell steadily, turning the cobbles from grey to black. The square was deserted, save for a tram which went clanking and lumbering by.
Everything was strange and unfamiliar. The flat, where he had been hidden for the past fourteen or fifteen hours; the kindly elderly couple who lived there, nodding and smiling sympathetically each time he caught their eyes; the room where he had slept – or not slept; just lain awake for hour after hour turning over in his mind the horror he had witnessed. It all felt unreal.
His father was dead.
At first Paul couldn’t believe it; wouldn’t believe it. But then the sharp sound of the single blast from the submachine-gun rang through his head and he saw, again, his father motionless on the ground. Over and over he heard the staccato burst and saw him. Dead.
Paul remembered little of running through the dockside streets, being shoved into Jos’s car and driven to Sint-Jansplein. Everything was jumbled and confused. And he didn’t hear the hurried, murmured conversation that followed between Jos and the elderly couple.
Jos left almost immediately, saying he would be back in the morning to explain as much as he could. Paul was too stunned to argue. He watched him go without a word and then sank down onto the nearest chair.
Three times the elderly couple offered food and drink, and each time Paul refused it. How could he eat when he was filled with fear and worry? Finally he was led to a bedroom at the rear of the flat, where he spent the longest night of his sixteen years; hour after endless hour of tortured thoughts about his father. And his mother… Where was she? Was she safe?
At last, morning arrived, but so far, Jos had not.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the kitchen and a few minutes later the door opened. “Would you like coffee?” the woman asked softly. “A little breakfast?”
Paul shook his head. “No, thank you. When will Jos be here?”
