by Robert Rigby
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Soon, I think. My husband says soon.”
She smiled and gently closed the door, and Paul turned back to the window. The light was a little stronger, but the rain still fell. One or two people hurried across the square, collars or umbrellas raised. Life went on.
Paul’s thoughts turned again to his mother. She would be devastated. His parents were – had been – totally devoted to each other. And she would be frantic with worry about her son, even if Jos had told her he was safe.
Here. In this flat. This strange, unfamiliar flat, with its dark, heavy furniture, its silver-framed, yellowing photographs of stern-looking strangers and its smells of coffee and wax polish.
As raindrops settled on the windowpane, Paul watched them trace a jagged path down the glass. He thought of his parents. He had only properly known them for the past three years.
Before then he was at boarding school in England. His parents were busy criss-crossing Europe, with his father overseeing major improvements to the continent’s largest docks. And where Edward Hansen went, his wife, Clarisse, went too. They were inseparable.
Edward Hansen’s own mother had been French and his father English, and Paul went to the same boarding school his dad had attended as a boy.
Paul loved every moment of his time in England. He never felt particularly French – or English – or even Belgian, like his mother. Paul was proud of his mixed parentage and his mixed grandparentage. On his father’s side there was also a French grandmother, and on his mother’s side there was a Belgian grandfather and another French grandmother.
And, like his parents, Paul was naturally good at languages. He spoke English, French and, now, Flemish fluently. Most people hearing him speak in any of the three would assume he was a native.
Which, of course, he was.
There was a soft knock at the front door and the elderly man hurried in from the kitchen.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“It’s me, Jos.”
The man unlatched the door, pulled it open and Jos Theys, his face drawn and haggard, stepped inside and walked quickly over to Paul. The elderly couple hovered in the background.
There was no time for pleasantries. “You must prepare yourself for more bad news, Paul,” Jos said.
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother, she’s been taken in by the Germans. Yesterday evening, before I could speak to her.”
Paul’s heart thudded in his chest. “Taken in? But why? Where?”
“We don’t know. But the Germans are looking for you too.”
“Why is this happening?” Paul suddenly shouted, leaping to his feet with tears in his eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t understand any of it.”
“Sit down, Paul,” Jos said gently. “I’m going to explain as much as I can. Please sit down.”
Paul sank back into his chair, suddenly afraid to hear what Jos was about to tell him.
“Your father was a very brave man,” Jos said. “He led our group here in Antwerp. He made operations on the docks as difficult as possible for the Germans by slowing everything down. Little things – freight held up or sent to the wrong destination, cargo not unloaded when or where it should be. It all makes a difference.”
“Your group?” Paul asked. “You … you mean—?”
“Yes, the Resistance movement. Edward started it here. There were just a few of us at first, but the numbers are growing all the time, mainly due to your father’s tireless efforts. But someone betrayed him, perhaps one of our own. And that means we’re all in danger.”
“And my mother … is she in danger?”
“She was working with us, Paul. Your parents did everything together.”
“But why did they kill him?”
“I think it was a mistake,” Jos answered with a sigh.
“A mistake?”
Jos nodded. “As we were running away, there was an officer shouting at the soldiers. They stopped chasing us and turned back to your father.”
“I don’t remember,” Paul said, “it was all so quick.”
“The officer seemed furious,” Jos said. “Your father was far too important to the Germans to be killed. They wanted to take him alive.”
“Then why did they do it?”
“I believe the soldier acted on his own initiative. They didn’t expect Edward to grab the keys and make a run for it, and when he didn’t stop running, the soldier simply opened fire. He’s probably regretting that decision.”
“But why was my dad so important to them? Because he formed the Resistance group and could give them names? You just said there may be someone who’s already doing exactly that.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Jos said. “But your father had much more important information, vital information that could have a major bearing on the outcome of the entire war.”
Paul’s eyes widened, his thoughts racing as one stunning revelation followed another. “What information?”
The elderly couple were still nearby, listening but saying nothing. Jos glanced at them and, without a word, they went into the kitchen and shut the door.
Jos leaned closer to Paul and spoke softly. “Over the past few years your father has been responsible for overseeing massive changes to all the largest docks and harbours in Europe, including those in Germany.”
“Yes,” Paul said, “he told me about them.”
“He probably knew more about present-day German harbours than anyone outside Germany; the design, the layout, and even more importantly, the defences and military installations. Just think what the British Government could have done with that information. It could have changed the course of the war.”
Paul nodded, anxious for Jos to continue.
“Your father was just about to share that information with the British, but at the last moment someone betrayed him. That’s why the Germans acted so quickly and why killing him must have been an error. They needed to find out exactly what he knew and who he might already have talked to.”
“Yes,” Paul breathed, nodding his head again as the pieces of the puzzle gradually fell into place. “I see that now.”
“And as your mother went everywhere with him,” Jos went on, “I imagine the Germans will be interrogating her at this very moment. But if I know Clarisse, she’ll tell them nothing.” He paused for a moment and stared into Paul’s eyes. “If they find you, it will be your turn.”
“But I don’t know anything.”
Jos shrugged. “The Germans are unlikely to believe that, which is why we must get you out of Antwerp quickly.”
“Get me out? To where?”
“To England.”
“But I can’t! Not while my mother’s—”
“There’s nothing you can do for your mother, Paul. Not now. All we can do is wait for information, and hope.”
Paul stood up and went to the window, trying to give himself a few moments to collect his thoughts. The rain had stopped; a few more people were milling about the square. On the far side, a baker’s shop had opened its doors, and lights burned dimly in the café next door to it.
“How will you get me to England?” Paul asked, turning back to Jos.
“Your family’s escape was planned some time ago,” Jos replied. “Edward was due to hand the group over to me in the next few days and then all three of you were to leave. It would have meant a new life in England, at least until the war is over.”
Paul shook his head. “I had no idea. They never said a word.”
“It was for your own safety. Edward could have gone earlier; the British wanted him there, but he refused to leave until he was completely satisfied that the group here in Antwerp could function without him.” He paused again, looking at Paul. “He was always stubborn, your father. Perhaps you’re like him?”
“I don’t know,” Paul answered with a shrug. “My mother sometimes says I am.”
Jos smiled. “But not too stubborn to see that we have to get you away from here
. Your false papers are already prepared.”
“Papers? Why do I need false papers if I’m crossing the channel to England?”
“No, that’s impossible now,” Jos said, shaking his head. “The Germans check every vessel heading out to sea and have every metre of the coastline under surveillance. You’ll be taking a much longer, but far safer, route.”
Paul sat down again. “I don’t understand. Which route?”
“You’re travelling south; everything is being arranged,” Jos said. “Down through France, across the Pyrenees into Spain, and from there to England. We have contacts in a small town in the south of France. They will be waiting for you and when the time is right, they will organize for you to cross the mountains.”
Paul could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Where is this town?”
When Jos replied his voice was little more than a whisper. “It’s close to the mountains, in the Ariège region. You’ll be safe there until you cross. The town is called…” He glanced at the door to be certain that even the trusted elderly couple would not hear his next word. “…Lavelanet.”
THREE
Lavelanet, France
When Henri Mazet was anxious he was in the habit of gently smoothing the left side of his bushy moustache with the index finger of his right hand. It was comforting, reassuring, and so much a part of him that often he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Henri was waiting for his lunch. Three empty soup bowls sat ready to be filled from the pot of vegetable soup, cooling on a place mat on the polished, dark-wood table. His wife, Hélène, sighed as she watched her husband smooth his moustache, knowing that it wasn’t the lateness of lunch that was making him anxious, it was the absence of their daughter, Josette.
The clock on the dining-room wall ticked loudly, each passing second seeming to increase Henri’s anxiety. And as the minute hand flicked onto twenty past the hour, Henri gave a grunt of exasperation and placed both hands on the table. “One o’clock,” he said crossly to his wife. “She knows we have lunch at one o’clock. All she has to do is collect a baguette on her way home. Is that so difficult? Even for her? The soup will be cold by now.”
Hélène gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I can easily warm it.”
“That’s not the point. She knows what time we have lunch, so why can’t she—?”
Before Henri could finish, they heard the front door swing open and slam shut, followed by footsteps hurrying down the hallway.
“Sorry! Sorry I’m late,” Josette said, dropping the still-warm baguette onto the breadboard and dragging a chair from beneath the table. Her dark eyes were bright with excitement.
“One o’clock,” her father said, snatching the baguette and sawing at it with the breadknife. “Lunch is always at one o’clock, so why—?”
“I said I’m sorry, Papa,” Josette interrupted, settling onto her chair. “I didn’t mean to be late, but I stopped at the café and—”
“The café!” Henri growled. “I’ve told you not to go into that place.”
“I didn’t go into it,” Josette said quickly. “I sat on the terrace.”
Henri turned to his wife. “What can I do with the girl?” he said, waving the breadknife in the air. “She doesn’t listen to a word I tell her.”
“I do listen, Papa,” Josette said. “But Jean-Pierre Dilhat was there, talking to some of his friends. I had to hear what he was saying.”
Henri and Hélène exchanged another brief look. “Your father’s right,” Hélène said. “You shouldn’t be in that place.”
“But I wasn’t in—”
“Or on the terrace. It’s not right for a girl of your age to be there alone.”
“But, Maman, I’m sixteen.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
Josette clicked her tongue with irritation. “Maman, you don’t understand. Things are changing so fast, we have to know what’s going on. And Jean-Pierre says—”
“Jean-Pierre!” Henri snapped. “That young man should keep his thoughts to himself and his mouth shut. He’ll get himself into trouble.”
“Jean-Pierre isn’t afraid of trouble.”
“Then he should be!” Henri shouted.
Josette looked stunned. Her father had a loud voice; it was said that all the people of Lavelanet had loud voices because the constant noise of the looms from the town’s textile factories had damaged their hearing. Henri ran his own factory, where the din from the machines could be thunderous. But although her father could be irritable, he was generally a kindly, good-hearted man. And he rarely, if ever, shouted.
With a long sigh, Henri finally placed the breadknife back on the table. “Yes, Josette, things are changing, and very quickly.” His mind turned back to the tumultuous events of the past few months. After nearly a year of what became known as the “Phoney War”, with virtually no fighting on French soil, German forces had suddenly launched their ferocious invasion of France, Belgium and the Netherlands. In less than seven weeks it was all over. The British Expeditionary Force had been evacuated from the beaches at Dunkirk, and the Netherlands, Belgium and, finally, France had surrendered.
Now, the French in both the north and south of the country were adjusting to a new way of life. The north and the entire Atlantic Coast were occupied by German troops, while the south was being governed by a hurriedly set-up French administration based in Vichy.
Henri sighed. “Perhaps we are fortunate that the Germans are busy in the north and have left this part of the country to the new government in Vichy.”
“But it’s not a real government, Papa; not elected,” Josette argued, her eyes dark with defiance. “And Marshal Pétain and the others, they’re not real leaders; they’re collaborators, puppets of the Nazis.”
“Is that what Jean-Pierre says?”
“Yes, it is, but it’s what I believe as well.”
Henri nodded. “And you think that just because the Germans aren’t here in Lavelanet, they don’t have people listening out for exactly that kind of talk? It’s dangerous, Josette, and you are too trusting and free with your thoughts. Jean-Pierre Dilhat too.”
“But we can’t do nothing,” Josette said. “We can’t just sit back and let the Germans run the rest of our lives. We have to fight back…” She hesitated for a moment, but could not stop herself. “We should know that better than anyone, Papa!”
The room was suddenly silent save for the ticking clock. Josette glanced over to a silver-framed photograph sitting alone on the sideboard. A young man, bright-eyed, smiling, and dressed in the uniform of the French army, stared proudly out at the camera.
It was the last photograph taken of Josette’s brother, Venant, who had been killed fighting for his country just days after the Germans stormed France.
Josette turned to her mother. “I’m sorry, Maman, I shouldn’t have said—”
A tear rolled slowly down Hélène Mazet’s face and she wiped it away with the sleeve of her black cardigan. Since her son’s death she wore black every day, and she cried every night.
She stood up and took the pot from the table with both hands. “I’ll warm the soup.”
“I don’t want any,” Henri said in a hoarse whisper.
Josette watched as her mother walked silently from the room. Then she looked at the photograph of her brother again, her own eyes moistening, before turning to her father. He was staring down at the table, his chin propped on his right hand, as his finger rhythmically smoothed the bristles of his moustache.
FOUR
The barge, Marina, secured forward and aft, rested low in the murky brown waters of the Scheldt. She was fully laden with coal and sitting so heavily that the swiftly flowing tidal river was almost washing over her sides.
Paul gazed at the barge from the passenger seat of Jos’s car. The snub-nosed, tar-black vessel must have been well over thirty metres long and five wide. Towards the stern, a square wheelhouse perched above what, Paul guessed, was the living area, with s
mall, curtained windows looking forward and to both sides. Behind the wheelhouse, two bicycles stood upright in a large wooden stand, and from a pole at the stern, the Belgian flag, with its vertical stripes of black, yellow and red, flew proudly in the stiff breeze.
Jos had been on board the barge for a few minutes, having told Paul to wait while he checked that all was ready. They were well away from the main sprawl of Antwerp’s massive dock complex, with its forests of masts and funnels and cranes, and the areas where barges sat roped side by side, awaiting their turn to be loaded or unloaded. Here it was quiet; the Marina lay alongside a small, empty wharf that appeared to have fallen into disrepair. Jos’s car was parked between the water and the rusting wharf building, hidden from the road and any inquisitive passing dockworker or German army patrol.
In the back of the vehicle was a small suitcase containing a couple of changes of clothes Jos had managed to find from somewhere. And in an inside pocket of Paul’s jacket were his new papers, his identity card and travel visa – both expertly forged. Jos had told him these were for future use, once he was travelling openly in France. But his dangerous journey south was to begin with being smuggled through Belgium on board the Marina.
If he had been thinking clearly, Paul would have been surprised when Jos said his journey to southern France was to start on a river barge going inland, deeper into Belgium and towards Germany. But Paul was still too shocked at his father’s death and the revelations that followed. He merely nodded when Jos told him that the roads and railways out of the city were too closely guarded and that the slower route, by barge, was by far the safest one.
As Paul watched, Jos emerged from the Marina’s wheelhouse, glanced around and then hurried down the gangplank and over to the car. He got inside and closed the door quietly. “Everything is ready. Albert is waiting for you.”
Paul stared at the Marina. “Why are there two bicycles on the back of the boat – is someone else onboard?”
“I asked Albert the same question,” Jos answered, his eyes shifting to the black bicycles standing upright, like guards, at the back of the vessel. “There was a young man working with him on the barge, a Belgian Jew. The second bike is his. When the Germans invaded he got scared. He disappeared and didn’t return when they were due to start the last voyage. Albert says he’s keeping the bike there just in case he turns up.”
