by Robert Rigby
Paul glanced at the bicycles again, trying to picture the young man and imagine his terror as the Germans advanced on Antwerp. The realities of the war were hitting home one after another. He sighed and reached for the door handle, but Jos put a hand out to stop him. “Paul,” he said, “a moment.”
“Yes?” Paul said.
“Before you leave, I must ask you once more, are you certain you know nothing about our group here in Antwerp or about the German ports your father visited?”
“I told you before,” Paul said. “Nothing.”
“Yes, but now you’ve had time to think?”
“Still nothing.”
“Are you certain?” Jos persisted. “Absolutely certain?”
“Yes,” Paul said, a little irritably. “I don’t know anything about the Resistance or about my dad’s visits. Only that he worked at harbours in Germany, and other places too.”
Eyes narrowing and voice hardening, Jos pressed on. “But he must have told you something about those visits? Try to remember.”
“I can’t.”
“Then try harder. What exactly did he tell you, Paul? What did he say about the port of Hamburg, for instance?”
Paul was tired. He’d spent a sleepless night and his mind was still trying to come to terms with all he had witnessed and heard in the past twenty-four hours. Suddenly he snapped, his eyes flashing angrily, his voice exploding with an angry torrent of words. “How many times do I have to tell you? I know nothing! Nothing! Nothing at all! Understand? My father never told me anything about Hamburg, or—”
Jos loosened his grip on Paul’s arm. “It’s all right, Paul,” he said gently. “It’s all right.”
The air inside the car was stifling and Paul realized that he was trembling, panting as though he’d been sprinting and was out of breath. He was fit and strong and a keen sportsman. He’d played rugby for his school team in England and football since he’d been in Belgium, and he was an excellent middle-distance runner. But at that moment he felt drained and exhausted.
Jos could see the confusion in his eyes. “You’ve had a terrible shock, Paul,” he said softly. “We needed to let the tension out.”
“Is … is that why…?”
“Why I pushed you so hard?” Jos said. He gave a slight smile and nodded. “Partly, but also to remind you that my questions will be nothing compared to what the Germans will do if you’re captured. That’s why we have to get you to freedom.”
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes as Paul’s breathing returned to normal and his temper cooled. He felt better, not like his old self, but a bit stronger and more in control of his emotions.
He turned to Jos. “I’m ready.”
Jos reached into the back seat to fetch his suitcase, and they stepped from the car and walked quickly to the barge and up the short wooden gangplank. Jos opened the wheelhouse door and led the way down the steep steps into the cabin. “Watch your head,” he warned.
Paul was tall for his age, almost as tall as Jos. He had to duck as he followed Jos down the steps. Once in the living quarters, he was surprised by how much headroom and space there was. And heat.
Across the room, resting on the oak floorboards, was a cast-iron, pot-bellied stove, its chimney disappearing through the cabin roof. A large, long-handled pan sat on one of the two cooking plates, and peering into the pan was a giant, bearded man, a few years older than his dad, Paul guessed, and as pot-bellied as the stove itself.
The comforting aroma of simmering food filled the cabin. The man now placed a lid on the pan, looked up, and in just four steps crossed the ancient timbers and held out his right hand to Paul. “Albert,” he said, his voice deep and resonant.
Paul’s own hand was engulfed in the large fist. “Paul,” he said, nodding.
“And that,” said Albert, gesturing with his head to a large high-backed chair on the other side of the stove, “is the real master of the Marina. Say hello to Baron.”
Paul looked over at the chair. At first glance, in the relative gloom of the cabin, the huge shape on the wooden seat might have been an overstuffed cushion. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the massive, sprawling tabby cat. Two emotionless, yellow-tinted eyes watched Paul carefully, but Baron didn’t move a muscle.
For the first time in more than two days, Paul felt himself smile slightly. “Hello, Baron,” he said.
Baron stared for a moment, then hauled himself up, gave a great yawn and arched his broad back. He tipped himself forward and landed with a thud before padding over to Paul and nuzzling his head against the boy’s trouser leg.
Paul reached down to stroke the cat behind one ear and down his thick, fleshy neck. A loud purr of contentment emerged from somewhere deep in Baron’s throat.
“That’s good,” Albert said, with a laugh. “Baron likes you. And Baron likes very few people. It seems you have a new friend.”
“Paul needs friends at the moment.” Jos smiled. He glanced at his wristwatch, obviously ready to take his leave and go ashore. He was still holding the small suitcase, which he rested on the chair.
Quick as lightning, Baron’s great head whipped around and he hissed fiercely, his yellow eyes glaring.
“What did I do?” Jos gasped.
“That’s Baron’s chair,” Albert said belatedly, “I should have warned you. No one or nothing takes Baron’s chair.”
Jos snatched the case and held it between himself and the cat. “I apologize, Baron,” he said quickly. “I didn’t know.” Hesitantly he moved to stroke the huge tabby, but a low snarl quickly changed his mind and he took a backward step.
Albert grinned. “As I said, he likes very few people.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.” Jos placed the suitcase carefully on the floor. “Goodbye then, Paul. I’ll try to get news of your mother to you when you reach—” He stopped, avoiding mention of the town Paul was travelling to. “When you reach your destination.”
“You’re not staying to eat?” Albert asked.
“Eat?” Jos said, surprise registering on his face.
“Of course.”
“Is there time? Shouldn’t you be getting under way?”
Albert grunted. “There is always time to eat. I must eat, and so must Baron.” He nodded towards Paul. “And he looks as if he needs a good meal.”
“Then I’ll leave you to your food,” Jos said. He shook Paul’s hand before turning back to Albert. “Thank you for this. You’re doing a great service to Belgium and the cause of freedom.”
Albert shrugged his bulky shoulders and lifted the lid off the pan. “You’ll regret not staying. It’s chicken, like my mother used to make.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” Jos replied, smiling, “but I must get back to work.” Halfway up the steps he stopped and looked back at Paul. “Good luck, Paul, I’ll be thinking of you, and I hope we’ll meet again one day.” His eyes shifted to Baron, who was padding back towards his chair. “And I’m very sorry, Baron, I hope you can forgive me.”
Baron ignored the offered apology, launched himself up onto his chair and settled down to sleep.
Jos continued up the steps and out onto the deck. They heard his footsteps crossing the heavy planks and Paul watched through one of the small windows while he got into his car and drove away.
As the vehicle disappeared behind the rusting wharf, Paul suddenly felt lost and abandoned, stranded on board a tar-soaked barge with an eccentric skipper and a temperamental cat for company.
“It will get easier, I promise you,” Albert said. “And Baron and I will do everything we can to help get you to safety. You have my word on that.”
The huge man looked down into the cooking pot and gave the chicken a stir with a wooden spoon. “It’s ready,” he smiled, “and falling off the bone. Maybe not quite as good as my mother’s, but almost.”
He glanced at Paul. “So, let’s eat.”
FIVE
Albert was as good as his word. Over the following three day
s he went about his work on the Marina quietly and efficiently, making the job of piloting the lumbering vessel from river to canal look easy, and always finding time to keep a watchful and reassuring eye on the newest member of his crew.
While the Marina remained on the Scheldt, Paul stayed below decks, hidden from view. Sleek, grey German patrol boats prowled the wide harbour waters, their heavily armed crews challenging, and sometimes boarding, any sea-bound vessels arousing their suspicion. But the Marina was journeying inland so was largely ignored, and once she moved to the calm of the recently opened canal linking the Scheldt and Meuse rivers, it became safer for Paul to move about the barge more freely.
At night he slept fitfully, plagued by dreams of the death of his father and the arrest of his mother, but in his waking hours the despair and sense of loss was gradually joined by a feeling of immense pride. His parents were heroes, both of them, brave and strong, and although Paul continued to mourn his father and fear for his mother, he grew more and more determined to be equally brave and strong. And he made a silent vow to continue to fight the enemy, in whatever way he could. He had to, for his parents. He owed it to them.
There was plenty of time for Paul to think as the Marina nosed sedately onwards – perhaps too much. Albert tried to keep him busy, sometimes allowing him to take the wheel on the narrow, straight waters of the canal. In the evenings, with the vessel tied up, he would haul vast amounts of food from his cold store and cook excellent meals, while sinking a couple of bottles of his favourite Belgian beer and regaling Paul with tales of the many cargoes the Marina had shifted over the years – both legal and illegal.
“A little smuggling is one of the perks of the business,” he told Paul on the second night. “And despite this war, there’s still a market for whatever I bring back to Antwerp. German wine has always been popular. Can’t stand the stuff myself – give me a good Belgian beer any day – but the rich seem to enjoy it.”
“Perhaps they’ll like German wine less now we’re at war,” Paul answered.
Albert took a long drink of beer. “Well, here’s two promises, Paul. One, the Germans will never stop me smuggling and, two, we’ll drive them out of Antwerp eventually. You mark my words.”
Baron also seemed to be looking out for Paul. When the Marina was at the canal side, the big tabby was usually stretched out on his chair, half-closed eyes focused on his new friend. And when the barge was nosing through the water and Paul was on deck, Baron often lazed nearby.
At least once a day, though, Baron would disappear down into the gloom of the cargo hold, where almost a thousand tons of coal rested in the darkness like a glistening subterranean mountain range. When he reappeared, coal-dusty but triumphant, the lifeless body of a large brown rat would usually be clenched between his powerful jaws. He would pad along the deck and proudly drop his kill at Paul’s feet, before sitting and waiting for a congratulatory stroke behind the ears, which would set him purring loudly.
The countryside appeared peaceful but occasionally they would pass a building shattered by shellfire, a bullet-riddled vehicle, or woodland laid flat by tanks, all evidence of the German army’s swift and devastating invasion.
Each graphic sight only increased Paul’s determination to be part of the fight back. He knew he would have to wait. For now, he could only go along with the plan to get him to freedom. But later, after he reached England, and as soon as he was old enough, he would volunteer to go into action.
The taking of Antwerp by the Germans had been bloodless; Belgium had surrendered by the time the first enemy troops marched triumphantly up the Keyserlei. And Paul had been there, watching silently with his father, never dreaming of the devastating turn his life would so quickly take. Now his eyes were finally open to the grim reality of war.
As the Marina journeyed slowly on, Albert remained ever watchful and ever cautious. Paul’s belongings were stowed in a secret hideaway beneath the planks of the cabin, a space usually reserved for smuggled items. As soon as each meal was eaten, the plates and cutlery were washed and stowed, clearing away the evidence of an additional person on board. He had also given Paul precise orders on what to do in an emergency. The moment he caught sight of a barge travelling in the opposite direction he would order Paul below. There would almost certainly be no danger from a fellow bargeman, but these were strange times, he said, so it would be foolish and possibly fatal to take the slightest risk.
Heavy rain was falling as Albert glanced through the back window of the wheelhouse at another barge moving slowly away into the distance. “It’s all right, Paul, you can come out now.”
Paul climbed up from the cabin, carrying two tin mugs of hot coffee. He placed them on the wide shelf above the Marina’s wheel and looked back through the rain towards the retreating barge. “Do you know him?”
Albert nodded. “Old Donald Van de Brul, returning from Germany. Gave me a wave and shouted something, but I didn’t want to go out on deck in this rain.” He grinned. “Old Donald is always complaining about something. He planned to retire this year, but the Germans will keep him working.”
Van de Brul’s barge finally disappeared from sight and Paul turned to Albert. “And what about me, where exactly am I going? I still don’t know.”
“You’ll find out soon enough. But I’m sad to say you’ll be leaving Baron and me before the end of the voyage.”
“Where does the voyage end?”
Albert’s face darkened. “When we reach the Meuse, I must turn north towards the Rhine and Germany. This good Belgian coal, cut from the ground by good Belgian hands, is going to German factories to fire the furnaces to make more steel for more weapons.”
The weather was darkening with Albert’s mood. Low clouds moved swiftly in a strengthening wind, and the rain grew even heavier, thudding against the wheelhouse windows.
The canal was choppy now, with small, white-topped waves spreading across the surface. The Marina rose and fell as she ploughed forward, fine spray bouncing off her bows and flying back over the hold covers to splatter against the wheelhouse.
Albert grasped his coffee and took a long drink as he gazed ahead through the smeared glass of the wheelhouse windows. The rain was getting stronger. He wiped his eyes and craned his neck, cursing quietly as he strained to see.
Suddenly he banged the tin mug down on the shelf. “Stupid! I’m so bloody stupid! That’s what Donald was trying to tell me!”
“What? What is it?”
“Up ahead, look! Germans! On the bank, an armoured car and soldiers. Go to the hold, Paul! Go!”
SIX
The tools stacked and hung on the shelves and walls of Didier Brunet’s workshop looked like medieval instruments of torture – heavy chains to shackle some hapless victim, huge metal tongs to prize apart a shattered ribcage, and an array of lethal blades, spikes, spanners and hooks to complete the gruesome business of quartering a body and ripping out its entrails.
They made a terrifying display, but were in fact the innocent tools of Didier’s trade, the means by which he kept the heavy but delicate machines of Henri Mazet’s textile factory in Lavelanet running smoothly. And Didier was determined that it would continue to run smoothly; he still had much to prove.
Sitting at a wooden bench in the workshop, greasing the spindle of a weighty iron clamp, he listened to the sounds and rhythms of the machines. Each area of the factory floor had its own particular tune, like the different sections of an orchestra. The cha-kah-dun of the wool separators, the ta-ta-ta-psssh of the spinning looms, the da-da-doom of the bobbin winders. Combined and constantly singing, the machines created a deafening cacophony for any visitor. But after four years, Didier could tell instantly when one of his beloved machines was out of tune or even slightly off-key.
Didier had joined Mazet’s factory when he left school, just after his fourteenth birthday. Virtually everyone in Lavelanet worked in either the textiles or comb-making industries; there was little else.
And Didier had stru
ck lucky. The long-serving mechanic, Jacques Savary, wanted an apprentice he could train up to take over when he retired a few years later. Didier had impressed him from day one. Jacques spotted straight away that the youngster was a natural with anything mechanical.
“You must have been born with a spanner in your hand,” he joked one morning as he watched Didier grease and then free a particularly stubborn bolt from a jammed loom cylinder. “You’ll do just fine, boy.”
While many of the heavy machines in Mazet’s factory were relatively new, some had been built thirty or more years before – built to last. But their solid, cast-iron frames often housed surprisingly intricate and complex moving parts. Wheels, spindles, cylinders, drive belts, shafts; all had to be carefully watched, nurtured and maintained, and Didier grew to recognize each individual machine’s peculiarities and particular needs.
He had worked happily with Jacques for three and a half years, but for the past six months the older man had been unwell. He had struggled bravely on until, three months earlier, he had been ordered by the doctor to take time off and rest. He was unlikely to return.
Didier had been put in charge, temporarily, of the machines. He was young for such a responsibility, but Mazet told him that if, after six months, there had been no major mishaps, then the job would be his permanently. That was assuming Jacques did not come back.
But there was another reason why Didier was doing his utmost to ensure the machines remained in perfect running order and create a good impression with his boss – Henri Mazet’s daughter, Josette.
Didier and Josette had known one another since they were children. In a town of five thousand people most of the inhabitants knew one another, by sight at least. During their school days, Didier had paid little attention to Josette, but since she had come to work in the factory, helping her father in the office, he had seen her differently. She was beautiful: long, dark, wavy hair; even darker eyes; a sweet face that could turn fiery in an instant – and frequently did. Didier often found himself sighing and unable to concentrate on his work when he caught sight of Josette.
