© 1994 by T. Davis Bunn
Published by Bethany House Publishers
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Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
eISBN 978-1-4412-7091-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
This story is entirely a creation of the author’s imagination. No parallel between any persons, living or dead, is intended.
Cover by Joe Nordstrom
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
About the Author
Other Books by Author
Back Cover
Chapter One
Major Pierre Servais, commander of the French garrison at Badenburg, wore a face that frowned from forehead to collar. At the sound of Jake’s jeep, Pierre turned from his inspection of work on the refugee camp’s sentry towers, walked over, and said, “First we worry because the ground is hard as iron. Now the thaw arrives and we find ourselves working in quicksand.”
Lieutenant Colonel Jake Burnes, commander of the U.S. military base at Karlsruhe, watched the team of sweating soldiers struggle to steady a crosspiece while working in mud up to midthigh. “Maybe you ought to wait for the ground to dry out.”
“I can’t. The entire area has become treacherous. My sentries can no longer even stand, much less walk the perimeter. We must have these elevated positions.” Pierre inspected his friend. “From your expression, I take it you could not convince her to stay.”
“I didn’t even see her,” Jake replied. “She left Berlin the day before I arrived. General’s orders.”
“I am very sorry for you.” Pierre reached over and patted his friend’s shoulder. “She was posted back to America?”
“Six months,” Jake said, her letter burning through his jacket pocket to sear his chest. “On the road almost the whole time. I can’t even go see her because I don’t know where she’ll be. The whole business is classified. A great opportunity, she called it.” He resisted the urge to pound the steering wheel. Again. “What does she call our relationship? A burden?”
“Sally must trust you very much,” Pierre said solemnly.
“Or just not care one way or the other.”
“That is not so, and you know it,” Pierre countered. “What will you do?”
“I still have close to a month’s leave. Almost wish I didn’t now.”
“Perhaps you would like to go home?”
“That’s what the leave is supposed to be for. But there’s not much for me to go home to, remember? My folks are both gone, and my brother didn’t make it back from Normandy.”
“I meant home with me,” Pierre replied.
Jake showed a spark of interest. “To France?”
“That is where home was the last time I looked,” Pierre said. “I have received another letter from my mother. She says that I have let the memories block my return for too long.”
“You mean about your brother?” Pierre’s twin had fought with the Resistance and had died in the war’s final months.
“Among other things,” Pierre said, his frown deepening. “Come. I need to check the other team’s progress.”
Jake sprang from his jeep and fell into step alongside his friend. He searched his memory and recalled references to a woman named Jasmyn who had betrayed Pierre during the war by taking up with a Nazi officer. Jake smiled grimly. He and Pierre made quite a pair.
Their way took them along the internment camp’s outer fence. The open fields that had formerly bordered the Badenburg main base had been restructured as a holding center for paperless refugees.
Throughout the fierce winter of 1945–46, central Europe had remained awash in a human flood. Most refugees carried little or no identification, beyond perhaps the tattooed identity numbers of the concentration camp victims. Others were stragglers from farther east, uprooted by the invading of Stalinist forces and flung helter-skelter westward. Few families were intact. Husbands sought wives, wives children, children parents. Mornings in the camp were scarred by the wails rising from the Red Cross center when the daily reports confirmed that those being sought were no more.
Such camps were seas of humanity encircled by barbed wire. There was never enough room, or food or medicine, or news from the lands now suffering under Stalin’s mighty fist. By midwinter, the number of homeless refugees in the American sector of the former Third Reich had risen to more than two million. The French sector had been similarly inundated.
The spring thaw had reduced the sentries’ path to a muddy bog. Jake and Pierre stayed on the grassy verge and picked their way carefully as they skirted the camp. Jake resisted the urge to return the never-ending stares from behind the fence.
As they rounded the corner, a cry from somewhere inside the camp made Jake wince. No matter how often he heard the sound, he could not become hardened to the tragedy of another refugee’s loss of hope. He steeled himself and continued onward until he realized that Pierre was no longer at his side.
Jake turned around to find his friend staring at the fence with a gaze of hollow agony.
Again there was the cry, and this time Jake heard it as a name. “Patrique!” Pierre recoiled as though taking a blow to the heart.
Jake spotted a girl struggling through the dense lines of bearded men and kerchiefed women waiting for food. The people were reluctant to let her through, both because of their obvious hunger and because a step in the wrong direction meant moving off the boardwalk and stepping into the mud. She ignored their complaints and curses, shoving and wriggling and fighting toward the fence. “Patrique!”
Pierre moved toward the fence, did not notice where he stepped, and sank to his knees in the bog.
The girl extricated herself from the final line, and promptly slipped and fell headlong into the mire. She scarcely seemed to notice. Even before the fall was complete, she was battling to right herself. Her feet spun for a hold in the slick mud. The front of her dress was encrusted. Dirt streaked her dark hair and painted one emaciated cheek. Finally she recovered her footing and flung herself at the fence. She thrust her face and one hand through the wire and screamed in a broken voice, “Patrique!”
A sentry called out a warning and started forward. Pierre barked out a command in French, but did not seem to have the strength to free himself from the bog. Jake walked over and offered a hand. “What’s goi
ng on?”
Pierre accepted the help without really seeing. He mumbled something in French, his eyes fastened on the screaming girl.
“Try that in English, buddy,” Jake told him.
Pierre swung around, seemed to have trouble remembering who Jake was. Then he said in a benumbed voice, “Patrique was my brother.”
Chapter Two
Jake sat in the corner of what once had been Colonel Beecham’s office but now belonged to Pierre Servais. The former American base at Badenburg was presently a central French garrison, with Pierre as acting commandant. Pierre sat behind his desk, his hands shaking so hard he could scarcely bring the cup to his lips. Jake watched him listen to the girl’s story, hoping that Pierre would begin to recover from the shock of having heard the young girl call out his dead brother’s name. But if anything, Pierre was becoming continually more distraught. The young French major winced at the girl’s voice. His own questions were hoarse and hesitant.
The girl was barely able to speak around her tears. It was hard to tell her age because she suffered from the refugees’ most common ailment—desperate hunger. The skin of her face was like dry parchment, stretched tightly over bones of birdlike fragility. Her brown eyes watched a strange and dangerous world from dark-lined cavities. Yet her whole being burned with an intensity that belied her frailty. Jake imagined that given a chance to recover, she would emerge as a raven-haired beauty.
Seventeen, Jake decided, listening to her continue the halting discourse with Pierre. Maybe a year older. She spoke German with the lilting tone he had come to recognize as the result of speaking Yiddish at home. Neither her sadness nor the urgency of her words could obscure her voice’s musical quality.
Her name was Lilliana Goss, she told them. She was half Jewish, half German. It was her mother who taught her Yiddish. Although she had been raised in a Christian home, her mother had insisted on keeping her Jewish heritage alive. Her father, a former university professor, had managed to bribe their way out of Germany when the Nazi sweeps intensified.
“My father was in contact with the Resistance across the border in France,” she told Pierre. “That is what saved us. We were taken to Marseille, and from there to Morocco. We met Patrique, your brother, in Marrakesh. My father began working with him, processing the incoming refugees, arranging for false papers, keeping on the lookout for spies and turncoats.
“My father’s health started to fail. I began helping out more and more with Patrique’s operations. I became a local messenger for the group and helped to forge documents. I had nothing else to do with my time, and I enjoyed the feeling of being useful. One night, a few months before Morocco was liberated—”
“When exactly,” Pierre grated.
She thought a moment. “The first week in April,” she replied with confidence. “I remember because my birthday had been only a few days before.”
The news visibly shook Pierre. “Go on.”
“I was working alone in our offices, they were hidden under the eaves of the Red Cross building, when Patrique rushed in. He startled me, because he had been called away in March. Nobody knew where he was. There had been all sorts of rumors floating around about how he had been captured or killed, but I had refused to believe them.”
Pierre was taking the story very hard. The longer Lilliana continued, the more he seemed to shrink inside himself. Jake watched him, recalled the day news had come of his own brother’s death on the Normandy beaches, and ached for his friend.
“Patrique was furious to find me there. I did not understand his anger, because I had feared the worst and was overjoyed to see him alive. He said that a messenger was to have met him that night but had not arrived at the meeting point. Patrique had waited three hours, then risked going to the offices, where he found me. Since I knew nothing about a messenger, Patrique was forced to assume that the French conspirators had captured him.”
Pierre roused himself enough to rasp out, “You mean the Nazis.”
Lilliana responded with an adamant shake of her dark locks. “He said the French. I asked the same thing. He insisted it was the French, which made him extremely distressed. But he refused to explain. He said the less I knew the better. Then he asked me if I would take on a dangerous assignment. He hated to use me, but there was no one else, and he had to leave that very night. He knew the forces were hard on his trail. I adored your brother and would have done anything for him. He asked me to take a message to his friends in Marseille. He said a boat was waiting for his messenger in the Tangiers harbor. I was to go there, take the boat, deliver the message, and return immediately.”
Again Pierre stirred himself enough to ask, “What was the message?”
“Beware the traitor,” the girl replied, “I have the proof you need.”
“Which traitor?” Pierre demanded.
“Patrique did not say,” Lilliana replied. “Only that it was no longer safe for him in Morocco. That he was going to try to make it to Gibraltar. And that they should not believe overmuch in rumors of his death.”
* * *
Two days after finding Lilliana, Jake and Pierre boarded the train for Marseille. Lilliana had been examined by the local Red Cross doctors and proclaimed unfit for travel—acute malnourishment and a persistent low-grade fever. Besides which there was still no word from her family. Three inquiries had been sent to Morocco, with no reply. Pierre’s last action before departing had been to place yet another request through official channels.
The train was crammed to overflowing. Every compartment was full. People jammed the aisles outside, sitting on their luggage, standing, crushed together like sardines. Yet there was no pushing, no shoving, no arguments over places. With their officers’ passes, Pierre and Jake were assured seats. Twice they rose and tried to give their places to ladies. Both times they were refused—not only by the women themselves but by all the people surrounding them. When the people saw that Jake did not understand their words, they motioned him down with hand signals. Sit, sit. Officers deserved a place.
Of Pierre they asked as much as politeness allowed. Where were the gentlemen coming from? And where, might one ask, were they headed? Ah, Marseille. A beautiful city. To see the family. How nice. And the first time since the end of the war? Oh, how exciting it must be for you, sir. And for your friend, this will be his first time in France? Welcome, welcome. Smiles and bows were presented in Jake’s direction. May your stay in France be a glorious one. That was the word they used, Pierre assured him. A glorious stay. This from people who wore their hunger as evidently as the frayed elbows and carefully darned tears in their clothes. They wished him a glorious stay in their beloved land.
Once they were settled in their seats, Jake asked Pierre in a low voice, “Why did you keep asking Lilliana to repeat parts of her story, you know, about when Patrique came back to Morocco unexpectedly?”
“Because, my friend,” Pierre replied, “this entire episode took place a month after my brother was supposed to have died.”
Jake turned back toward the train window and mulled this over. The others in their compartment showed polite disinterest, granting them as much privacy as their crowded surroundings would allow.
Lilliana’s story had not ended there. She had done as Patrique had requested, traveled to Marseille, and hurried to the designated address. But the building had been destroyed in the war, and she had no other way of contacting Pierre’s friends. In desperation she had walked the streets until a roving German patrol spotted her and arrested her for being out after curfew. She soon found herself on a train with other detainees, heading north.
Once inside Germany, the train had been halted and left to languish on a siding for three days. Finally the soldiers in charge had forced those still alive to continue onward by foot. They had walked for a very long time—Lilliana was not sure exactly how long, the days had melted together. She had ended up in a workers’ camp and endured the grueling weeks of autumn and winter working in an unheated bomb factory. Then w
ith the spring had come the Allied liberators, and after that she had been passed from one camp to another, awaiting papers and word of her family.
“I am tempted to travel directly to Gibraltar,” Pierre broke in, “but I know I must first go to my family in Marseille.”
“I thought you said they were in—” Jake searched his memory, but could not recall the name. “Some other town.”
“Montpelier,” Pierre supplied. “My family originally came from Marseille, and we spent much time there when I was growing up. During the war my parents moved back there because survival was easier when surrounded by family. Now my uncle, my mother’s brother, is one of the President’s team in Marseille. Not one of the cabinet, mind you. One of the local staff. He is in charge of food distribution for that area of Provence. My father works with him. Marseille is where the Americans offload all supplies.”
As soon as he had recovered from Lilliana’s story, Pierre had applied for and been granted long-overdue leave to visit his family. The brigadier general responsible for Jake’s region had then personally authorized his own travel to France—not because of Pierre, but because he knew of Jake’s lack of family and his distress over Sally.
The train that took them through the Alsace countryside was from a bygone era. Plumes of smoke and cinders flew by their closed window. Jake gave thanks for a chilly day. If it had been warmer and the windows open, they would both have arrived blackened by the chuffing locomotive.
“Gibraltar,” Pierre murmured. “Why would he choose to go there, of all places? Why not home?”
“It seems to me that if your brother really had survived,” Jake cautioned, “he would have gotten in touch with somebody long before now.”
“Do not rob me of hope, my friend,” Pierre said, his eyes still on the countryside. “Already it hangs from the slenderest of threads. Do not swing the knife.”
“I just—”
“Don’t,” Pierre repeated, turning away from the window. “Let me sit for now, this moment, this day, and believe that there might indeed be a chance that Patrique is still alive. My mind too is full of all the arguments, but my heart does not wish to hear them. Not now. Not yet.”
Gibraltar Passage Page 1
