Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (30 page)

Oberstleutnant Rolf Reinhardt was one of the lucky ones. He had been out of the building that day. But his spacious offi ce on the twelfth fl oor had been destroyed, including several valuable paintings confi scated from the home of a prominent Jew. For months after the incident, Reinhardt fumed over the loss, imagining how the paintings, especially the Rubens, would have looked in the parlor of his home in Munich.

But Reinhardt had a larger problem on his hands. He had just hung up the telephone after a blistering one-sided conversation with Berlin over the destruction of the newly constructed refueling depot near La Roche.

He was in charge of Gestapo activities in that part of Belgium and, as his superior had reminded him in no uncertain terms, this was
his
problem. The incidents of sabotage had been escalating dramatically in the last few months, but this was the coup de grâce.

Reinhardt was on the spot. The highest levels in Berlin now knew about the destruction of the depot. If he didn’t fi nd the bastards who did it and get 198

Douglas W. Jacobson

them in front of a fi ring squad, he’d soon be slogging through the snow on the Russian front.

Reinhardt closed his eyes and took a few moments to collect himself, then reached for the buzzer on his desk. “Send him in,” he commanded.

The door opened and Hans Wolter stepped into the cramped offi ce.

“Setzen Sie,”
Reinhardt grumbled and Wolter slumped into the chair closest to the door.

Reinhardt looked at him with contempt. Wolter was his lead investigator, in the area around LaRoche and, in Reinhardt’s opinion, was only slightly less incompetent than the rest of the Gestapo crew down there.

Reinhardt was a resourceful man, a determined and thorough investigator, but this group of Resistance operatives in La Roche had him frustrated. He knew the saboteurs had to be locals—farmers or merchants—operating right under the noses of Wolter and his agents in the area. Reinhardt was certain the group was attached to the White Brigade and fi nanced through a connection in Brussels or Antwerp. He had some names . . . but he couldn’t put it together.

Reinhardt glared at Wolter. “Berlin is going to have my ass over this refueling depot. But before they do, by God, I’ll have yours!”

Wolter squirmed in the chair.

“Do you know anything?” Reinhardt shouted. “Anything at all? Or are you and your worthless crew just sitting down in La Roche with your thumbs up your asses!”

Wolter cleared his throat and the effort caused him to cough. His eyes began to water.

Reinhardt sat back and waited while Wolter regained his composure. “Now then, do you have any suspects at all?”

Wolter straightened up. His voice was shaky. “We still suspect that fat butcher in La Roche, but we don’t know where his orders come from. We know he owns a small chalet near the village of Warempage that he rents to some woman and her son, and he has a connection in Antwerp, but we haven’t been able to—”

Reinhardt leaned across the desk, cutting him off. “Christ, they’ve been blowing up rail yards and trains for months.
Jetzt das!
What do you intend to do about it?”

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Wolter squirmed again. He wiped perspiration from his forehead. “Let’s haul the butcher in and break his knees. We’ll get him to talk.”

Reinhardt looked at him with disgust. Breaking bones seemed to be the extent of the man’s intellectual capabilities. “Yes, of course. A wonderful idea,”

he snarled. “Brilliant. In a small town like that, the instant you arrest him everyone will know, and they’ll burrow so deeply underground you’ll never fi nd them, even if the man talks, which he probably won’t.”

Wolter slumped back in the chair.

Reinhardt rubbed his eyes and stood up. He walked around the desk and glared down at the defeated agent. “Here’s what I want you to do. Leave the butcher alone. I don’t want him to know that we suspect him of anything.

But we need to send a message to these bastards. Pick out three people in La Roche, any three, it doesn’t matter. But not the butcher or any of his known friends.
Verstehen Sie?
”

Wolter nodded.

“Arrest them in broad daylight. Then drag them into the street and shoot them. Three people, today. Got it?”

“
Ja,
three people . . . today.
Verstehen
.”

Reinhardt motioned toward the door. “Now get the hell out of here and let me think.”

After Wolter left, Reinhardt sat at his desk and rubbed his temples. He was running out of time. Wolter and his crew were useless thugs. They’d never fi gure this out. He needed to take another tack, but he didn’t know in which direction. He had to fi nd the linkage between this group of saboteurs and whoever was fi nancing them and running the organization . . . but how? It was maddening.

For the fi rst time in his career he was stumped. He sat in the drafty little offi ce and looked out the lone window at the bleak December sky, forcing himself to go over the whole thing again and look at it from another angle.

There had to be a way.

Chapter 37

It was Christmas Eve and the snow, which had been falling all day, accu-mulated into drifts more than a half meter high. The windows of the Marchals’

house were frosted over and a fi re crackled in the fi eldstone fi replace. A small fi r tree decorated with ribbons and candles stood in the corner. The parlor was small and simple save for the bright red Persian rug that covered most of the rough planked fl oor and Antoinette’s hand-painted fl owers and birds that circled the kerosene sconces on the stucco walls. The rug had belonged to Antoinette’s grandmother, the only thing left after the Great War.

Justyn had gone upstairs with the Marchal boys, and Antoinette gathered up the last of the gift wrap paper, folding it neatly to be used another time.

Anna sat on the worn upholstered sofa, holding a half-full wineglass, watching the fi re. The mood in the small farmhouse, if not festive, was one of warmth and camaraderie. Feeling festive, even on Christmas, was close to impossible for anyone in this small rural community still reeling from the horror of the Gestapo murdering three innocent people.

Anna sipped the wine and stared at the fl ickering fl ames, silently fi ghting the rage and despair that crept into her heart at moments like this. The Nazis had arrested her father because he was an intellectual. And left her best friend to die because she was a Jew. Now three people had been gunned down in the street like dogs. Where would it end?

She wondered where Jan was on this Christmas Eve, hoping and praying that he was safe, perhaps at some army base in England or Scotland preparing for the invasion. She clutched the thin stem of the wineglass. There were other possibilities, possibilities she would not allow herself to contemplate, not Night of Flames

201

tonight. Not on Christmas. Jan was safe. She believed that.

When she fi nished folding the paper, Antoinette sat next to Anna and placed a warm hand on her arm. “I’ll bet Jan is sitting in some pub in Scotland right now thinking about you,” she said.

Anna sighed. “Sometimes he seems so real, so close, as though he’s about to walk into the room—and other times I can barely remember what he looks like.”

Antoinette picked up her own wineglass from the rough-hewn coffee table and took a sip. “When Leon was fi ghting during the invasion, and whenever he’s off on his missions, I always try to think of some place where he and I would go,
privé,
just the two of us. A place I can always recall.”

Anna smiled mischievously. “And where would
that
be?”

Antoinette laughed. “
Ah bien,
besides
that . . .
the place I was thinking about was a sunny little spot along the Ourthe River near Mormont. We went there for picnics in the summer, every Sunday, the fi rst year we were married.”

She shook her head. “
Mon dieu,
we haven’t been there in years.”

Anna was silent for a moment, remembering. “Jan and I would sit at the same little café on the Rynek Glowny in Krakow every Sunday evening. We’d have a glass of wine then take a walk.” She glanced at Antoinette. “We always held hands when we walked.”

Antoinette laughed again. “So did we back then. But now it seems like there’s no time for anything.”

The kitchen door swung open, and Leon stomped in with a load of fi rewood in his arms, kicking snow off his boots. Anna got up to help, but Antoinette stopped her. “Just sit and enjoy the fi re,” she said. “I’ll get some more wine.”

Anna sat back, soothed by the fi re—and the friendship. During the last two years she had grown as close to Antoinette as she had to any other woman in her life. But their friendship was different than her friendship had been with Irene. Irene had leaned on her and depended on her. And the guilt would always be there, that she had failed to protect Irene in her most vulnerable hour.

But Antoinette was a woman of considerable strength, a woman who understood the danger her family lived with because of Leon’s involvement with the
maquis,
but didn’t dwell on it. She did what needed to be done and went on with life. When Antoinette had learned that Anna would be leading American aviators to Paris, her only reaction had been to give her a hug and assure her 202

Douglas W. Jacobson

that she would look after Justyn. To Antoinette, Anna was only doing what needed to be done. Just like the rest of them.

Leon dumped an armful of split logs in the wood box and brushed the dust off his sleeve. “Well, I’m ready for a glass of wine,” he said.
“C’est Noël.”

A party of twelve had gathered for the Christmas Eve celebration at Rene and Mimi Leffard’s home on the Cogels-Osylei in Antwerp. The guests included several of Leffard’s business associates; a few neighbors; and his two closest friends: Rik Trooz and his wife, Audrey, and Willy Boeynants, accompanied by a lady friend.

Boeynants was a lifelong bachelor with an active social life, and the Leffards were always interested to see who was accompanying him. Tonight it was actually someone they had met before, a blond Dutch woman named Hendrika.

The group had pooled their resources and managed to secure a verita-ble feast, given the times in which they were living. The menu included an Ardennes ham, which Leffard provided from the source in La Roche known only to him and Boeynants. The other guests brought additional varieties of black market delights, including crusty white bread, sardines and mackerel in oil, real butter and, most spectacular of all, a tiny box of chocolates which Boeynants ceremoniously produced after dinner. “One for each of us,” he said.

“Joyeux Noël!”

Antwerp had suffered mightily during the past year, and it was impossible to prevent the conversation around the table from dwelling on it. Hundreds of prominent citizens had been arrested by the Gestapo and thrown into prison.

Jews by the thousands were being deported to the “east.” The curfew had been shortened, and food and clothing were increasingly hard to come by.

And it wasn’t only the Germans who caused the suffering. Allied bombing had destroyed bridges and factories all over the country.

Eventually Leffard prevailed upon his guests to set aside their troubles and enjoy the spirit of the season. He was, as always, a persuasive man, and the rest of the evening passed in festive banter.

It was almost ten thirty before the party broke up and the Leffards’ guests began to leave. Rik Trooz and his wife, along with Boeynants and Hendrika, lingered after the others had left. It was obvious that Trooz had something on his mind. Mimi poured the women another cup of coffee, while Leffard led his two friends to his study.

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They settled down with a fi nal glass of cognac. “I have a business acquain-tance I think you should meet,” Trooz said to Leffard. “His name is Paul de Smet. Do you know of him?”

“Paul de Smet?” Leffard repeated. He thought for a minute, trying to remember if he’d ever heard the name. “
Non,
I don’t think I do. Should I?”

Trooz shrugged. “Well, perhaps not. I’ve known him for a number of years. He owns several businesses that I’m familiar with, including one in the Ardennes, near Dochamps. I helped him fi nance it back in the thirties. He has a residence in Ghent and another in the Ardennes, not far from La Roche.”

“La Roche? Does van Acker know him?” Boeynants asked.

“I don’t know,” Trooz said. “I haven’t asked him about it.”

Leffard nodded. Trooz’s involvement in the Resistance was limited to the Comet Line organization. He would only contact van Acker to arrange an escort from the area.

“Apparently de Smet only uses the house near La Roche for occasional weekends,” Trooz added. “It’s not far from the factory in Dochamps. The name of the business is Precision Metals.”

“Precision Metals?” Leffard asked. “What do they make?”

“Before the war they manufactured custom components for the railroads and the mining industry, all out of brass, primarily high-precision stampings.”

“What about now?”

“Well, this is the important part,” Trooz replied. “The Germans moved in and took control of the factory back in ’41. They now manufacture shell casings.”

Leffard was silent for a moment, thinking. “Wait a minute. This sounds familiar. I believe I have heard of this fellow. Wasn’t there some type of lawsuit concerning this factory a few years ago?”

“
C’est correct.
I thought you would remember it,” Trooz said with a smile.

“In 1941, de Smet fi led a lawsuit protesting the Germans’ interference in his business. He alleged that he was being pressured into producing war materials for the Wehrmacht.” Trooz sipped his cognac then set the glass down and leaned forward. “De Smet and I are not particularly close friends, but we’ve maintained an ongoing business relationship. He confi ded in me when this was all happening. He was quite upset about it.”

“If I recall correctly, it was never really settled,” Leffard said. “What happened?”

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