Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (49 page)

His words made her stomach churn. She glanced quickly to her left, to the door of the washroom. Could she make it? She didn’t think so. He stepped closer to the bed. Anna jumped off the other side, pulling a blanket around herself. “Get out of here,” she snapped, backing into the corner.

“Now, now,
ma chérie,
that’s no way to treat a soldier returning to his home.”

Anna watched with loathing as he unbuckled his black belt with the holster and handgun and placed it on the top of the bureau.

He smiled, unbuttoning his black tunic. “We both know what’s going to happen here,” he said, as he hung the tunic on the bedpost. “If you’re smart, you’ll make the best of it. After all, you really have no choice.” He moved around the foot of the bed, trapping her in the corner, and stepped closer.

“Get away! Don’t touch me!” Anna spat out the words and grabbed the lamp from the night table, jerking the electrical cord from the socket, holding the heavy brass base like a club.

Koenig was on her in an instant. He ripped the lamp out of her hands and smashed it against the wall.

Anna pushed him away and crawled over the bed, but her feet became tangled in the blanket.

Koenig ripped the blanket away and lunged at her.

Anna rolled off the bed and landed heavily on the wooden fl oor. She got to her feet and started for the washroom, but Koenig was too fast. He scrambled over the bed and grabbed her by the hair.

He spun her around and slapped her across the face.

Anna screamed, clawing his cheek, frantically trying to grab the lamp from the other night stand.

“You fucking bitch!
Ich werde Sie Töten!
I’ll kill you!” Koenig bellowed in guttural German as he grabbed her by the throat and shoved her backward against the wall.

She tried to knee him in the groin, but he slapped her again, harder, and pushed her to the fl oor. Anna scratched at his eyes but he was wild with rage and punched her in the stomach.

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She heaved in a sudden spasm, gasping for breath.

Koenig pinned her to the fl oor with one hand around her neck, kneeling on top of her. With his other hand he grabbed the neckline of her nightgown and ripped it open, exposing her bare body to the waist. He stared at her breasts, then began to unbutton his fl y. She squirmed beneath him and spat in his face.

“Verdammt!”
he screamed, and grabbed her by the hair, banging her head against the fl oor.

Anna’s sight shattered into a thousand bright lights as a paralyzing pain sliced through her skull. Then she slipped into a dull blackness.

Anna fl inched as a coarse hand groped between her thighs. She blinked. Koenig was glaring down at her, forcing her legs apart with his knees. She struggled to hit him, but her hands were tied together above her head, secured to the heavy wooden leg at the head of the bed. She was naked, the rest of her nightgown lying in a shredded heap on the fl oor next to her.
Christ, had she passed out?

Koenig’s face came closer, his coarse hand now fondling her breasts. His forehead pressed against hers, intensifying the pain. “Now, you’re mine,” he whispered. His breath was hot. His saliva dripped on her face.

“Please,” Anna begged. “Please! Don’t!” She felt the prick of a sharp blade against her neck.

“If you resist, I’ll slit your throat,” he hissed, lowering himself into position, his weight pressing her against the hard wooden fl oor.

She squirmed again and cried,
“Non! Non! Attends! Halte—”

The blade moved, cutting into her neck with a burning sting. “Be still!”

She threw her head back and bit her lower lip, convulsing with agony as he plunged into her.

He thrust again . . . and again, grunting each time, “You’re mine! You’re mine!”

When he fi nished, Koenig stood over her, pulling up his trousers. Anna lay on her back, pain coursing through her groin, her arms numb from the tight cord knotted around her wrists. Her stomach heaved and she swallowed, forcing down the bile in her throat. She wanted to curl into a ball, but she was terrifi ed to move, praying he wouldn’t touch her again.

Then, through the throbbing pain in her head, she heard a thumping sound.

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She heard it again, a loud thump. The fl oor seemed to vibrate. She heard a voice, deep and raspy. At fi rst it seemed far away, then it became louder, more distinct.

Koenig mumbled as he buckled his belt, “Fucking moron, I’ll kill him.”

Suddenly, a thunderous crash shook the room.

Koenig jerked his head toward the door. An instant later, two enormous hands grabbed him by the neck and fl ung him across the room.

Anna rolled on her side and pulled up her knees, the cord digging into her wrists.

Before Koenig could regain his feet, Otto jerked him upright and smashed a mammoth fi st into the SS offi cer’s face, knocking him backward against the bureau like a stuffed doll.

Koenig’s face was a mass of blood. He clutched the top of the bureau to keep from falling.

Otto lunged forward and kicked him in the chest.

Anna heard the cracking sound of breaking ribs, as Otto kicked him again.

Koenig crumpled to the fl oor.

The big man stepped back to the bed and knelt beside Anna. Instinctively, she turned away, but Otto picked up the knife and cut the cord binding her hands. He scooped her up as easily as if she were a small child and lay her on the bed. He glanced around, found the blanket, and gently covered her.

“I’ll get some water,” he said and turned toward the washroom.

The gunshot was so jarring that Anna couldn’t comprehend what had happened until she saw Otto slumping against the washroom door, clutching his chest.

She sat up and stared in horror at Koenig, leaning against the bureau, holding his gun with both hands.

Blood streamed down Koenig’s smashed face, and his hands shook as he pointed the gun at Anna. She rolled to her left just as he fi red.

As Anna toppled off the bed, Otto stepped over her and staggered across the room.

Koenig swung around, trying to get off another shot, but the big man was on top of him.

Otto ripped the gun from the SS offi cer’s hand and bashed it into his skull with a sickening thud. He hit Koenig a second time, then a third. Koenig sagged forward and collapsed.

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Anna jumped to her feet and grabbed Otto as the big man stumbled backward. With every ounce of strength she could muster, she steered the wounded man to the bed.

Groaning in pain, Otto laid back while Anna lifted his feet onto the bed.

She quickly wrapped herself in the blanket and stepped over to Koenig’s body.

She held her fi ngers to his throat to make certain the bastard was dead, then ran to the washroom and returned with a pan of water and towels.

Otto stared at the ceiling, his eyes glazed, his face wet with perspiration.

Anna picked up the knife and gently cut away his blood-soaked undershirt.

The wound was high on the left side of his massive chest, halfway between the collarbone and the shoulder. As Otto moaned in pain, Anna reached behind his back and felt around, her fi ngers fi nally touching an exit wound. The bullet had gone right through his body, and Anna knew enough to realize that was better than having it lodged inside.

But he was losing a lot of blood. Using the knife, she ripped the bed sheets and pillowcases into strips for bandages. When she fi nished, Anna leaned over and whispered in the big man’s ear, “Otto?”

No response.

“Otto?”

He mumbled and opened his eyes.

Anna could see that he was struggling to focus. “Otto, listen to me. I’ve got to roll you on your side, but you’ve got to help me. Do you understand?”

He closed his eyes and she slapped him on the cheek. “Otto, stay with me.

Do you understand? You’ve got to help me.”

Otto opened his eyes and nodded. With a painful grunt he rolled onto his side.

Chapter 69

Jan was dumbfounded as he stood on the sidewalk, staring at the Leffards’

burned-out house. Ever since that day in July when he climbed aboard the Dakota and fl ew out of Poland, his one hope of fi nding Anna had been here.

Jan was certain that it was to this house on the Cogels-Osylei, the home of her dearest friends and surrogate parents, that Anna would come if she had gotten out of Poland. He stared at the boarded-up windows and charred door, and felt nauseated.

An hour later, pushing his way through the raucous, celebrating crowd that fi lled the Grote Markt, Jan spotted Sam sitting at a small table outside the café Den Engle. As he approached the table, the tall silver-haired man stood up to greet him. He gripped Jan’s hand in both of his own. “
Bonjour,
Colonel. It’s good to see you again. Thank God you’re safe.”

Jan managed a smile and they sat down.

“Would you like a beer?” Sam asked, pointing to his own half-full glass.

“It’s still of very poor quality but, today, it tastes much better.”

“
Oui,
that would be fi ne,” Jan said.

When the waiter brought the beer, Sam raised his glass. “It’s a great day for Belgium . . . and a great day for freedom.”

Jan smiled at his new friend and raised his glass. Somehow, after everything he’d been through the last few years, it no longer seemed odd to feel a kinship with someone whose name he didn’t even know. He wondered if Sam was married, if he had children, and what he had done for a living—before the war took all that away.

They sat in silence for several minutes.

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Then Sam leaned across the table. “You look as though something’s troubling you. Is anything wrong? I heard the mission went very well.”

Jan studied the tall, urbane man sitting across the table.

“You can trust me, Colonel,” Sam persisted.

Jan nodded slowly. It had been a long time since he’d had a friend he could trust, perhaps not since Stefan was killed. But he had already trusted Sam with his life. His only hope of fi nding Anna had been dashed, and he needed help.

He had to take a chance. “I took some time this afternoon to visit a friend of my wife’s family.”

“Your wife has friends here in Antwerp?”

“
Oui,
they have a home on the Cogels-Osylei.”

Sam set his glass down. “What is their name?”

“Leffard,” Jan said, “Rene and Mimi Leffard. But when I went to their home, I found . . .”

Sam’s face went pale. He leaned across the table, staring at Jan. “That it was burned out and vacant?”

Jan sat back, stunned. “
Oui . . .
but . . . do you know them?”

“
Oui, oui, bien sûr.
I know . . . knew . . . them.” Sam rubbed his forehead, silent for a moment. Then his eyes widened. “
Mon dieu!
I should have guessed it from your accent—you’re Polish. Is it possible? Are you Jan Kopernik?”

Jan stared at him, speechless.

“Rene and Mimi Leffard were my closest friends,” Sam continued, his eyes moist. “And yes . . . your wife, Anna, and the boy, Justyn, were here in Antwerp, living with the Leffards. I met them both, many times.”

Jan struggled to breathe. What were the chances . . . ? Then the image of the Leffards’ burned-out house came back. He forced the words out. “What happened?”

Sam closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. “The Leffards were arrested by the Gestapo.”

Jan fl inched; his throat tightened.

Sam reached across the table and gripped his arm. “
Non, non,
I’m sorry.

Anna wasn’t with them, neither was Justyn.”

Jan shook his head. “I don’t . . .”

Sam continued quickly, “Please, forgive me. Let me start at the beginning.”

Jan sat spellbound as Sam told him of how Anna and Justyn came to 344

Douglas W. Jacobson

Belgium, of Irene’s death, and of the chalet in the Ardennes, of van Acker and the Marchals. He told him about Leffard’s connection with the White Brigade and Anna’s involvement in the Comet Line. He paused several times to collect himself then fi nally stopped, took a deep breath and stared off into the distance. He was silent for a moment as if trying to summon the strength to continue. In a halting voice he told Jan about how they had been betrayed . . .

how it had cost the lives of van Acker, the Marchals . . . and the Leffards.

“Thank God, Justyn escaped,” Sam said, wiping away a tear. “He somehow managed to get to Antwerp. He’s safe now, living with a trusted friend . . . a man named Auguste, in Merksem.”

Jan’s hands trembled and perspiration trickled down his neck. He whispered, “Anna?”

“She was gone . . . on a mission for the Comet Line.”

The two men stared at each other for a long time.

Jan looked down at the table. “And, you haven’t heard from her.”

“
Non.
But that doesn’t mean that—”

“I know what it means,” Jan snapped. He stood abruptly, the metal chair falling over, clattering on the cobblestones. He turned and walked away.

Jan stood in the middle of the square, staring blankly at a large medieval statue of a warrior throwing a hand. He thought of the small cut-glass hand that had been Anna’s. Was this it? he wondered . . . the symbol of Antwerp?

He ran his hand through his hair and looked around. People were drinking and dancing, laughing and waving fl ags. But he could barely hear them; it was as though he were deaf. This can’t be happening, he thought. Not now . . . not when they were so close.

Think, he told himself. Think, be positive. Anna had made it this far. She was tough and resourceful. He had to have faith, to focus on one thing at a time. She hadn’t been arrested with the Leffards, so she was out there . . .

somewhere.

Sam joined him. After a moment he said, “Your wife meant a great deal to the Leffards. She and Justyn were like family to them.” He paused and their eyes met, Sam’s fi lled with the hard look of determination Jan had seen that night at the Kattendijkdok. “There was nothing I could do to help Rene and Mimi, but I promise you I will do everything in my power to help you fi nd Anna.”