Waiting for the Violins (30 page)

“You, quiet there. Everyone in line by number.”

She found her place again behind number 982.

Four trucks waited in the courtyard, and two were already loaded. As she stood in line for her own truck, she saw them—Aisik, Rywka, and Moishe. She couldn’t tell if Moishe had spotted her, though she raised her hand in a small wave. Then his truck pulled out of the casern and onto the street.

A guard barked out an order, and her own line moved toward the third truck.

*

Her last hope was that the prisoners in all four trucks would be housed in the same railcar. At the substation, they were unloaded in a line and counted off once again into each car, and it was like a knife in her heart when she saw Moishe and his family climbing up the ramp into the car ahead of her. She would be alone, her only companion the stranger with the saw blade.

The railcar’s fetid odor made her catch her breath. Was it worth being near the only sanitary facility—the empty bucket in one of the corners? No. It would soon be full and vile.

All four corners had ventilation openings high overhead, with wooden slats that admitted air but no light. If she could escape, it would have to be through the door or one of those vents. She took hold of the wiry arm of the “saw” man and tugged him toward the corner farthest from the bucket.

He grasped her intent and joined her, squatting in the corner, claiming space for them both as all the others from their barracks clambered in. Behind them came another group, which they didn’t know, all carrying baggage, and then the car was full.

Someone shouted in German on the platform and the door slid shut. A moment later something metallic clattered faintly, as if someone was attaching it to the door handle. The air was stifling, and during the hour the car sat motionless in the station, she withdrew into herself.

From the time she was captured, she’d never stopped being afraid. But now, regret diluted her fear. Closing her eyes, she called up the inventory of her heart and fondled each memory like a jewel. Guy, a decent husband, in spite of his politics. He’d certainly have regretted them, if he’d lived. Sweet, handsome Laurent, who’d fallen defending his homeland. If only she could spend a single hour with him again, chasing the ducks and splashing in the pond below their château. Laura and Francis, stalwart souls who would mourn her but carry on because they knew she’d want them to. Gaston and Mathilde, as brave as any frontline soldiers; Christine, maternal in spite of herself; and Celine, in the flower of her youth. Then the sharpest pang of all struck her. Antonia.

Antonia, who had offered her love. Antonia, whom she cherished in return. Even loved, perhaps. Yes, the pleasure she felt being near her, studying her intelligent, earnest face, what was that but love? Why did she fear her touch then? Fool. Fool! She wanted to bang her head against the wooden wall behind her. She’d thrown away a chance at happiness and now was going into the unknown, possibly to her death, guarding a ridiculous, pathetic chastity.

The train began to move, and the jolt roused her. The others in the car began to moan and complain, and scuffle with their neighbor for space, but she leapt to her feet.

The ventilator was above her head, and she could only just reach it with the scissor blade. To her dismay, the angle was too high for her to cut effectively into the wood. Next to her, the stranger, who was taller, had slightly better luck with his saw blade. After ten minutes of hacking, he’d split one of the twelve horizontal slats while she was only beginning to cut into hers. Her arm and shoulder were already aching.

“Stupid people, you’re wasting your time,” someone behind her muttered. But some other person said, “Leave them alone. At least they’re not going along like sheep.” The remark gave her the encouragement to keep hacking.

The man who defended them spoke up again, right at her shoulder. “Maybe this will help, madam.” In the dark, she could barely make him out. A corpulent man, in a suit, of all things, holding a small suitcase. “Stand on this.” He set it at her feet against the wooden wall and helped her climb onto it.

The added height made a significant difference, and before long she’d broken the slat, just as her neighbor’s bony hand split his second one. Three out of twelve.

The train picked up speed and the car began to rock slightly, rendering the cutting more difficult, but she changed hands and managed to keep going, in spite of the pain.

They were getting the hang of it now. While he finished off one slat, she began to cut into the next one, giving him a notch from which to begin. Four slats, then five, then six.

Finally, out of a sort of desperation, they found that they needed only to cut three-quarters through the slat before the stranger could break it by sheer force. Seven, eight, ten.

“Fools. What good will it do you?” the cynic on the floor of the car groused. “Hardly anyone can fit through that hole. And even if you do squeeze yourself through, we’re going too fast. You’ll be killed.”

Sandrine leaned against the wall, fingers swollen and every muscle aching, refusing to let her labor be in vain. There had to be a way. Perhaps it was possible to hang from the roof of the car and wait for a village crossing, or a curve. There had to be some of those along the way. But how long could she hang outside a train car and not fall, or be spotted by the guard?

Then, miraculously, with a screeching of brakes, the train not only slowed but came to a full stop. It could have meant anything, but it made no difference anyhow. “Will you help me up?” she asked the corpulent shape that still stood behind her.

“Yes, madam. God help you be free for both of us.” He cupped his hands in front of him, allowing her to step up into them, and, gripping his shoulder with one hand, she launched herself upward to seize the frame of the ventilator window with the other.

The space was small, barely wide enough for her shoulders, but terror and excitement gave her strength to force them through in spite of the bruises. She gripped the roof of the car and heard the ripping of her dress as she pumped her hips centimeter by centimeter through the opening.

Gunshots rang out, and voices sounded from the rear of the train. Something was happening but she couldn’t tell what. Her legs were through now, though her shoulders, back, and hips were covered with abrasions, and she hung for a moment from the roof before dropping onto the gravel by the tracks. Breathless, she crouched for a moment, in time to see the saw-man force his shoulders through the opening as well, and then she fled.

She could see others running, from a railcar at the rear of the train, and she flung herself headlong after them into the woods.

More gunshots. Shouting in German. A burst of machine-gun fire. Some of the escapees fell. She looked toward the densest part of the woods and forced her aching legs to carry her farther. She stumbled, staggered to her feet. Ping. A bullet passed her and struck a tree. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, her mind screamed, and she threw herself forward wildly, blindly, her muscles on fire.

A ditch engulfed her, and she fell flat amidst dry brush. Spent, she reached for the nearest dead foliage and pulled it over her. She heard two of them, shouting orders, curses, in German, but the crunching of their boots told her they’d passed by.

She stayed still, forcing silence on her panting, ready to spend the night in the dirt if necessary. She waited, and waited, became one with the ground. Finally, she heard the chuffing of the steam locomotive as it started up again.

Only then did she recall that Aisik, Rywka, and Moishe were still aboard the train, hurtling east with only a butter knife.

Chapter Thirty

At the outskirts of Mechelen, Antonia straddled her bicycle next to Youra, Robert, and Jean, still incredulous at the entire undertaking. She’d feared from the beginning they had more bravado than reason, and now she was sure of it.

Youra was obviously in charge. “Our informants report that the train carries a special railcar at the end for troublemakers, known resisters, and people who’ve escaped from other convoys. We’re assuming that’s where they’ll be, so that’s the one we’re aiming for.”

“I was wondering how we’d find ‘our’ people,” Antonia said. “But where are your guns? You’ll need guns for this.”

Youra looked puzzled. “We’re not going to attack anyone, and besides, the guards are usually at the front of the train and we’re tackling the cars at the end. We’re counting on the distance and the surprise effect to make guns unnecessary.”

She stifled her shock at his naiveté. “I…uh…think you should have guns.”

“We don’t expect to fight. The plan is to simply run out and open the railcar and let people get away. Besides, we don’t have any guns.”

“Well, I’ve got one. I wouldn’t think of confronting a guarded deportation train without one.”

“Um. I’ll be the one going first to the train. Can I borrow it?”

Antonia grimaced at the thought of surrendering her pistol, but it was true. Youra would be at the forefront, and any shooting would be at him. Filled with misgivings, she withdrew the holster and lanyard from under her jacket and handed it to him.

Looping the lanyard over his head and tucking the holster under his own coat, he continued explaining the evening’s plan. Antonia listened intently. Insane or not, it was the last hope for rescue.

“We’ve passed the word to our people in Dossin to tell the deportees to be ready for escape and to try to procure tools from the barracks if possible. But we have no idea how far that information got, or what good it will do. The security police
lost a lot of prisoners from previous convoys, and I think that’s why they’ve replaced the third-class cars with freight cars. Still, they’re made out of wood, so escape possibilities do exist, however slim.”

Antonia’s heart sank. All these obstacles and uncertainties. So much depended on chance, on the distribution of guards, on the initiative of the deportees themselves, on the accuracy of the information they were getting.

Youra glanced at his watch. “It’s nine o’clock. The convoy’s scheduled to leave at ten, like all the others. I’ve identified an optimum spot for the stoppage. On the track at Mechelen-Leuven, between Haacht and Boortmeerbeek.”

“Why there?”

“First, because the train has to slow down for a curve. Then, the forest all around will provide us cover. Even better, it’s within running distance to a tramline back to Brussels. Anyone getting out and away from the guards just has to lie low for a while and then filter back among the people on the tram.”

“Almost seems too good to be true,” Robert remarked.

“Well, it’s not
that
good,” Jean added. “We still have to worry about the security police chasing people down. The woods start twenty meters from the track, and in that space you’re a clear target.”

“Yes, but a moving target,” Youra said. “Anyhow, we should start now, to make sure we have plenty of time to set up the lantern.”

“The lantern.” Antonia stared glumly down at the object he held in his hand, a hurricane lantern with red tissue paper glued around it. It looked like a Halloween toy, and an amateurishly made one at that. “You’re going to pull this whole thing off with a red lantern?”

“No, of course not. We also have these three wire cutters.”

“And your gun,” Robert said, though without much conviction.

She nodded slowly, dread lying like cement on her chest. At Youra’s signal, they began pedaling toward Haacht.

They finally arrived at the chosen spot, which would indeed require the train to slow. Antonia had to give him that. But the moonlight was so bright she could read her watch without shining her torch on it. They would be sitting ducks. The escapees too.

She didn’t have time to agonize, for as soon as Youra had placed the red lantern on the track and they’d taken up their positions, the whistle of the steam locomotive sounded in the distance. Three minutes later, the train appeared, hurtling toward them.

Oh, no!
She realized their error too late. The lantern was placed on the far end of the curve! The conductor wouldn’t see it until the last minute and would simply run over it. What a disaster.

But the ear-splitting shriek of the braking train told Antonia otherwise. The locomotive had run over the lantern but was still trying to stop. Finally it shuddered to a standstill, fifty meters farther along the track than they’d planned. The car
at the end was far up ahead of them.

Cursing at the time they lost running, Antonia saw Robert leap out of the bushes and dash toward the last car, and she followed him.

She shone her torch up on the bolt that held the sliding door in place. Heavy wire secured it. Robert placed his wire cutter over it and tried to cut. It was too thick. He nipped from different directions, trying to gain purchase, to get in position to use all his strength to force the handles together. Seconds ticked by.

Farther along the train Youra was firing the pistol. Her pathetic little Enfield .38 going
pop pop pop
. With half her attention on the slowly separating wire, she finally heard the barrage of return fire and felt a rush of panic.

Finally, the wire broke. Thank God. She and Robert grabbed hold of the bar and slid open the freight car door, then shone their lights inside.

Frightened, ghostlike faces looked out at them, apparently paralyzed by the light. “Get out! Get out!” Robert shouted, but no one reacted. He tried German.
“Schnell, schnell!
Fliehen Sie, doch
.
”

People slowly began to grasp the order to flee and leapt out past her, brushing against her shoulder.

None of them was Sandrine.

She jumped back onto the ground and ran toward the next car, where Jean was struggling with another wire. But now the security guards were closing in, firing wildly, and time had run out. The moonlight made them perfect targets, and the only thing that prevented their being shot was distance. They abandoned the train and crashed into the bushes.

Antonia hit the ground, then scrambled away from the embankment. Through the foliage she could still see the train. Guards, a dozen of them, had fanned out along the route shooting into the bushes, but before she fled, she saw people popping out of the ventilators from some of the other railcars.