17.
“DID I DO WELL?” Nancy asked as Fabienne lay the blanket over her in bed. Cleo was already curled up next to her, purring loudly. “I sat outside for a long time to get really cold.”
Her teeth had stopped chattering, but her cheeks were still pale. She had done more than Fabienne had expected, and she could have caught a chill being outside for so long. “You did amazingly. I am proud of you. Now snuggle down and stay warm.” She kissed her cheek and tucked the blankets tightly around her. “It is late and time to go to sleep. Mamie will be home soon.”
Nancy picked at the cuff on Fabienne’s coat. The doe-eyed look of innocence and need tugged at Fabienne’s heart.
“Do you have to go out?”
Fabienne ruffled her hair playfully as she always did when trying to soothe her. She was trying to say don’t worry, though she knew Nancy would do exactly that. “I won’t be long, I promise.” She pulled the paper flower from inside her shirt pocket. “I have this with me.” She smiled and put it back, tapped the spot close to her heart. “You must stay in bed, okay?”
Nancy nodded and started stroking Cleo.
Fabienne left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
There was a low mist lying across the fields as she cycled in the opposite direction to the town. It would serve them well, offer some cover. It was two kilometres to the post office close to Windheisen Station. For the first, she would cycle along the lanes. She would then leave the bike inside a cattle-shed and cross the fields on foot for the second kilometre. It was the safest way to avoid the main roads where the Germans might have installed random checkpoints. Being stopped during curfew was one thing; being caught with a Browning in her coat pocket would get her shot on the spot.
Stopping the train was the biggest task they had done, and she didn’t feel fully prepared for what they might face. Who would? she asked herself. Apprehension kept her on edge until she reached the post office and caught sight of her comrades. She acknowledged the men with a nod of her head. The fear in their eyes reflected her own. They needed her leadership to steady them, and she did too.
“Everyone is ready?”
The men nodded.
“They are not expecting us. We will be hidden by the mist. It is a great night for us, and a bad one for les Boches.” She held her fist in the air. “Vive la France.”
Heads were lifted, and shoulders pulled back. Their fear had been displaced by the spark of optimism and the call to patriotism.
The railway track that ran behind the building was shrouded in darkness, the station approximately three hundred and fifty metres along the track.
“There were no guards when I checked,” one man said.
It was as she expected. If there had been guards at the station, it would have been because the Germans had discovered their plan. They were too small a group to engage in a fight of magnitude, and they would have had to abort the mission. This was a positive sign.
“There were more Germans on the streets in town this evening,” another said.
“Good, they will be distracted. We must direct the prisoners across the fields and then to the south,” Fabienne said. “It will be hard going but we have comrades in the villages who can provide a little food and shelter.”
“If they get that far.”
Fabienne nodded. She hoped Bertrand and his team had everything in place to blow up the bridge, otherwise the train would sail straight past and there would be nothing they could do to save the prisoners. They may not be able to offer much, but a chance was better than certain death. “When the Germans realise the bridge is breached, they will send trucks to the platform to pick up the prisoners.”
“Or send guards and leave them on the train until the bridge is repaired. They don’t care how they suffer or if they die on route,” the first man said.
Fabienne agreed. “We have a short time to release the prisoners. We will approach the train from the track side while their attention is on the platform and station entrance.”
The men nodded. She glanced at her watch. Eleven-fifteen. She blew into her hands to warm them. “Everyone knows their positions?”
The men nodded in unison and gathered in their groups.
“Good. Let’s go.”
They crossed to the far side of the track and made their way slowly towards the station. Once in position, they crouched down in the field, below the level of the track, hidden in the wet grass.
Fabienne glanced at her watch, eleven forty-three, then in the direction of the bridge just a kilometre down the track. They would hear the explosion. The train would be a few kilometres out from the station when the blast happened. The message had to get to them before they reached the station. They had to stop here, surely?
She was still plotting solutions to what-ifs when the blast came. She turned her attention to the track and watched for the train lights to appear, adrenaline pumping through her veins, her awareness heightened. There was no going back now. Time passed too slowly. Any sounds were muted by the mist, difficult to discern. The guards would arrive before the train. Putain!
She glanced in the direction of the bridge, men emerged from the fog, and she pulled out her pistol. As they came closer, she recognised Bertrand, released a long shaky breath, and put the gun back in her pocket.
Bertrand touched her arm. “The bridge is down but the train should be here by now.”
She nodded. “They must have stopped short of the station.”
He rubbed his hands together. “That’s good. They’ll be in the open. They won’t be able to get trucks near it.”
Fabienne had had the same thought. “It will be better for us. Let’s go.”
They followed the line of the track, eventually spotting the wide beam of the train headlights. She indicated for the men to veer left, down into the cover of the field, and position themselves for the attack. She was sure it would only be a matter of time before they had teams of guards in place at the station and pulled the train forwards.
It was impossible to see up into the engine room, or into the cattle-cars. The moans of women and cries of children became lost to the night. They approached slowly until they were at the side of the train, below the eyeline of anyone looking out.
She took a deep breath and prayed they would all live. “Go.”
Her words were echoed by the men closest to her, and down the line until they reached the last man.
Bertrand climbed quickly and effortlessly up the side of the driver’s cab, reached through the partially open window and blindly opened fire, then he yanked the door open. Shots were fired further down the train. Women screamed. Babies cried.
The driver was dead. The guard was bleeding from his stomach and directed his gun at Fabienne and pulled the trigger before she could shoot. A burning pain in her arm caught her breath. Another shot came from behind her. The soldier dropped the gun.
Bertrand stared at her. “We don’t have time to be nice.”
He was right. Her arm burned like hell, but they had to release the prisoners. She followed him across the top of the cattle-cars, releasing the bolts to the doors. Women fell or threw themselves onto the ground. Children jumped.
Fabienne and her men tried to break their fall, pulled them to their feet and indicated for them to run across the fields, telling them to head deep into the woods if they could and to the south. Barns with candles alight inside were safe. Houses with candles alight in their windows were safe. Stay clear of the main roads and move in small groups.
Their cries quieted as they ran.
It was like watching a herd of frightened deer scatter to the winds, only these weren’t animals. They were innocent people fleeing for their lives. Where in hell would they end up?
“Run,” she said. “Just run and don’t stop.”
She helped a pregnant woman carrying another infant to cross the field. The woman stumbled and dropped the child. Fabienne lifted her to her feet and picked up the infant, who hadn’t made a sound. She kept moving the woman on until they reached a narrow lane at the edge of the pine forest. They stood for a moment staring at each other. Her face was the colour of the fog but for the skin around her eyes, which was black and red. Her dress hung loosely over her distended belly. The yellow star pinned to her chest had come to define her. The child in Fabienne’s arms was as cold as ice, blue-grey and lifeless. He had been dead for a while.
“His name is Jacob,” the woman said.
“I’ll bury him,” Fabienne said.
The woman nodded.
“Follow the track to the end of the woods, go left and straight across the fields until you reach a cattle-shed. There is a bike inside. Take it. Stick to the narrow roads. South is in that direction. I’m sorry, I have no food, but find the lit barns and houses and people will help you along the way.”
The woman ran, haltingly.
Fabienne held the infant close to her. It probably wouldn’t be long before his mother and unborn sibling joined him. The sound of whistles and shots being fired jolted her into action, and she went deep into the forest. She didn’t stop moving until she reached a shepherd’s hut, far from any tracks that the Germans might use to hunt for the prisoners. Later, in daylight, they would extend their search, and then they would be relentless.
She scratched at the ground with her bare hands until they bled, but it was too hard. She lay the child down in the nook of a large tree root, took the paper flower from her breast pocket and tucked it inside his clothing. She ripped the yellow star from his shirt, sat with her back to the stone wall, took out her lighter and burned the cloth. Warm tears spilled down her cheeks until eventually the silence calmed her.
“God be with you, little one,” she said, and started the long walk home.
***
Johanna opened her bedroom window overlooking the front drive and sipped wine. The cool, damp air was preferable to enduring their guests as they discussed “matters of utmost importance” that had arisen since receiving a third telegram that evening.
The constant crackle of shots being fired in the distance would undoubtedly have something to do with the bridge that had been destroyed and the train that had been stopped from crossing into Germany as a result.
“Most inconvenient,” Fischer had said to Gerhard, but the way he had looked at her husband had conveyed a more sinister message.
Whatever they needed to say, they weren’t going to talk about it in front of her, and she’d delighted in being able to leave them. She hadn’t wanted to know the details. She hadn’t wanted to listen to them talk about nothing of significance just because she was there. And she didn’t want to play the piano ever again for their amusement.
She wanted to go home.
She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, dreaming about Berlin. Even before she’d left, Berlin hadn’t been as she’d known it as a child. Her beloved city was going to be unrecognisable by the time she went back. But it was still the place she considered home. God, what a bloody mess it all was. Poor Astrid, and God help Ralf. She’d had too much to drink, and these rambling thoughts about her homeland weren’t helping her feel any more amenable to either her husband or his guests. She looked across to the cottage and hoped that Nancy was faring better, sure that Fraulein Brun would have taken good care of her. Lakritze ambled across the yard.
She went down the stairs and out the front door and called to him. He scooted to the side of the house, heading towards the back garden. She took a few strides, following him, then stopped. What was the point in chasing him. He would come back in when he was ready. She stood outside the dining room window and continued to smoke. The officers’ driver would arrive soon, and then they would be gone. She blew out a stream of smoke, her head woozy from the wine.
She blinked as a shape moved along the main drive. A trick of her imagination maybe? She put out the cigarette and went to the side of the fountain, closer, to get a better look. The movement was unsteady, or perhaps it was she who was drunk. The silhouette became better defined against the openness of the fields before the cottage. It was Fraulein Brun.
The men’s voices became louder through the front door.
Johanna ran across the yard, her heart racing.
Fraulein Brun stared at her with wide eyes, her face dirty, and tear stains marking her cheeks.
Johanna grabbed her arm, and she moaned and pulled away. “You must get inside. The officers are leaving. If they catch you…”
She didn’t have time to finish the sentence. Fraulein Brun looked as though she was going to pass out. Johanna caught hold of her and led her quickly to the cottage door. They arrived just as the German officers’ car turned off the main road and started towards the house.