Chapter 16 Convoy 20

April 19, 1943

There was no cup on either the left-hand hook or the right-hand one, so François walked straight past Mrs Vermeulen’s patrons and up the stairs. He found Valentin poring over a map of Belgium, with a ruler and a red crayon in his hands. He looked up as François entered.

‘Good evening, Leon,’ Valentin said amiably. François could see lines drawn in blue and red on the map, and he wondered if it had anything to do with him.

‘Janus says his bosses are mighty pleased with your work, Leon. One of your messages has nailed down the time that the next Nazi death train is leaving Mechelen transit camp. We’re going to arrange a little welcome for the bastards. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve got permission to tell you about it. I was busy working out how we might go about it. Have a look here.’

Valentin came around to the same side of the table as François and turned the map around. François could immediately see that the blue lines Valentin had drawn traced the railway line from Mechelen to Leuven, and he’d marked a prominent blue cross south of Boortmeerbeek. From there, a web of red lines led away from the cross in various directions.

‘When the Germans round up Jews and other people they don’t like, they generally incarcerate them in Fort Breendonk, near Willebroek,’ Valentin began. He jabbed at the map. ‘That’s here. When they are ready to send them on, they transport them to the old Massin Barracks, in Mechelen, here, until they have a trainload. For the last eight months, there have been regular trains leaving Mechelen for a camp at Auschwitz, in Poland. It’s supposedly a labour camp, but the people who end up in Auschwitz never come out. It’s a death camp, a factory for killing people. So far, there have been nineteen trains. Your mail tells us convoy number twenty leaves Mechelen in four days. There’s a special wagon in the train that the Krauts call a Sonderwagen. It will contain resistance members and jumpers from previous transports. These Sonderwagen prisoners are marked on the back of their clothes with a cross, painted in red. This means they are to be executed immediately on arrival at Auschwitz. We want them out of there. We have to get them out. Three of them are members of Luc, and at least two are important operatives from the White Army.’

‘Did all this come from my information?’ François asked.

‘Not all of it. We have contacts inside Fort Breendonk. It might surprise you to know that not all the guards there are German. Some are Flemish, and we managed to get a man inside. The railwaymen aren’t told much, but they pass on what they can find out. Your information gave us the train schedule for the first time and informed us about the Sonderwagen. It’s to be the last car of the train. We intend to try to stop it here, where I’ve marked this cross, at a road crossing, a short distance south of Boortmeerbeek at 10.20 pm on the nineteenth.’

‘It seems to be a worthwhile thing to do. Are you going to be there?’

‘Sadly, no. Janus has forbidden it. I know too many people.’

‘But I don’t know anyone but you. I could help.’

‘I only told you because without your information we wouldn’t have known about the death train. We thought you should know how important your operation is. Soon, you could be the key to tapping into their coding machines. Janus wouldn’t want to lose that.’ He clapped François on the shoulder. ‘You’re too important, my friend.’

François’ disgruntlement showed. ‘So, someone I haven’t even met tells me what I can or cannot do,’ he grumbled bitterly.

‘Relax, Leon. We’re all frustrated. It’s better to know as little as possible. Six weeks ago, the Gestapo captured an agent in Liege, and he gave his contact up. That led to twenty being either killed or captured. Three of them are in that Sonderwagen of Convoy 20. That’s why I give you only what you need to know. The Germans have too many ways of getting information from you, once you’re in their hands.’

‘I can see that,’ François replied. ‘I’d like to be doing something more. I’m the one who took the risk to get the timetable. I think I’m entitled!’

Valentin thought for a moment. ‘I’ll put it to Janus if you like. That’s the best I can do. Come back tomorrow.’

***

The following evening, there was a cup hanging on the left-hand cup hook and none on the right. François sat at a corner table and ordered coffee. To his surprise and pleasure, when Mrs Vermeulen brought it, the aroma that wafted up his nostrils was enticing. It wasn’t the ersatz variety, made from just roasted rice, peas, and chicory, but contained genuine coffee. He glanced up at her eyes, but she didn’t react in any way at all.

‘Enjoy,’ she murmured as she turned away. François guessed that a couple in the opposite corner were the customers of concern to Mrs Vermeulen and, as they had only begun to eat their meal, he resigned himself to the fact that he could be there for a considerable time. He ordered a fruit bun, then sipped his coffee very slowly and read Le Nouveau Journalwhile knowing much of the news in it was propaganda and not to be trusted.

His instinct had been right. Soon after the couple left, Mrs Vermeulen took the cup from the hook and polished it. François read on for another minute, then casually drank the last dregs of his coffee and went up the stairs two at a time.

‘We had visitors, did we? You’re late.’

‘Yes, but I had a real coffee while I was waiting, so I’m not complaining.’

‘I spoke to Janus and told him you wanted more action. He says you can go along on the nineteenth.’ He grinned. ‘That pisses me off, because I wanted to go myself, but he wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘Perhaps that just means I’m not as important as you,’ François replied with a cheeky smile.

‘Perhaps. Janus said to tell you it won’t become a habit. Let me explain the plan.’ Valentin pulled his map from the bottom drawer. ‘For the purposes of this escapade, your codename will be Mathias. None of the other participants will know anything more about you than that. Similarly, you will know the three others involved as Gillies, Maxim, and Jarne.You will cycle to the car park at Boortmeerbeek. That is sixteen kilometres using the old Olmenhoek Road. If you’re lucky, there won’t be any Krauts along the way. Do you know it?’

‘Yes. I ride it all the time.’

‘Wear street clothes, allow an hour or more, take your time, keep an eye out for Germans, and arrive at precisely 8.20 pm at the bicycle rack in the station car park. Try to look as though you’re having a problem with your bike. You will see another man arriving from the opposite direction. His bicycle will be a Gitane, just like yours, but his will be blue. He won’t know you, but he will know your bike. If he doesn’t show or doesn’t stop, mount your bike and ride home. If everything’s set, he’ll stop and admire your bike. He is Gillies. He will give you further instructions. Follow them to the letter.’

François nodded, his face a study in concentration.

‘The train will arrive at ten-twenty. It will be travelling slowly.’ François turned his head questioningly, and Valentin glanced up at him. ‘The driver is one of us,’ he added. ‘If all goes well, you won’t meet him. Your job will probably be to provide a distraction if one is required, but Gillies will tell you about that. Just follow his instructions. Whatever the outcome, you need to ride home in the dark, the same way you came. Have you got all that? Any questions?’

‘No. I ride to Boortmeerbeek and meet Gillies in the car park, and if he stops, I follow his instructions. Then I ride home.’

Valentin stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good luck, Mathias,’ he said. ‘I wish I was going with you.’

***

The car park at Boortmeerbeek was empty when François coasted to a halt and gave a fair impression of being a rider stopping with a bicycle problem. Within a minute, a young man of around his own age, on a blue Gitane road bike, cycled slowly across the railway tracks, right on time. For a moment, François thought he was going to ride by, but he circled and stopped.

‘Got a flat tyre?’ the rider asked as he dismounted and leant his bike against the railing. ‘I like your bike. It’s the Sora, isn’t it? I wish I’d paid a little extra and got quick-release hubs like yours.’

‘Yes, I think they’re worth every franc. Handy when you get a flat. I thought I had one, but it looks as though it’s alright.’

‘Perhaps you should take the wheel out, anyway,’ the man replied, holding out his hand. ‘My name is Gillies.’

‘I am Mathias.’

‘In that case, I’d better help you fix your non-existent flat tyre. You listen, while I talk.’

François nodded, and Gillies continued.

‘See the spire over my shoulder? That’s Sint-Antoniuskerk. I’d suggest you leave your bike near there. There’s a bicycle rack on the far side. Don’t worry; nobody will steal it. The church is opposite the police station. At the far end of the railway station, you’ll find a large, dark-green box. It’s a fettler’s toolbox. It’s padlocked, but you’ll find that the padlock is open. Inside that box are more than a dozen pinch bars, a canvas bag and leather gloves. Your job is to get as many of those bars as you can into the wagons of the death train. The train will stop here at the station, then it will proceed very slowly down that way, towards Leuven. When they reach the next road crossing, they will come across a red light, and the train will stop. Other men will break into the Sonderwagen at the back of the train and will keep the guards busy. The carriages are freight wagons, designed to carry eight horses. There will be up to one hundred people crammed into each one. There might be barbed wire covering the ventilation gaps, hence the gloves. Each wagon will have a series of iron rungs at each end, used for climbing onto the roof. You climb up and push a pinch bar through the ventilation space, then move onto the next wagon and do the same. Do as many as you can. Janus says you are used to creeping around in the dark without being seen. This job will test your skills! The security guards who man these trains are a trigger-happy lot. If they see you, they won’t hesitate to put holes in you.’

François grinned. ‘That sounds cheery,’ he said.

‘It’s cheery alright. We have only one pistol between us all, and there are supposedly fifteen guards on the train, probably all armed to the teeth. Most of the guards will be in a carriage close to the Sonderwagen. There will no doubt be one or two in the cabin of the locomotive as well, so you should start in the middle. When the train stops, don’t wait, whatever’s going on at the back of the train. Don’t say anything. Just push a pinch bar in, so the people inside can get them, and move on quickly. When it gets too hot for you, or the train starts moving again, disappear. Get on your bike and ride home, following the same route you took to get here. Don’t rush. It will, of course, be dark, so I don’t suppose rushing is an option anyway. There’s a yellow house, with bushes that back onto the train line, about fifty metres this side of the road crossing. You need to be in those bushes by ten o’clock. The people in the house will make sure they don’t see anything suspicious. Have you got all that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then pretend to pump your tyre up, and I’ll be on my way.’ Gillies passed his pump to François, who made a vigorous pretence of inflating his tyre and handed it back.

‘If all goes well, you won’t see me again. We’re doing a good thing here, Mathias. Good luck,’ Gillies said, offering his hand. As their hands met, François felt a tiny parcel in Mathias’ palm.

‘It’s a cyanide pill,’ Gillies said quietly. ‘You can conceal it in your cheek. Just bite down on it hard and the lights go out. We all have one. It’s better than being caught by the Gestapo. It’s better for the organisation too. You can’t talk if you bite on one of these, Mathias.’ François began to reply, but words failed him. Gillies shrugged.

‘It’s your choice,’ Gillies said as he mounted his bicycle. François watched as Gillies cycled slowly back the way he’d come and disappeared beyond the rail crossing. François opened his hand and stared at the lethal paper-wrapped pill, his thoughts in turmoil. Then he deliberately tucked it into his top pocket. The danger seemed very real now.

***

The yellow house wasn’t hard to find. A line of dense bushes lined the side boundary, and the darkness was intense in their shadows. François made a pretence of tying his shoelace as he took surreptitious glances in both directions along the street. Seeing nothing untoward, he placed his bag of hessian-wrapped pinch bars over the low post-and-rail fence, quickly vaulted over, and melted into the deep shadows. With time to spare, François sat on his haunches in the darkness and watched the street. Again, seeing nothing, he crept from bush to bush until he was only metres from the bed of the train line. He sat with his back to a tree and waited.

François could hear the train long before it even reached Boortmeerbeek, and could immediately tell from its stately woofing that it was travelling slowly. He’d intended to wait until the train stopped, then dash across to it, but as the minutes ticked by, the sudden thought that there was a better way accosted him.

The moment he could see the distant headlight of the train, he pulled on his gloves, lugged his bag of pinch bars to the track and threw himself face down onto the railway sleepers, between the rails. With his heartbeat rising with excitement and fear, he lay face down, trying to compress his body into the gravel bed. It seemed an eternity before the single headlight of the train illuminated the tracks around him. In the moments before the locomotive reached him, he had a moment of panic, fearful that he was about to be swept from the track, then with a hiss and a whoosh, black enveloped him. The train above was travelling at a crawl now, but he forced himself to remain still until it stopped altogether, then he scrambled to his knees and elbows. He estimated that he was about halfway along the train, and through the eerie silence came a sound that would haunt him at night for many years to come. It was a keening—a crying, a wailing—that issued from the incarcerated inhabitants within the cattle cars. Then he could make out anguished, alarmed voices whispering inside the car directly above him. He took a chance and peered out around a bogey and could see a red light waving steadily back and forth at the level crossing where the steam-spewing engine had stopped. Heads poked from the side windows of the locomotive, and he moved back into the shadows until darkness enveloped him again.

François hauled his canvas bag of pinch bars along the sleepers, on elbows and knees, until he was directly beneath a bogey, where the wheels would block the view of anyone walking along the track. Knowing that speed was essential now, he pulled one of the bars from his bag, scrambled between the carriages and climbed up onto the coupling. It was easy to step across onto the nearest rung and climb until his head was level with the gap in the boards on the side of the cattle wagon. He felt his heart would burst from his chest, knowing that this was the moment of greatest risk. He was tempted to swing his body out and look along the train, to see what was happening, but he knew it would only increase his peril. Quickly he reached around blindly and pushed the pinch bar through the gap. He heard a cry of pain as it fell on someone crammed inside the truck, then a clatter, and the immediate buzz and babble of intense conversation.

‘There’s someone there,’ a woman’s voice cried. ‘Please let us out!’

‘What is it? It’s wrapped in something,’ a man’s voice responded.

‘It’s a metal bar,’ another voice, also a woman’s, said. ‘Someone pushed it in and let it fall on Mrs Gutman.’

 ‘Pass it along,’ another said.

François climbed back onto the coupling, and in a moment, he was back on the railway bed and hauling his bag to the next wagon.

‘Thank you!’ a voice said fairly loudly when he shoved a pinch bar through the gap in the second wagon. It wasn’t something that François had time to appreciate at that moment. He crawled to where his canvas bag lay, took another bar, then scrambled to the third wagon and repeated the exercise as gunfire broke out at the rear of the train. Three spaced, deliberate pistol shots split the night, then shouting and the rapid-fire of a machine pistol. He knew he couldn’t stop for a second. The temptation to speak, to have some human contact with the unfortunate victims, grew with each wagon and each bar delivered. He knew, however, that any conversation would take time, and he had precious little of that. By the time he returned to his bag for the sixth time he could hear the splintering of timber from inside the nearest cattle wagon.

With only one bar left, he heard voices. German voices, close at hand, accompanied by the crunch of boots on gravel. Within moments he could see the legs of German soldiers, coming from the direction of the locomotive and heading for the fighting at the Sonderwagen at the rear of the train. The timing was bad. François was caught halfway between the bogies, feeling extremely exposed. All he could do was freeze, and say a silent prayer.

‘Du bleibst hier. Ich gehe auf die andere Seite,’ ‘You remain here, I will go to the other side,’ a guttural German voice ordered peremptorily.

‘Ja‚’ came a quieter reply. A dark figure in a German trench coat stooped, put a hand on the rail, and on bent knees shuffled his way under the wagon to the other side of the line. Fortunately, the man had his back to where François was crouched, and his attention was focused on the flashes of firearms ahead of him as François, just a few metres away, held his breath and feared the worst.

The two Germans had barely moved on when François heard a loud cracking as a board in the floor of the carriage above his head gave way. He thought the Germans couldn’t fail to have heard it, but they both broke into a run, their attention focused only on the Sonderwagen. One of them stopped momentarily and fired a burst from his machine pistol. Within seconds, an arm reached down from the floor of the wagon, pushing the remains of a broken board until it splintered and fell to the track, then it quickly withdrew. François was unable to resist the temptation. He crawled to the hole, and with his last remaining bar, he levered away madly at the next board and managed to break it away.

Suddenly, the arm reached down from the hole again and searched for something to touch. François grabbed the hand.

‘Good luck,’ he said quietly. He thought the man mightn’t have heard him, given the chatter inside the cattle wagon.

‘Shalom,’ a deep voice replied. ‘And thank you. It’s uplifting to know there are kind people still in this world.’ François pushed his last pinch bar back up through the hole, and eager hands took it from him.

Although the shooting had ceased, François could only hope that all the Germans were still occupied defending the Sonderwagen. He peered out. Looking first toward the locomotive, he could see a man in railway overalls staring along the tracks in the direction of the gunfire. François guessed that he was the driver. Towards the rear of the train, silent now, he could make out only ominous, shadowy figures, all clad in grey-green German uniform. François moved to the other side of the train and was disturbed to see that there was another railwayman on that side. He decided to wait, rather than risk being seen making a run for it.

The loud splintering of timber from one of the railway wagons and triumphant shouting made him hesitate. Three young men jumped from the next wagon along, and he could see their legs as they ran from the train. A sudden, extended burst of gunfire from the rear end of the train split the night, and all three men fell face down. Two of them were still instantly, while the third rose in agony, with blood pouring from a chest wound. His eyes fastened briefly on François, crouched under the carriage, then they glazed over, and he fell beside his comrades. The howling and shouting from the death train wagons rose in intensity as François, knowing the Germans would come running to the scene of the massacre, hid beneath a bogey, heart pounding, shaping himself into as small a ball as possible.

The crunching of many running feet beside the railway bed, then another warning burst of gunfire close by, was accompanied by the crack of splitting timber.

‘Im Inneren bleiben!’ a harsh German voice ordered. ‘Remain inside!’ It was accompanied by a searching torch beam, just two carriages from where François was crouched.

‘Holen sie sich diesen zug in bewegung!’ ‘Get this train moving!’ an even louder voice ordered. To François’ profound relief, the beam was immediately extinguished.

‘Ja, Herr Major!’ the first voice answered. The tone of voice suggested that the man had saluted. François watched the legs as three Germans jogged past him towards the locomotive and the rest returned to the rear of the train. Time stood still until, with a clanking and a juddering, the train began to move. François threw himself down on the bed of the track and waited. When the last carriage had passed, he remained still, then slowly raised his head and watched as the Sonderwagen disappeared around the bend, leaving only the quiet, the high stars and the still, black canvas of night.

François’ eyes scanned left and right, in case there were hidden Germans waiting for him to move, then he leapt to his feet and ran to the three fallen Jews. They were all young men, of about his age, and when he was satisfied that he could do nothing for them, he ran for the welcoming darkness of the thicket by the yellow house. A sudden flurry of rifle shots from far off followed him, but when he reached the trees, he realised that they probably hadn’t been meant for him. Far away, in the direction of Boortmeerbeek, he could make out shadowy German troopers advancing cautiously along the tracks.

François could wait no longer. He couldn’t see anyone in the street. In these dark days, Belgians stayed indoors when they heard shooting. But the street was too open, too unfriendly. Knowing that panic was his enemy, he took a moment to catch his breath, hands on knees, and composed his thoughts before continuing. He had earlier identified an overgrown pathway on the opposite side of the street from the yellow house. He took a deep breath, then began to jog steadily in almost complete darkness, knowing the path wasn’t trending in the direction he wished to go, but merely putting distance between himself and the railway crossing.

An hour later, François reached the church of Sint-Antoniuskerk, where he’d left his bicycle. His route had been circuitous, and he’d been pushing through brambles and stumbling over snaking roots in the darkness, fallen into a ditch, and was chased out of a garden by a small but ferocious terrier. Earlier in the evening, given Gillies’ assurances, it had seemed like a good idea to leave his bicycle chained to the bicycle rack outside the church, in full view of the police station opposite. Now, he wasn’t so sure. A group of gendarmes stood in the street, apparently discussing the gunfire. They were engrossed in their conversation and took no notice of François. Having come this far, he decided he couldn’t wait, so he walked openly up to his bike, opened the padlock, casually donned his bicycle clips and mounted. With pounding heart, he forced himself to ride at snail’s pace, expecting a challenge from behind with every pedal stroke. Using backstreets and lanes, he navigated his way out of Boortmeerbeek. Riding without lights, he couldn’t reach any great speed, but he knew the laneways well. Despite an incident with a dopey cow that was crossing the lane at an inopportune moment, he pedalled steadily until he saw a long row of headlights hurtling towards him on the narrow lane and prudently took to the muddy drainage ditch.

***

François opened the door of the chocolate shop slowly, trying to ensure that the little bell attached to it didn’t give its customary tinkle. Once inside, he kicked off his muddied shoes and carefully carried his bicycle through the shop and into the little courtyard at the rear. As he crept through the parlour, François heard creaking on the stairs and knew immediately that his mother had been waiting up for him. He glanced up the stairs but could make out no more than a pale figure.

‘I was beginning to worry,’ she said, looking down at him over the balcony rail. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’

‘Yes, but I’m dirty. I went into the ditch,’ François replied, wondering when she would ask him what he’d been doing and where he’d been.

‘Why don’t you go upstairs and take those wet clothes off. I’ll boil the kettle and get you a cup of cocoa. That should warm you up. You need to catch some sleep. You’re due at work in a couple of hours.’

‘Thank you, Maman,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve been up to? That’s what you would have done a couple of years ago.’

He heard her chuckle. ‘You mean when you were drinking and carousing?’

Now it was his turn to chuckle. ‘Well, yes, now you mention it.’

‘This time, I don’t need to know. You and I both need our secrets in these dark days.’

‘You’re right as usual, Maman. And a hot cup of cocoa is just what I need.’ As he climbed the stairs, he could hear her racking cough as she stoked the fire’s dark embers back into life.