Dunkirk Crescendo

  “Just be a minute,” David called, hopping out and jogging into the bushes that covered the slope of the riverbank.

  Where were those boats that the farmer had described? David slipped and fell on the muddy incline, kicking a rock into the stream with a splash.

  “Are you all right?” called Navet’s voice from the road.

  Then David saw the rowboats. The first was chained to a log. The second had no oars. The third was half full of water, and one of its oars was broken.

  “Where are you?” Navet asked again. “Have you injured yourself?” The sound of another sneeze boomed down from the road and echoed along the water.

  The last dinghy in the line was tied to a tree stump. The oars rested in the oarlocks, and it was clean and dry. David yanked out the jackknife he had received in the trade and slashed the rope. Pushing the boat into the fast-flowing stream, he jumped in and began to row for the far shore. “Good-bye, Monsieur,” he called to Navet. “Thanks for the ride. Maybe the RAF will give you a medal for your assistance.”

  4

  Cloak-and-Dagger Acts

  Following the instructions he’d received from Military Intelligence, Andre Chardon boarded the bateau mouche named Vert Galant at the platform below the Hotel DeVille on the Right Bank of Paris. He stood near the bow, letting the warm breeze flow over him with its scent of peaceful renewal. The little steamer was not crowded at this hour of midmorning. The clerks and shopkeepers who used the river for their commute to work had long since arrived at their destinations.

  Scanning the few other passengers, Andre saw no one he knew, nor did anyone seem to be showing any particular interest in him. The boat passed under the bridge adorned with the carved leering caricatures said to be Henri IV’s comic revenge on his ministers. It swept downriver to its stop below the Louvre, where most of the travelers exited and a handful of others got on. There was still no attempt made to contact Andre, and he was getting impatient.

  The steamer released its moorings for what was only a short move farther downstream to the wharf leading to the Tuileries. At the last moment before casting off, when the stern line had already been released and the gangplank slipped ashore, Gustave Bertrand jumped aboard. He spotted Andre at once but strolled nonchalantly around the ship before joining him in the bow. He asked Andre for a match to light a cigarette, as if they were total strangers.

  “What is the meaning of the cloak-and-dagger act?” Andre quizzed. “Could we not have met at my home or your office, and without all the theatrics?”

  Bertrand looked wounded. “Do you think that I do this for fun? I have been followed, Andre. Gestapo, I think. It would be extremely dangerous for your houseguest and his work if I was to be shadowed to your home, or if you were pursued after meeting with me. Believe me, this is necessary.”

  The top of the obelisk in the Place de la Concorde slid by as Andre considered the weight of what Bertrand had said. “Perhaps I need to move Lewinski out of Paris. To Vignolles?”

  Bertrand nodded thoughtfully. “That may be the answer. We’ll look into it as soon as you return.”

  “Return? From where? Not another trip to England, Gustave? Paul cannot be recalled from his duties just now to babysit Richard.”

  “Calm down, Andre. This is not another trip to England. In fact, you will be back the same day. And it is vitally important.”

  Sighing heavily, Andre said, “There is no escape, I suppose. What is this about?”

  “I knew I could count on you. I want you to go to Mezieres, to the aerodrome there. There is a young English fighter pilot, David Meyer. He was shot down on a mission a couple days ago, but he says just before bailing out, he spotted an enormous buildup of German armor—tanks and troop carriers.”

  “How does this involve us, Gustave? Shouldn’t it be reported to General Headquarters?”

  “That’s exactly the point. It already has been, and no one is taking him seriously. You see, the area over which he was flying is the Ardennes.”

  Andre gripped his friend’s arm. “You mean that what we have feared is coming to pass?”

  “It appears so. Now you understand. I need someone with your reputation to talk to this Meyer. If, in your judgment, he is correct, there is still time to shift some of our forces to meet this threat. But only if we hurry.”

  “I will leave tomorrow!”

  “I thought you’d say that. Here are your tickets.”

  The Vert Galant pulled alongside the quai at Pont de l’Alma, with its stone figure of the soldier in the uniform of a Zouave. The water swirled around the knees of the statue’s baggy trousers.

  “I will leave you here,” Bertrand said. “It would be best if you ride another stop or two before you disembark.” He took a step toward the gangplank, then paused and gestured at the statue. “You know how Parisians watch the level of the river? If it reaches to his waist, there will be a disastrous flood. Let us hope the rest of our army is in no such danger.”

  ***

  Frank Blake, Associated Press Paris bureau chief, was cranky.

  “So! What do I find this morning? A wire from New York. From Larry, no less! ‘Come on, Frank,’ he says. ‘Send us the war!’” Frank blew his nose loudly and kicked the overflowing trash can beside his desk. “Like I can control this! Like I can inspire Hitler to get moving! That’s it! I’ll just send der Führer a wire:

  “Dear Hitler,

  Please attack at dawn.

  The American public is bored with the war!”

  Alma Dodge leaned over Josie Marlow’s desk and whispered, “A little too much ooh-la-la for Frankie last night. Quite a little tart from what I hear. She stole his wallet.”

  Josie nodded and continued typing as Frank went on with his tirade.

  “This is the most boring war I have ever—” he stopped midsentence and turned toward Josie— “hey! Marlow! Yeah, you! What are you working on?” Without waiting for reply, he snatched the paper from her typewriter and held it up to the light. He began to read: “‘Champagne is now added to the ration list. It is available in Paris only three days a week!’” He screamed out the lines, then pounded his fist on her desk. “Do you think this matters to the American people? Champagne is rationed! Who cares? You know how many Americans have champagne three times in their whole dreary little lives? Let alone three times a week! Is this appropriate? What possible difference can it make how many bottles of champagne—”

  Furious, Josie stood and squared off with Blake. “Frank, you are a cretin. You are the one who gave me this lousy assignment yesterday, and now you may take your bottle of champagne and place it wherever you feel is most appropriate.”

  There was applause from a half-dozen other reporters at their desks.

  Blake sneered and spun around to glare back at every face. “Mutineers!” he spat.

  More applause. The chorus chimed in:

  “You’re a really scary guy, Frank.”

  “ . . . when you have a hangover.”

  “Or when some French beauty steals your wallet!”

  Much laughter.

  Blake actually blushed.

  “We ought to send you to Berlin. You’d get the war going in no time!” added another reporter.

  Blake blew his nose and tossed Josie’s lead paragraph back onto her desk. He rubbed his forehead and plopped down hard in his chair. “Okay. Gimme some help here, fellas. And Madames. What I need is some American story. I mean, this place is the morgue. We got ladies knitting socks for the poilus. We got little collection boxes on the bar at the Crillon for the Help Beautify the Maginot Fund!” He shook his fist in frustration. “Somebody gimme some human interest, or I’ll be on the next boat back to New York for a permanent position doing obits on a daily!”

  The telephone rang. Alma passed it to Josie with a shrug.

  Madame Rose Smith was on the other end of the line. Josie could hear the happy shouts of children echoing off the courtyard walls of No. 5 Rue de la Huchette, the orphanage and refugee ce
nter.

  “Josie, dear! Dear, dear girl! Good news! Your adoption papers are complete. You must—must—pick up your baby boy on the eighth of May. Do you understand, my dear? The stamp specifically designates the eighth of May.”

  Josie considered the implications. The papers of the Jewish child Yacov Lubetkin would be smuggled into the Reich beneath the endpapers of a German book. But it was imperative that the child’s documents be stamped ahead of time with the forged imprint of a Reich visa and the date, as though he had crossed the border into Germany at Wasserbillig Bridge with her at the same time. This narrowed the possibilities for her own journey into Germany. This opportunity to save one member of a doomed Polish-Jewish family was so important to Josie that she set aside thoughts of danger to herself.

  She repeated the date. “May eighth. Yes, I’ll arrange it. Should make a very good story.” She replaced the handset and smiled at Frank Blake, who was still grousing. “Well, Frank, I’ve got your war for you. I’ve been invited to see the German Siegfried Line firsthand.”

  Blake’s jaw dropped. He considered her with grave suspicion. “How did you do that?”

  “I’ve been working on it for some time.”

  Two hours later, after the office emptied out for lunch, Josie sent a wire to AP Amsterdam, to be conveyed to Bill Cooper at AP Berlin, who would then pass the date to Josie’s German coconspirator Katrina von Bockman, as arranged beforehand and set down in Cooper’s instructions to Mac McGrath.

  The message said simply:

  Happy Birthday Bill.

  Hard to believe you are 58.

  Signed, Jo.

  Of course Cooper was at least ten years younger, but 5 was the number of the month and 8 marked the day of the month when Josie was to cross the Wasserbillig Bridge from Luxembourg into Nazi territory.

  ***

  The next day Andre Chardon studied the young freckle-faced American wearing the uniform of a pilot officer in the RAF. “I realize that you have repeated this story fifteen times, but tell me again exactly what you saw.”

  David looked disgusted. “Will it make any difference? All right, here it is. I was engaging an ME-110 that was flying escort to a squadron of Heinkels returning to Germany from a raid.”

  “And this was . . . ?”

  “Just north of Luxembourg, where the Ardennes Plateau crosses from Belgium into Germany.”

  “So you were over Belgian territory?”

  “Yeah. We are spread so thin, we can’t catch all the bombing runs on the way in, but we don’t like to let them get back to Naziland unpunished.”

  “And were you alone?”

  “No, my section mates—Flight Lieutenant Simpson and Pilot Sergeant Hewitt—were there, too.”

  “Did they see anything like what you report seeing?”

  David shook his head and frowned. “No, unfortunately not. They were busy. But that doesn’t change what I saw,” he finished belligerently.

  “Calm down, Meyer. I didn’t say that I doubted your word.”

  David sagged visibly in his chair. “Sorry. It’s just that no one seems to take me seriously! I even volunteered to fly a recon mission myself to get proof. They said no! Said for us to stay away from Belgian territory after this.” The flier stood abruptly and pointed to a map on the wall. “Right there—not a hundred miles from where we are right now. I’d say at least two divisions, maybe more. Tanks and all the support equipment to go with them.”

  “And how do you know the objective is the Ardennes? Perhaps they were being moved farther north, where the main body of the German force is known to be.”

  David pounded his fist on the topmost point of the triangular outline of Luxembourg. “Aimed straight into Belgium! Not loaded on railcars, either. Those big gray monsters were on their tracks, Colonel. I may not know much about tanks, but unless somebody gets in their way with a lot of firepower, those babies could be in our laps in about two days.”

  “And you realize the importance of this information?”

  “You bet I do!” David tugged at his sandy, tousled hair in frustration. “We’ve already been told that our unit will be pulled back when the Germans launch their attack. Problem is, the High Command says the invasion will come through Holland . . . two hundred miles in the wrong direction!”

  ***

  The day after his return from Mezieres, Andre slammed the door of his study and paced the room as Josie explained about Yacov Lubetkin and the planned rendezvous in the German city of Treves on May 8.

  Andre was angry with her. “You will get captured and killed!”

  “It is already arranged,” Josie countered, stiffening. “I am going with or without you, Andre.”

  “I forbid it!”

  “Forbid?” Her eyes narrowed. “What right have you . . . ?”

  “You will not cross the French frontier into Luxembourg if I put a stop to it!”

  “And if you do, I will catch the clipper and fly out of Paris and out of your life tomorrow!” she stormed.

  He took her arm and spun her around. “Listen to me! I lost one woman I loved to the Nazis—”

  “You lost Elaine through your own . . . stupidity!” she shot back. “You lost her long before the Gestapo got hold of her. And they killed her for the same reason you let her walk out of your life. The same reason, Andre! You let some bigoted old man ruin your life and hers. Destroy your love. You let it happen!”

  He stepped back as if she had struck him. “What do you know about it?”

  “Only what you talked about. And your brother, Paul.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Everything. About your grandfather. About you being more afraid of that wicked old man than losing the woman you loved and losing the right to be a father.”

  “This has nothing to do with you crossing the Wasserbillig Bridge on the eighth of May! It is too close!”

  “Too close to what?”

  “You think the Germans are camping out over there for fun? There will be several hundred thousand Wehrmacht, SS, and Gestapo between you and that baby in Treves!”

  “I have faced them before.”

  “Not on the eighth of May!” he roared. “Not Luxembourg! It will be the Nazi high road into—”

  Josie glared back at him. She tossed her head defiantly. “You have a daughter in Luxembourg. Have you forgotten?”

  Parting the curtains, Andre raised his eyes slowly toward the twilight gathering east of Paris. The Eiffel Tower stood silhouetted against a backdrop of lavender hues. Like the watercolor painting of a Montmartre street artist, the pastels faded to purple and then to black.

  So few hours remained before the darkest nightfall. . . .

  “Juliette,” he said softly, all the fight gone out of him.

  “What do you think the Nazis will do to the half-Jewish daughter of a French colonel when they march across the Wasserbillig Bridge into Luxembourg?”

  “You know what they will do.”

  “Yes, I do know. And there is another Jewish baby waiting for me in Treves. All he needs is for one of those Aryan hags to change his diapers over there, and what do you think will happen to him? And to the people who care for him?”

  “You do not even know him.” His argument was feeble.

  “And how well do you know Juliette?”

  Andre was beaten and he knew it. “Then we will go to Luxembourg together. You cannot—must not—go alone, ma chèrie. If they should attack . . .” He nodded, arguing with himself. “Across the bridge on the eighth. Back the morning of the ninth. You must promise me.”

  “Yes. And while I am gone, will you speak with Abraham Snow about Juliette?”

  “Even if he will not see me, I will make certain my daughter will not remain behind in Luxembourg to face the Nazis.”

  ***

  Mac McGrath and John Murphy, head of Trump European News Service, took their seats in the reporters’ gallery of the House of Commons. The two friends viewed the hall from above and behin
d the Speaker’s chair at the north end.

  Murphy had been tipped off that the debate offered on Saturday, the seventh of May, would be important—perhaps even critical—for the Chamberlain government. Only three weeks after the British mobilized to combat the Nazi invasion of Norway, the battle was lost and the troops had been withdrawn. Just as Papa Galway had predicted, Mac remembered.

  Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain entered the House of Commons. He was greeted with unenthusiastic applause from his allies and scathing rebukes from his political enemies. Mac heard someone call out, “Missed the bus!” Other voices took it up, until the oak-paneled chamber rang with shouts of “Missed the bus! Missed the bus!”

  Mac knew that the wisecrack came from an unfortunate remark made by Chamberlain himself. The prime minister had told the House that Hitler could have attacked France right after Poland, but now the Allied positions were too strong, so Hitler had missed the bus. Now that the campaign in Norway was a disaster and a clear-cut German victory, Chamberlain’s quote came back to haunt him.

  Mac wondered who would replace Chamberlain if the government fell. He hoped it would be Churchill, but Halifax and David Lloyd George were also possibilities. One thing was certain: Chamberlain was fighting for his political life . . . and he might be the only one who didn’t know it.

  Neville Chamberlain opted to speak first. He droned on at length about how the country really did not want war, how the people were unconcerned and complacent about events outside England. He got roundly hissed for that. As Mac laughed to himself, Chamberlain gave a very prissy, effeminate gesture of exasperation. “I still have friends,” he pouted, and the hissing turned to jeers. “Now that Germany controls harbors in the North Sea, I fear that our country does not realize the gravity of its peril,” Chamberlain suggested.

  “Do you?” mocked a voice from the back bench, and a new round of catcalls and “Missed the bus!” erupted.

  Chamberlain sat down, looking dejected and tired.

  Clement Atlee, head of the Labour Party, and Sir Archibald Sinclair, leader of the Liberals, both gave speeches criticizing the handling of the war. But in Mac’s opinion, the fireworks didn’t really get started until Labour Member of Parliament Josiah Wedgwood gave a speech in which he accused the Royal Navy of cowardice.