Meier remained pensive for several minutes. “I want to think this through, but a condition I will impose if I agree to your plan…” He looked directly into Bergmann’s eyes. “And that is a big ‘if.’” He stared across the room at nothing in particular. “If I were to issue such an order, it would stipulate that no execution is to be carried out without my written order, and you would be required to sign a statement attesting to your understanding. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go prepare your plan. Run it by the executive officer before bringing it back to me.”
39
Ferrand lay on his bunk within the bombed-out ruins, falling in and out of sleep, held in that nether state by sheer physical exhaustion, and rousted awake by the emotional calamities that confronted him. He ached to see his daughters but forced thoughts of them out of his mind.
“There will be repercussions,” he murmured during a lucid moment. The eruption of gunfire between partisans and the German SS had assured swift, violent retribution.
His sole consolation was that of the thirteen families; all but two of them had escaped, including the family of the reluctant mother. The rescue party had also evaded capture, only one of them having taken a bullet that grazed an arm. By now, the families had scattered to homes across northern France. Partisans there would move them steadily south, past the German front. Fortunately, the Nazis were still engaged in consolidating and pressing south on the Atlantic coast.
Ferrand’s eyes popped open, and he sat up. A sound had awakened him. He strained to hear it again, but when he did not, he allowed his body to fall backward onto the mattress and closed his eyes once more.
He heard the sound again and recognized it as a voice projected through an electronic loudspeaker, but he could not make out the words. “It can’t be good.”
As the minutes ticked by, he realized that the broadcast message repeated. It stopped for a time, he fell asleep, and then he was awakened by another iteration of the message.
Pulling a pillow over his head muffled the noise, but when he awoke again an hour later, he heard the electronic voice once more bellowing in the distance. After a couple of hours, he decided he had better find out what was being said.
He waited until the shadows had grown long and then made his way carefully through the ruins, using the shadows and debris for concealment. Reaching a safe place where he could make out the words, he sat amidst the wreckage and listened.
“To the good people of Dunkirk, you have terrorists and traitors among you, led by Ferrand Boulier, and including his daughters, Amélie and Chantal. They murdered a German soldier, escaped, and then led an attack on a squad of German troops. Three of our brave soldiers were shot, and several others are in critical condition with severe head injuries.
Such criminal acts should not go unpunished, and you, the good citizens of Dunkirk, should not be exposed to the dangers they bring. Therefore, be advised of the following:
A reward of one thousand francs is offered for anyone bringing information leading to the arrest of Ferrand Boulier.
The daughters are controlled by their father. When he is arrested, they will be allowed to go free.
If by tomorrow at noon, we have received no information, we will arrest a resident of Dunkirk. That will double the next day, and so on through five days.
If by the sixth day, we have received no information, other measures will be considered.
Anyone with information may communicate that such is the case through any German soldier or officer, who will escort you to the appropriate office.
This announcement will be repeated periodically until no longer necessary.”
Ferrand dropped his head into his hands. He felt nothing other than profound fatigue. His mind descended into an empty space in which no thought registered. Darkness gathered around him, the electronic voice scratched the night, yet still he did not move.
For two more hours, Ferrand sat alone, immobile. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed, and he fell over in the rubble.
Above him, a waning moon moved across the vestiges of a once proud city. The stars glimmered against a dark sky, and the chill of night set in.
At dawn, the hateful blare of the electronically broadcast voice awakened Ferrand again. Strangely, he felt refreshed. Checking around his immediate vicinity to be sure he was not observed, he once more made use of the shadows to retrace his steps to his room among the ruins.
When he arrived, a woman waited for him. She was bent like he was and a few years younger. She had waited for him inside the wreckage of the building’s first-floor corridor, out of sight.
“You are a treasure, Anna,” he said on seeing her.
She put a sorrowful hand to her mouth. “Oh Ferrand, you look so awful. This war is killing you slowly.” She looked around at the crooked walls that lacked ceilings and a roof. “It’s killing us all.”
“You’re making so many sacrifices and taking such chances,” he told her. “I don’t know how you do what you do, mopping the floors of those beasts.”
“That was my job there before the Germans arrived. They let me stay. I need to eat. I hope the information I bring you is helpful.”
“Most helpful, Anna. I can never thank you enough.” He put his arms around her shoulders and held her.
“We’ve been friends for so many years,” she said, pulling away. “Who would have said that our beautiful city could have been destroyed the way it was?” Looking around again as if seeing things the way they had been, she shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears. “We had happy memories here while
