Shadows of Yesterday

Chapter 4

Camille and Roger hid in the closet, barely breathing. Boot heels clicked on tiled floors, soldiers inspecting the vault. They summoned an officer, his voice loud but his words not clear enough to understand.

After they finished in the vault, the Germans left. They passed the utility closet and climbed the stairs, their footsteps fainter until they couldn’t be heard at all.

“I have to get out,” Roger hissed. “The boat won’t wait.”

“Where am I taking you?”

He withdrew a business card from his pocket, checking an address scribbled on the back. “Godefriduskaai 99, Pier #3.”

Camille cracked open the door. The hallway was empty. She stepped out, no Germans nearby. “Come on!” she hissed, tugging on Roger’s sleeve.

They ran toward the back stairwell. After only a dozen steps, heavy boots came down the front stairs.

Roger stopped, hesitant to continue.

“We can make it,” Camille assured him, fearing he might surrender.

He followed her into the far stairwell, closing the door behind them. They quietly ran up two flights of stairs, and exited near the garden door.

“We’ll leave the same way we came in,” she whispered.

As they approached the exit, shadows appeared on the hallway wall, coming closer.

“We’re trapped,” he hissed.

She glanced at the sketch. “This way,” she whispered, pulling him in the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?”

“Second floor.”

They retraced their steps and returned to the stairway. She eased the door open and urged him in.

“Halt!” a German called, rounding the corner as they closed the door.

Roger tugged on Camille’s elbow. “We’ll never make it!”

“Yes, we will,” she said, urging him up the stairs. “Come on. Hurry.”

They left the stairwell and ran to the end of the corridor.

“Where are we going?” he asked, gasping.

“In here,” she said, opening a door.

The Germans ran from the stairway, heavy boots pounding the hallway floor. “Halt!” a soldier commanded.

Camille locked the door, slid a narrow table in front of it, and scanned the room. The office was small, a desk by the window, paintings on the walls—street scenes of Antwerp—a bookshelf behind the desk.

Hurry,” she said. “To the window.”

Roger hesitated, staring at the door. “They’re right behind us!”

“We’ll make it,” she insisted, racing across the room. She opened the vertical windows, exposing a slender alley, an adjacent building a few feet away.

Roger looked at the ground two floors below. “What are you doing? We can’t jump from here!”

“Open the door!” the Germans shouted, trying the knob.

“You go,” Camille urged. “You’re more important. Slide down the drainpipe.”

He looked at her, eyes wide. “I can’t,” he said. “They’ll kill you.”

“Go!” she said. “Hurry!”

He started to climb out the window. Gunfire erupted, bullets destroying the lock and splintering the wood around it. A pattern of holes formed on the door, bullets burrowing into the wall across the room.

Camille dove behind the desk. She crouched low until the firing stopped. When she peeked out, Germans pushed the door, the table blocking them. She scrambled to her feet.

Roger lay on the floor, b****y holes across his chest. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.

The Germans barged through the door, tripping over the table.

Camille yanked the satchel from Roger’s shoulder and climbed out the window. Bullets sprayed the jamb and molding, shattering the windows. Broken glass fell to the floor. She grasped the copper drainpipe that ran down the outside wall, put her feet against the brick, and shimmied to the ground. Staying close to the building, she darted down the alley.

A soldier appeared in the window, frantically searching below. He fired when he saw her, spraying bullets that ricocheted off the wall. Camille rounded the corner, slivers of stone flying past her. She sprinted down the street, more Germans at the corner of the main road.

“Halt,” a soldier called, running toward her.

Camille kept going, staying in shadows, hiding behind trees and parked cars. She made her way to the Minerva, climbed in, and started the engine. The soldier chasing her fired, spraying bullets into the back of the vehicle. A bullet hit the dashboard, centimeters from her. She sped away, racing past an older couple watching from their stoop.

She turned left at the first intersection, drove two blocks, and made another left, speeding toward the river. She avoided debris and approached the docks, fires raging around her. When she reached Godefriduskaai 99, Pier #3, a fishing boat waited. She would use it to escape, taking Roger’s place. But just as she was about to stop, German soldiers walked down the wharf. She drove to the next dock, where two men stood near a tugboat. She pulled over and rolled down the window.

“How do I get out of Antwerp?” she asked.

An older man with a grizzled beard leaned toward the window. “The Nazis hold the port. Nothing can get in or out.”

His younger companion came closer. “Antwerp is almost surrounded.”

“I have to get out,” she said. “Should I go west?”

“The army went west, but the Germans followed.”

“Go southwest,” the companion suggested. “There’s a sliver of the city open. Follow the west bank of the river and you’ll stay ahead of the fighting.”

“But hurry,” the older man said. “You don’t have much time.”

“Thanks,” she called as she drove away. She sped down winding streets away from the port, heading southwest. She had to get out of the city. The port was closed. She couldn’t get to London.

She had to take the diamonds to Jacques Dufort in Paris.