Shadows of Yesterday

Chapter 6

Camille eluded the German noose that tightened around Antwerp, threading a needle through the German advance and Allied retreat. She sped southwest, avoiding Brussels. Her first objective was Tournai, where she had once been stationed. She had contacts there who could help her escape. If she got there before the Germans. But she had to get out of Belgium and into France, ahead of the advancing German army.

The bullets that sprayed her car had done some damage. Most pierced the trunk, burrowing into the back of the automobile. But one had hit the dashboard, passing through to the engine compartment, barely missing her. She eyed the petrol gauge—not enough to reach France. She would have to leave the highway, find a vehicle, and siphon petrol.

An hour from Tournai the engine began making a whirring noise. She wasn’t sure what caused it, but suspected a German bullet did more damage than she had thought. When she saw a village with no sign of Allied or German soldiers, she left the highway and drove toward it. A church sat on the outskirts, the steeple staring at heaven.

Camille rode down a residential street, the houses undamaged, some people outside. The battle hadn’t found them yet. But it would. She parked beside the church and waited. No vehicles were near, none from which she could siphon petrol, just a truck parked beside a house across the street. She got out of the car, opened the hood, and searched for whatever caused the strange noises. No damage was obvious.

She glanced at the houses, ensuring no one watched her. A man and woman a few doors down were loading crates onto a wagon, ready to flee. She studied them for a moment—she wanted to make sure it was safe to leave her car—and then opened the back door of her Minerva. The radio was stashed behind the driver’s seat. The diamonds and bag with the drills lay beside it, a cloth bag with some clothes and personal belongings on top of them. She removed the radio, locked the door, made one last check to ensure no one was near, and approached the church.

The walkway was rimmed with flowers, splashing color onto an ordinary landscape. Farm fields stretched past the church, deserted, the wind kicking the dirt to dust. She hurried down the pavement, watching for any observers, and climbed stone steps. Arched doors marked the entrance, and she opened one to peek inside. The church seemed empty, she couldn’t see anyone, but noises came from a room beside the altar—someone moving about. The stairs to the steeple were to her right. She quietly made her way toward them and started up the steps.

The stairs ended in a square room, open arches on each side, an iron bell centered in the open space. She unpacked her radio and laid the antenna wire against a windowsill. She inserted the crystal, ensured no one was coming up the stairs, and started to transmit. To ensure it was received, she sent the message twice, pausing in between. She watched the east, clouds of dust visible on the horizon.

She waited. As the dust clouds grew larger, she sent the message a third time. A few seconds later, a reply came, requesting more information. She hesitated, watching the billowing dust—the retreating Allies or advancing Germans, she wasn’t sure. Just as she was about to transmit a reply, she saw German motorcycles at the front of the dust cloud. She had no time to waste. She packed her radio and started down the stairs.

“What are you doing?” a male voice called from the altar.

She ran to the door. The pastor was coming down the aisle, an older man, tall and straight with gray hair. She ignored him.

“Stop!” he called.

She kept her head down so he couldn’t see her face. As she flung open the door and sprinted out, he started running after her.

“What are you doing?” he called.

Camille dashed toward the car. The pastor exited the church and paused, looking in different directions, trying to find her. She tossed the radio on the seat and started the engine. The whirring noise was more pronounced.

“Stop!” he called, racing toward her.

She pulled away and turned at the first crossroad. The pastor kept coming, but slowed, watching her suspiciously, too far away to stop her. She turned again and went back on the highway to Tournai. A glance in the rearview mirror showed no one following, the dust cloud approaching on the horizon.

Camille drove as fast as she dared, the engine noise getting worse. When she was a half dozen kilometers from Tournai, the engine coughed and sputtered, the car slowed, and the engine died by a bridge that spanned a stream. She scanned the landscape, finding nothing but farm fields, a stone cottage not far away.

She had to hide the diamonds.