Chapter Eight

Paris, April 3, 1944

JEAN-LUC

Salut, les gars.” The driver nodded at them as they climbed into the back of the truck.

As usual, the men ignored him. Under normal circumstances, seeing the same man every day, Jean-Luc would have asked his name. But he didn’t want to know anything about him. He stared out the window. It was one of those early spring days. The sun was rising, shining out through a cloudless sky—bright, but still too weak to warm the air. His knees twitched up and down with a restless energy. Gripping the back of his neck, he rolled his head around in a pathetic attempt to calm himself. He had to do something. He’d promised himself he would. And now an idea was growing in his mind. It was just an idea, and he didn’t know if he could go through with it, but he started to imagine it as if he would.

What if he could manage to derail a train? He would just need to loosen the bolts on the fishplates, then force the tracks out of line with a crowbar, throwing the train off its tracks. It might not even be that hard. But he couldn’t do it alone; he needed Frédéric to be his accomplice, to pass his work when he checked it at the end of the day. He knew that if he presented Frédéric with a fait accompli, he would be left with no choice but to go along with it; he wasn’t the kind of man to denounce a friend. Was he?

He glanced over at his colleague, wondering. It was obvious that Frédéric couldn’t stomach working for the Boches any more than Jean-Luc himself could, but to commit an act of sabotage? That took courage. If caught, they would face the firing squad, but not before they’d been interrogated and tortured first. Tortured! He closed his eyes, blocking out the thought before it took root.

Frédéric suddenly looked up at him, their eyes locking in a moment of mutual understanding. What the hell were they doing here?

Jean-Luc’s thoughts returned to his idea. Was it worth it? It would probably only delay the train, but that was already something. And it would anger the Boches, that was for sure. His pulse started racing as he imagined the train coming off the tracks—the chaos it would cause. The idea excited him. Could it be his chance to do something? As he imagined putting his plan into action, the impotent anger he’d felt before turned to rage. Rage at them for taking his father away, rage at seeing a dead baby on the platform, as though it had been nothing more than an abandoned suitcase. Then rage at himself and all the others who’d silently stood by, terrified for their own skins.

“Here we are. Bobigny again,” the driver announced.

As usual, they went to the stationmaster’s house to report for duty and pick up their meager breakfast—a cup of ersatz coffee and a lump of hard bread. He swallowed the brown liquid in one gulp but threw his bread out onto the tracks. His stomach was tied in knots. Could he really do it?

He wandered over to the tool hut, taking out the fishplate bolt spanner and the large crowbar. Glancing over at the other men, who were still chewing their bread, he started to walk along the line, looking out for a gap where a set of tracks met. It didn’t take him long to find one. Crouching down, he examined the fishplate more closely. The bolts looked rusted on. If he was really going to go ahead with it, then he would have to do a test first—time himself to see how long it took to undo one bolt, then multiply it by four. He reckoned he had a good fifteen minutes. The guards seemed to pass every thirty minutes on average.

His legs felt weak and he folded them under himself as he sat on the ground staring at the rusty bolts, trying to breathe normally. Sweat trickled down from his armpits and his mouth was suddenly dry. He knew that if he didn’t do it now, then he would never do it. And he would have to live with his cowardice for the rest of his life.

Taking a deep breath, trying to slow his rapid pulse, he took the spanner, placing it around the first bolt. He pulled his sleeve back, glancing at his watch—7:41 exactly. He turned the bolt. It was stiff. He pushed down hard, putting all his weight on the spanner. His breath coming fast, he managed to get a turn on it, and then another. After that, it moved quickly. When the bolt came completely loose, he glanced at his watch—7:43 and forty seconds. Nearly three minutes. That meant nine minutes total for the other three bolts. He had time. He could do it.

“Jean-Luc!” Frédéric’s voice shot through him like an electric shock. “What are you doing? We’re supposed to be working on the other end of the track today.”

The spanner fell from his hand, clattering onto the rails. Still on his knees, he looked around, checking who was within earshot. But it was early yet, and only a couple of guards stood nearby, smoking and chatting. They looked at him, catching his eye. He held his breath. But they hardly seemed to notice him as they leaned toward each other, obviously absorbed in their conversation. Jean-Luc let his breath out slowly, then turned back toward Frédéric. He concentrated on keeping his tone low and steady as he said, “This fishplate is loose.”

“Well, hurry up!” Frédéric walked away.

Picking the spanner back up, he placed it on the second bolt and turned it, his left hand holding his right to provide more pressure. Around and around it went, steadily and efficiently. In just three minutes, it was loose. He moved on to the third bolt. His hand slipped on the spanner and his overalls clung to him. Three minutes and forty seconds ticked by.

He placed the spanner around the fourth and last bolt. His throat tightened. This one was completely rusted on. It wouldn’t budge. He pushed harder and harder, his wrist aching with the effort. He looked at his watch. A minute gone already and he hadn’t got anywhere. He needed to undo all four or it wouldn’t work. He stopped, taking a deep breath. He’d give it one more go. He knocked at the rust this time before fixing the spanner around the bolt, then pushed down on the metal handle with all his force. It started to loosen. Three and a half more minutes ticked by.

Now he only had two minutes left for the crowbar. He picked it up and pushed it hard into the earth under the track, his heart thumping. He couldn’t breathe; he opened his mouth wide, gulping in air. He heard commands shouted out: “Achtung! Vorwärts marsch!” But he didn’t dare look up. He pushed the crowbar with all his might now. The track began to move. He forced it out of line.

Then a noise behind him made him jump. Heavy footsteps. He turned to look.

It was the chief of the camp, walking toward him. Merde! Jean-Luc turned his face back toward the track. Please, God, he prayed. Please, God, make him go away.

The footsteps grew louder. Nearer. Jean-Luc’s hand shook as he took the crowbar out, digging it in the other side now as though he were intending to straighten the track.

He twisted his neck, looking at Brunner. He was talking with a guard. Throaty laughter burst out. Then they walked away. Jean-Luc turned back to the tracks, his hands still shaking. He had to do it. Digging the crowbar back in on the other side, he readied himself to put all his force into pushing the track outward again.

It happened so quickly, he didn’t see it coming. The crowbar slipping. Rebounding. Pain seared through his cheek, like a knife slicing it open. He dropped everything, clutching at his broken skin. Blood gushed out over his hands. He couldn’t see. Then a blow to his leg sent him reeling. He cried out.

Rough hands pulled him off the track, dragging him away. Then two men picked him up and threw him into a truck.