What Happened on the Road to Banneux

The bus slowed as it reached its next stop. Fernande scanned the incoming passengers from her seat near the back door of the bus. This position gave her a quick exit should any German soldier come on board. She stifled a sigh of relief when the last passenger took his seat and the bus lurched forward again. Silently she thanked God that no soldiers got on board. Fernande couldn’t show any signs of fear. Fear would draw suspicion, and that would jeopardize her mission. Please Lord, help me to complete this mission, Fernande prayed. So much is at stake. There is no margin for error. The Belgian Resistance is counting on me. I cannot fail.

“Are we there yet?” the little boy sitting next to Fernande asked, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“Not yet,” Fernande said. She took the boy’s hand in hers and gave it a comforting squeeze. “We get off at the next stop in Tancremont, and then we need to walk through the woods to get to Banneux.”

The boy gave a tired nod and leaned his head against the window. His stomach grumbled and he wrapped his arms around his midsection.

Poor boy, Fernande thought. He had looked hungry and pale when her contact first brought him to her. Although she treated him to a snack before they set out on their mission, the boy still looked hungry. Luckily they were on their way to the sanatorium of Banneux. His aunt was one of the religious sisters that worked in the sanatorium. They would take good care of him, but he just had to hang in there a little longer. 

When the bus reached the stop at Tancremont, Fernande took the little boy by the hand. She also grabbed a red bundle that rested in her lap. The bundle contained the most important part of her mission: false IDs, hidden in the boy’s spare clothes. Those IDs would be given to English spies. The spies were scheduled to parachute behind enemy lines later that night. The Belgian Resistance was counting on Fernande. She had to successfully deliver the IDs to the sisters at the sanatorium of Banneux. The boy traveling with her was her alibi. If anyone asked why she was traveling to Banneux, she was to tell them that she was taking him to the sanatorium. 

Stepping off the bus, Fernande led her little alibi through the town and out into the woods. Pine trees lined the road that they followed. Sunlight filtered in through the tree boughs, lighting their path forward. Fernande found a stick, fixed the red bundle to the end, and slung the stick over her shoulder. 

Birds sang as the two crossed the hilly road through the dense, lush forests. Doctors often prescribed tuberculosis patients to visit these pine forests. They believed the fresh air produced by the trees would aid their recovery. Many also came to the forests around Banneux for spiritual matters as well as bodily ones. The Blessed Virgin Mary had appeared in Banneux about ten years before the beginning of World War II. Many visited the shrine in town to ask for the Blessed Mother’s intercession. Please Blessed Mother, watch over the boy and me as we complete our mission, Fernande prayed.

Although the forest appeared tranquil, Fernande remained alert. She scanned the dense brush for any signs that someone might be hiding. The dense forests that made Banneux a haven for tuberculosis patients also made it perfect for clandestine activity. Because of this, the Germans were bound to keep a close watch on the area.

“I’m tired,” the boy said as they crested another hill. “My feet hurt.”

“We’re almost there,” Fernande replied. She glanced down at her little alibi. He walked with his shoulders slumped. His feet dragged against the ground. Fernande bit her lip as she thought. She wanted to ease the boy’s suffering but she did not know how. Although he was skinny and malnourished, he was still too big for Fernande to pick up and carry. She searched her brain for something to say to cheer him up. She began to hum the first children’s song that came to her mind: Au Clair de la Lune.

The boy immediately perked up and joined in. When they had finished the first song, they began another. With each song, the boy seemed to forget his exhaustion and perk up even more. Fernande and the boy strolled hand in hand through the forest.

As they traveled, the trees thinned and they entered a meadow. The sun shone down on a sea of lush, green grass and wildflowers. Off to the left, the top of the sanatorium building could be seen behind a line of tall trees in the distance.

Fernande gave the boy’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Look,” she said, pointing to the sanatorium. “We’re almost there.”

The boy smiled.

Without a sound, two men in long, gray-blue coats slid out from behind a pile of dirt along the side of the road. Both of them wore chains around their necks. The word “GESTAPO” formed out of large, metal letters hung from the chain and across their chests. They both shouted, “Halt!”

Fernande froze. The boy whimpered and hid behind her. Tears streamed down his face as he trembled. Guardian Angel, Fernande prayed. Enlighten me, protect me, and guide me.

“Arbeitskarte!” The men demanded as they sauntered toward Fernande. The officer who emerged first from behind the mound seemed to tower over his partner. His dark hair peeked out from beneath a Nazi officer’s cap. He glared at Fernande with dark eyes. The other, shorter officer gave her the same cold look with his ice-blue eyes. He also had his blond hair stuffed beneath an officer’s cap.

Fernande knew they were asking for her work card. She was taught German at an early age. Her hometown, Montzen Gare, sat near Belgium’s border with Germany. Because of this, everyone in her town began learning German in the third grade. Work cards also served as IDs for the Germans. They didn’t care who you were. They cared about what you were doing to support Germany’s war effort.

The men loomed over Fernande as she slowly searched for her ID. She had a forged ID, much like the ones she was trying to deliver. Her counterfeit work card proved that she was employed at the sanatorium. Fernande knew that her work card was in the right pocket of her work pants. Even so, she took her time as she checked every other pocket. Her father’s words came back to her as she handed her ID over to the Gestapo. Before Fernande left to join the resistance, her father gave her one piece of advice. He told her to never show fear to the enemy, and if they question her, to speak louder than they do in her best German.

The tall officer looked at her work card. “Where do you work?” 

Taking as deep of a breath as she dared, Fernande squared her shoulders and said, “Can’t you read German? It’s written right there.” She pointed at the sanatorium. “I work over there.”

The blue-eyed officer glanced at the bundle on the stick over my shoulder. “What’s in the bundle?” He then looked at the kid. “What’s with the kid?”

Fernande sighed. “The boy is sick with tuberculosis. I’m taking him to the sanatorium.” She grabbed the bundle. “And these are his dirty clothes. Would you like to see them?” She began to untie the bundle.

The Gestapo recoiled at the word “tuberculosis”. They covered their noses and mouths with the sleeves of their coats. “No way! Get out of here!” They shooed Fernande and the boy away.

Fernande slung the bundle back over her shoulder. She bent down, confronted the boy, and wiped away the tears staining his face with a handkerchief. Grabbing his hand, Fernande led him down the road. Two motorcycles leaned against the dirt mound that the Gestapo hid behind. Fernande resisted the urge to look back over her shoulders at the men. To her, danger seemed more imminent now than when the men first ambushed them. 

Are they going to ask me any more questions? Fernande thought. Will they just shoot us in the back? If they shoot us, then the British spies will never get their false IDs and the whole mission will fail. Those thoughts terrified her. She slowed as the ground seemed to sway beneath her. Her legs shook and she halted in the middle of the road.

“Please Lord, don’t let me faint,” she prayed aloud, but not loud enough for the Gestapo to hear. “Mary, Mother of God, I beg you, watch over your children.”

The boy heard Fernande’s prayer. This time he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Then he prayed “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

Fernande joined her little alibi in prayer. Her legs steadied, and the ground no longer seemed to sway. Peace unlike anything she had ever felt before flooded her soul. She guided the boy to the front doors of the sanatorium. 

Knocking on the front door, Fernande gave the password and the doors flew open. The Mother Superior stood at the front door in her brown, Franciscan habit. She stretched out her arms to welcome them. “Come in. I saw everything.”

When the doors shut behind a woman grabbed the bundle with the IDs from Fernande. The woman disappeared into another room before Fernande could get a look at her. To her surprise, the Mother Superior was German, yet she was risking her life for a country that was not her own. God bless her, Fernande thought.

The boy scampered off to his aunt. Fernande never got his name, nor did she ever say goodbye. Familiarity was not encouraged in the Belgian Resistance. She knew that he would be well taken care of, and that was good enough for her. 

Mother Superior led Fernande into a lounge and then disappeared into another room. Fernande took a seat on a plush chair. Returning with a cup of coffee, Mother Superior handed it to her. Taking a sip, Fernande discovered that Mother Superior had doused the drink with a generous shot of cognac. The wondrous concoction seemed to erase all of the weariness from her journey. After finishing the drink, she reclined for a short while. Finishing her brief respite, Fernande exited the sanatorium. Then she left Banneux by a different road, thankful that God preserved her to fight another day.