Forty-three

 

Leni Haeft had a long classic face that reminded him of Burne-Jones’ portraits. But there was a harsh resolve that occasionally made her features set like iron, and the delicate beauty vanished.

When he awoke next morning, Edward heard a man’s voice in the salon and decided that perhaps Leni had a live-in lover. But he changed his mind when he met him. The man was young, with a thin neck, unkempt hair and thick spectacles on a large nose.

‘Rudi Goltz,’ she introduced. ‘Our propaganda expert.’

Goltz gave Edward a surprisingly sweet smile. ‘I’m a reporter on the Zeitung. I do what I can for the party in my spare time.’

He listened in silence to Edward’s story of his Baltic experiences but could not hold back when he heard about the attack on Kronstadt.

‘The Russians are as bad as the Freikorps,’ he said hotly. ‘They’re both trying to squeeze human heads until they’re the right shape and the right colour. Ludendorff’s a madman. So’s Goering. Lenin’s not much better. And the National Socialists grow more powerful every day. They’ll go the same way as the Fascists in Italy. They’re a political party now. Are you political? You should be. It’s the duty of all intelligent men.’

Later in the day he came back to the flat with a single-sheet newspaper, badly printed, with it’s title, Rote Fahne, in red. ‘Circulation’s gone up,’ he shouted. ‘From three hundred to three hundred and one. The tide is turning!’

Edward was unable to read the spidery German script but he knew the title meant Red Flag. Then he saw the name ‘Leni Haeft’, followed by his own name, or something resembling his own name – Edward Danny-Boy Dillon.

‘What’s this?’ he demanded furiously.

Leni laughed. ‘I fear Rudi doesn’t always get it right.’

She crossed to him and kissed him on the cheek.

Edward’s anger quickly subsided. ‘Aren’t you being a little rash to allow your name to be in the paper?’

‘I suspect Rudi’s trying to build me into another Rosa.’

 

The trains were still not running. There were reports of fighting in Berlin and elsewhere between Spartacists, Communists and the soldiers of the Freikorps.

Leni sat down beside Edward on the sofa. He could feel the warmth of her body and caught her sweet perfume.

‘Will you please put your arm round me?’

Edward did so and she lifted her face to be kissed. He obliged, wondering what he was getting into this time…

 

Leni couldn’t stand being cooped up for long. Her favourite place was called the Rattsherrnkeller, whose main room was surrounded by wooden statues of city councillors dating from the Middle Ages. There was always a small orchestra on a dais, classical musicians playing dance music for a pittance because they were reduced to penury by inflation. It gave the beer cellar an air of unreal gaiety.

They ate and drank there on a number of evenings, but Leni sometimes couldn’t help being gloomy. ‘I used to come here often in the old days, when I was a student at the University. I got engaged in this very room, you know. He was a doctor of philosophy.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘He was killed on the Somme. Such a waste.’

 

One morning a friend of Leni’s, Walther Busch-Schatter, turned up. He was lean-faced, with lank, dark hair which almost hid his eyes.

‘They’re after you,’ he said to Edward, fishing a newspaper from his pocket. It was called Die Stelz. There you are – Edward Danny-Boy Dillon. It says you’re a Red activist and that you’re wanted for the murder of a Freikorps soldier at the Grosse Ziege Bar on the fourteenth.’

‘I didn’t kill anyone.’

‘They say you did. And that’s good enough for them. You’ve been identified by a chap called Von Rauche. Aleksander von Rauche. The Jew-Catcher.’

There was a tap on the door and Rudi Goltz appeared. He laid a revolver on the table.

‘That all you have?’ Busch-Schatter asked.

Soon afterwards two other men arrived. They looked like students and appeared to be carrying fishing rod cases. But when they opened them, they contained army rifles.

‘They’re here to protect me,’ Leni said.

‘From what?’ Edward stared at her, shocked. Suddenly she looked small and frail and older than her years. Her face seemed grey and drawn and the shadows under her eyes had become hollows so that in the poor light her face looked like a skull.

‘I’ll stay, too,’ Edward said.

‘Don’t be damned stupid,’ Busch-Schatter said sharply. ‘That’s just what they want. To find foreigners involved in what they consider a German problem. You’ll have to go south. They’re watching all trains west, and that’s where they’ll expect you to go.’

Two more young men arrived, also armed with revolvers.

‘I can get you on a train at Pirna,’ Busch-Schatter said. ‘It goes to Munich. Don’t get off en route. From Munich I’d head for Vienna, but of course it’s up to you.’

‘Wouldn’t it be a damn sight easier if I just went to the British Consul?’

‘The consulate is surrounded by the Freikorps.’

Edward didn’t hesitate any longer. His few possessions were stashed away in a small bag, which he collected from the spare room.

‘Try to do something for us,’ said Leni, and gave him a brief goodbye kiss.

The door slammed behind them, as they clattered down the stone steps to the hall. Busch-Schatter then turned towards the concierge’s rooms at the back. A door was held open and Edward found himself in a tiny yard, with the cold night air on his face.

Passing through a series of alleys, none of them smelling very fresh, they finally emerged on to a street. Down the middle ran a set of rails.

‘We wait for the tram,’ Busch-Schatter said.

There was little traffic about, a car or two, a lorry, a horse drawn cart, an old man pushing a heavily-laden pram. In the distance the lights of a yellow tram with its linked trailer headed towards them.

Edward and Busch-Schatter found themselves crammed in with a sweating throng.

Just as the tram was about to start, a burst of firing broke out and they both heard the shattering of glass. Busch-Schatter held his head in his hands.

‘Poor Leni,’ he muttered.

The firing continued in sporadic bursts, then stopped. Down the street they could see the front of Leni’s apartment block. Men were coming out, laughing and carrying weapons. Then some others emerged carrying bloodstained shapes.

‘Don’t say or do anything,’ Busch-Schatter whispered. ‘Tomorrow they’ll announce they were being taken in for questioning, and shot as they tried to escape.’

‘What the hell is going on here?’

‘Nothing good.’

 

Edward crossed the border into Austria without difficulty. Salzburg looked even colder than Dresden. He was still horrified at what had happened and sat in stunned silence every bit of the way, sick at the fatalistic way Leni Haeft and her friends had gone to their martyrdom. How Owen-Smith must have hated him – for throwing him out of the Vicarage, for forcing him to work as a coal-heaver in Antwerp, for breaking up his unimportant little spy cell in West Africa.

On the way south he came to a decision. He could have headed for one of the Channel ports or thrown himself on the mercy of the della Stradas in Naples. Or he could head for Sofia and telephone old McClumpha. There was no point in going home. There was nothing to go home for. The episode in Dresden had crushed him. He needed light, sunshine and optimism.

Sofia hadn’t changed much. It was a little shabbier than it had been and, like Vienna, it was suffering from the dismal after-effects of the war.

The telephone system had never been very efficient but Edward spent the last of his money on a decent hotel, who succeeded against the odds in making the connection.

‘Och, laddie,’ McClumpha said. ‘We’ll be gey glad to see ye. Stay where you are. I’ll arrange wi’ the hotel to supply ye wi’ money. They ken me well. I’ll pay the bill and they’ll advance you the train fare against ma name. Now, tell me, will ye be takin’ the job I offered ye?’

‘Yes.’

It was a change to hear someone laugh.