Cruel Dreams and Communism
Sebastian Jones
Red Raven Publications 2018
© Sebastian Jones 2018
First published 2018
Red Raven Publications
The right of Sebastian Jones to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author
Other books in the Series
Black Hearts and Bullets
Silver Tongues and Swastikas
Irish Eyes and German Spies
False Hope and Fascism
Brave Hearts and Bayonets
Twisted Lies and Treachery
Russia
There had been warnings, but no one had listened. Grumblings in the air, pointed remarks, secret nods from the British. None were believed, at least not by those who mattered. Stalin and Hitler were allies, they had signed political and economic pacts – Hitler would not now begin a war on three fronts, that would surely be disastrous?
Hitler could not win the war without his Russian comrades; sheer numbers alone bolstered the might of the German army, even if Soviet equipment was, well… a little out of date.
Of course, there were those in Russia who had read Mein Kampf and were a fraction concerned. Did Hitler not speak in this, his manifesto, of invading Russia to acquire ‘living space’ for the German nation, who were apparently overdue a massive expansion. Did he not also talk about how those in Eastern Europe were sub-human? How they needed to be removed to make way for the master race? He called them Jewish Bolshevik conspirators, enough to make anyone concerned when you knew Hitler’s hatred for Jews and Bolsheviks. So why was no one paying attention?
Ah, but Stalin had it in hand. Yes, on the outside it would appear that no unity could ever exist between Russia and Germany because of their conflicting ideologies, they were simply too incompatible, too hostile to one another. No one outside of the German and Russian political circles could have foreseen that the sworn enemies would sign a non-aggression pact, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. A secret agreement that indicated how the two nations would carve up Eastern Europe for themselves, while taking no action against each other. Secret, that is, until a few days after it was signed, when the pact became known to the world and Hitler marched off to invade Poland. And for nearly two years all had gone smoothly. Russia had aided Germany and acquired new territory, including Finland.
All had been so friendly. Well, most of the time. There had been squabbles over the division of conquered lands, and Russian and German forces kept bumping up against each other in Eastern Europe. Some, especially over in Britain, watched the proceedings with wise little nods and tuts. Surely sooner or later this tense alliance would fracture? How could two such nations co-exist peacefully when both aspired to create a supreme empire and rule as much of Europe as they possibly could? It was like two kings trying to share a throne; eventually it was all going to collapse around their ears.
Stalin, however, was not worried. Hitler had problems enough now that Britain had decided to fight against the Nazi movement. That had come as something of a blow to the Fuhrer and had meant he was having to watch his back, while marching forward across Europe. Only a fool would add to these woes by striking at their main ally. In any case, Soviet military strength was so great, in Stalin’s opinion, that should Hitler do something stupid, like invade, the Nazi army would be swiftly defeated. And it would be stupidity to invade, anyone could see that, even the mad dictator in his ivory tower.
Certainty. The trap of the arrogant and narrow-minded. Certainty meant that when German soldiers swam across the Bug River to warn the commanders of the Red Army that Hitler was about to attack, they were deemed enemy agents and shot. Certainty was about to become the real danger.
That fateful June Stalin sat in his office contemplating stabbing his Axis allies in the back. Maybe he glanced out of the window and smiled to himself as he thought about marching proudly into Germany and defeating Hitler in one sweeping blow, before then conquering the rest of Europe. Why let there be two humble empires when there could be one great empire? Hitler, after all, was still the enemy, despite that unimportant little pact they signed in 1939. No one was going to hold Stalin to that, who was left to do so, anyway?
And then Hitler jumped the gun and invaded first. That was unfortunate, but it also gave Russia the justification to fight back and cripple their opponent. Suddenly they need not look like the big bad invaders when they took Germany by force, rather they would appear to be doing it out of necessity.
Not that Hitler was missing out on the ‘justification angle’ when he sent his troops off to attack the Russians. His propaganda machine was in full swing, reminding the German nation of the brutal regime Stalin presided over, pointing out how they slaughtered and oppressed the Slavs. Germany was duty bound to attack such a vile leadership, not to mention that there had been talk – very reliable talk, it was added – that Russia was planning to invade Germany and so Hitler was only aiming for a pre-emptive strike. And so the invasion was sold to the German people, who would have gasped to know how they were going to be betrayed by their allies and shuddered to think how the Bolsheviks, those terrible sub-humans, would have ripped through their beloved nation destroying all they held dear. Good old Hitler for being alert to the danger and making sure the worst would not occur. And shame on Stalin for being such a two-faced dog! The good house-fraus spat when they heard Stalin’s name and sent up tearful prayers for the safe conduct of the German army as they went after those vile, barely-human Soviets.
Hitler, sitting in his office, could only be satisfied to see his plans coming to fruition. Who cared about Soviet brutality against Slavs, except maybe the Slavs themselves? Hitler had been plotting to invade Russia for years, he had just been biding his time. It was fascinating to see how the nation had crippled itself during its years of political turmoil. Take, for example, the Great Purge of the 1930s, when any who were deemed to be against Stalin or were of a subversive nature were eradicated. Many experienced and competent military officers had been lost in the purge, and their places taken by younger, inexperienced men. All to the good for Hitler, who now had the upper-hand, many of his own officers being veterans of the first war, like himself.
Naturally, there were voices of doom and gloom, there always were. Hitler had learned to ignore them. Some of his general staff were anxious that an invasion of Russia would be a great drain on the nation and would damage their already uncertain economic situation. Hitler waved away the talk and pointed out that captured Russians could be used as forced labour to boost the German economy. The Ukraine, currently in Russian hands, could be taken and exploited for its rich and reliable agricultural resources, and think of the land they would gain! Besides, when Churchill and the British government saw the Germans triumph over the Soviets they were surely stop this silly nonsense of fighting the Nazi regime. They would realise that Germany was just too great a force for them to fight, and if they didn’t, well, with all that extra land, men and resources, Hitler could conquer the British and solve that problem too. It was a win-win situation, quite obviously.
Not everyone was convinced, an awful lot relied on an easy success in the east and on variables no one could as yet foresee. But you didn’t defy Hitler, not if you wanted to stay on the right side of him, at least. By early 1941 a plan was in place for the invasion, codenamed Operation Barbarossa; inspired by the medieval Emperor Frederick Barbarossa who led the third crusade in the twelfth century. The date was set for 15 May, but was delayed for over a month due to finalising plans and in the hopes of better weather.
The Russians had plenty of opportunity to notice that something was afoot, not to mention the efforts being made to filter information to them about Hitler’s plans. Along the Soviet border German troops were gathering and anyone with an ounce of common sense would have begun to wonder just what they were doing there. By the third week in February 680,000 German soldiers were gathered along the Romanian-Soviet border. While a further three million troops had been moved up in secret, ready to march into Russia. In the air, Luftwaffe planes flew on aerial surveillance operations, catching the eye of the odd peasant and causing a pang of concern for anyone more aware of the situation. Why were German planes flying across Russia?
The Soviet High Command started to panic, but Stalin was nonchalant. The Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact was not two years old yet, the Germans would not break it so soon.
However, Stalin’s apparent lack of concern was not the full story. He did not dismiss the idea that Hitler might invade Russia, he was fully aware of what was outlined in Mein Kempf. The timing was what troubled him; two years was just too soon, or so it seemed. Not that Stalin’s military commanders had failed to make plans in the event of an invasion, everyone in his High Command was agreed that Germany remained Russia’s worst enemy. Plans had been drawn up to counter an invasion and in early 1941 Stalin authorised troop deployment which would act as a counter-offensive against German attack. What the Russians might lack in equipment and vehicles, they compensated for in sheer numbers. They had around 23,000 tanks, for instance, though barely more than half were ready for operational use in June 1941. There was a lack of ammunition and radios, not to mention supply trucks. Technology-wise, the Russians were not lacking; the Soviet KV-1 and T-34 tanks were superior to any German tank, the problem was in the infrastructure. There were simply not enough of them, and they were too dispersed. Not to mention issues with the tanks being under-equipped and operated by inexperienced troops who had not had enough training. Supply lines were also poorly considered; means for resupplying tanks with fuel, ammunition and fresh personnel were rarely arranged, so that after a single engagement units were often useless and had to be abandoned, if not already destroyed. Sheer numbers could not compensate for poor organisation, and the highly trained and efficient Wehrmacht divisions were about to give the Soviet army a run for its money.
Late on 21 June 1941, a directive was issued to bring all Soviet troops in the border areas up to combat readiness. The order reached the troops in the early hours of 22 June and it took two hours to mobilise everyone. Most Soviet units were not in place by the time the German invasion started.
Operation Barbarossa began with the bombing of major cities in Soviet-occupied Poland, coinciding with an artillery barrage against Russian defences along the entire front. Air-raids struck targets near Leningrad, Bessarabia and the Crimea. Around three million Germans marched into Russia, accompanied by Finnish and Romanian units comprised of dissidents who did not like being occupied by the Russians.
Back in Germany, the radios revealed this exciting development to an aghast public. Hitler was at it again! Conquering the world one country at a time! It seemed that the Nazi war machine was unstoppable and, thank goodness, he was at last dealing with that nasty Bolshevik problem. That had been a worry.
In Russia the population had to wait until noon for news that their country had been invaded. Frightened, tearful citizens gathered at their radios to hear the Soviet foreign minister explaining what had occurred and encouraging the people to rally together…
“…the whole nation will wage a victorious Patriotic War for our beloved country, for honour, for liberty…”
People sobbed and wondered what would become of them. Others resolved themselves to fight back no matter what. Many more carried on their daily business, unsure what this invasion might mean to them, but only able to wait it out and see.
The first wave of the invasion caught Stalin’s troops on the wrong foot. German air and ground attacks completely wiped out the Soviet organisational command and control within the first few hours, destroying the Russian’s ability to send orders, mobilise more troops and even to report back to the Soviet High Command. Stalin was stunned, but also incapable of grasping the severity of the situation. Instead he issued more directives, ordering greater and more determined attacks, threatening retribution to commanders who failed to obey. He did not realise that he was ordering the impractical and that already the opening stages of the invasion had gone in Germany’s favour.
The Luftwaffe were taking a heavy toll on the Russian airfields. Delayed responses by the defenders, largely because Stalin had ordered that no one should open fire on enemy aircraft until the invasion had begun, meant that it was easy for the German bombers to destroy their targets. Nearly four thousand Soviet aircraft were lost in the first three days of the invasion. In contrast, the Luftwaffe lost only 78 planes.
Stalin had stayed his hand, partly because of an erroneous belief that Hitler had not endorsed the invasion. Anyone who could see the mass of troops on the border would surely have realised that no such large-scale deployment could have happened without Hitler’s consent. But Stalin was removed from the front line and he was not listening to the ‘doom and gloom’ crowd. He disbelieved reports, he disbelieved the numbers, he disbelieved everything, and it was several days before he realised the enormity of what had occurred.
Hitler had authorised the invasion of Russia. He had turned on his ally and, despite Stalin’s confidence in his superior numbers, the Germans had burst through the borders and were already sweeping across the country. There was going to be no easy victory, instead the Russians were being pushed back or scattered; their command units were destroyed, there was no organisation, no supply train. Chaos was erupting all around and Stalin was at the centre of it all trying to comprehend what had just happened. How had this all occurred?
The tide of war had shifted once again. The invasion of Russia would change the course of the conflict, but in those early days no one was quite sure how. In Britain eyes turned east and possible outcomes were mulled over, possible advantages to be gained too. In Occupied France the face of Resistance was about to change, as the Communists were no longer tied by the apparent friendship between their ideological leaders and the Nazis.
Everything changed that morning in June 1941. And only time would tell who would be the winners and who would be the losers in this new game of war.
Gestapo Headquarters, Paris, France. 7pm
The man simply would not talk. Lutz had been patient. He had asked many questions, trying to get to the information he needed in a round-about fashion. Nothing had worked. He had shown the man the letter which implicated him in the plot, he pointed out that his papers were suspect, he even paraded into the room an associate of the man’s who was prepared to say the fellow had orchestrated the whole thing. And still the man denied all knowledge. He refused to admit he was a Communist and that he had been involved in a plot to derail troop trains leaving Paris.
Lutz gave a sigh and took a pause from the interrogation, stepping outside the small room he was using as an office to get a breath of figurative, rather than literal, fresh air.
A little over a month ago he had been a member of the ground crew at a Luftwaffe airbase. It happened to be the airbase where Rudolf Hess, the former Deputy Fuhrer, had kept his personal aeroplane. It was also the place he had flown from on his bizarre mission to Britain, which had caused such a scandal in the Nazi world. None of which was Lutz’s fault, nor the events that followed, but he had been caught up in it all and tossed about like he was in some terrible fairground ride, unable to know what was up and what was down – what was right from what was wrong. And in that terrible time of chaos and emotion, there had seemed only one logical route out; to join the Gestapo.
Not that that had been easy. He had used all his persuasive abilities and made a lot of promises. He was wondering now if he had made false promises, because Lutz was discovering that his people skills were not really up to the job. Over the past few weeks he had interviewed a number of suspect subversives and he had often felt out-witted, to put things bluntly. Maybe it was the way he took everything people said literally, but sometimes he failed to realise when he was being lied to, or worse, teased. He had seen the faces on some of the guards who stood around when he conducted his interviews. Their expressions had not been nice. Lutz was starting to feel that he was not cut out for this job and even that was hardly a new sensation. He had never felt cut out for any job.
He ran his hand through his hair. Only twenty-three, shorter than average and with a face that did not attract a second-look from casual observers, Lutz had never felt special or important. He had always been the outsider, the one people ignored, pointedly. Sometimes he said the wrong things, more often he did the wrong things, like reacting inappropriately to a comment someone made. The problem was he never really understood when people were being serious or sarcastic. He had been known to take a joke as a statement of fact, and an emotional confession as a piece of comedy. Lutz was sure this was not really his fault. Everyone else ought to be more obvious with their speech, instead of all this innuendo and joke-not-joke thing that they did.
The trouble was that the world was never going to change and Lutz was stuck being Lutz. Now it seemed the job he had pushed to get, the job he had thought would bring him security and sanctuary, was going to prove too hard for him. He could hear what his superiors would say already, “poor Lutz, not much of a brain in there. Tries hard, but just doesn’t have what we want.”
Lutz felt almost tearful at the realisation. He had thought joining the Gestapo would be a way out of his horrid life. He had felt so proud when the news was announced and those who had formally bullied him at the airfield had fawned over him, not wanting to get on his bad side – or rather, his boss’ bad side. This was power and for Lutz, who had never been powerful in his life, it was extraordinary. He liked the feeling. He liked knowing he was helping to keep the Fuhrer safe by hunting out dissidents and the corrupt. Lutz believed in Hitler, rather like he was some demi-god sent down to walk among them. He did not question anything he did, if Hitler endorsed something, then that was good enough for Lutz.
Hitler said the Jews were corrupt and destroying Germany. Lutz nodded and agreed with him – yes, that made sense. Hitler said that the Russians had been plotting to invade Germany and so he had struck first. Lutz gasped to hear their ally had been so wicked, then made a note in his diary to burn the set of Russian dolls he had just bought his mother for her birthday. When he had been told they had to clamp down on the Communist threat within France, he had clicked his heels, saluted and promised to do his best.
He knew some of his comrades had been a little put out by his enthusiasm, but his superior, Herr Ribbonkoff, had just smiled and said loud enough for everyone to hear that they ought to admire Lutz’s zeal. A man like Lutz, zealous to the last, was an asset to the Gestapo, didn’t everyone think so? And then everyone had started agreeing and patting Lutz on the back. Because no one questioned Herr Ribbonkoff. Lutz had learned that quite quickly and with some surprise, because the man seemed perfectly pleasant to him. But, apparently, others feared him, even within the Gestapo. That Herr Ribbonkoff had taken Lutz under his wing accorded the lesser man instant respect, though Lutz had heard people murmuring in bafflement as to why Ribbonkoff would encourage such a stupid man.
Now Lutz was failing the trust Ribbonkoff had placed in him and he felt not only ashamed, but frightened. What would happen to him if the Gestapo kicked him out? He could not go back to the airbase with his tail between his legs, he would rather die.
Lutz hurried to the bathroom, needing to splash water on his face and mask the fact that tears were trickling down his cheeks. This was his last chance, he knew that. If the Gestapo had no use for him, then it was all over. He would go to the nearest bridge in Paris and throw himself off. His chest hurt with the desperate emotion. He just wanted to be accepted, that was all. Stubborn men like the one in his office were making that impossible. Why did they have to be so difficult? He asked his questions so politely and he was never, ever rude. Yet he knew the guards were laughing at him, and so it seemed were the people he was interrogating. What was he doing wrong?
Lutz was leaning on the edge of the sink, trying to control the pain in his chest which was threatening to blow up into a full-scale panic attack, when the door swung open and Theodore Ribbonkoff waltzed in. Ribbonkoff was everything Lutz was not; tall, self-confident and with striking features. He had a glass eye, and the vivid scar across his cheek from when he lost his real eye had caused much talk. Everyone had a theory as to how the orb had been lost. Its replacement was a shade paler than Ribbonkoff’s natural eye colour, which made it all the more striking. Ribbonkoff had been known to take it out during meetings and set it on his desk, where it seemed to watch people. He said it was because his eye socket became sore, and Lutz believed him. Others did not and detested that glass eye like it was a separate creature, a sort of pet.
“Good evening Lutz,” Ribbonkoff walked over to a sink and started to wash his hands, humming to himself. The water ran red for a few moments. “How goes the investigation of Monsieur Fillip?”
Lutz didn’t mean to grimace, but his emotions tended to catch him out.
“He refuses to admit being a Communist or playing any part in the train plot.”
“Hmm? And you have questioned him thoroughly.
“Absolutely,” Lutz hung his head. “I have tried from every angle I could think of. I have been at him all afternoon.”
Lutz expected Ribbonkoff to be angry with him, instead the older man smiled.
“I like your thoroughness Lutz,” he said. “And your persistence. I have been watching you work and I can see that you pay attention and listen to every detail revealed. Like, for instance, how you realised that woman we brought in the other day was a dancer.”
“It was the way she held herself, and when she slipped off her shoes her toes were misshapen. But my observation did not help us prove she was working for the Resistance.”
“Did it not, Lutz?” Ribbonkoff had a twinkle in his eye. “Because of your observation I realised she must be a certain agent of the Resistance we had been seeking out for some time. Once I knew her identity, I knew her weaknesses, including that she had a young daughter in the care of her mother. You find a person’s weakness, Lutz, and then they will talk. Always they will talk.”
“I’m glad I could help, sometimes I fear I am not as good as the other interrogators,” Lutz took very little pride in his achievement with the dancer. His observation might have helped Ribbonkoff, but he had not been able to prise any information from the woman. He recalled she had made a joke about his manhood and he had thought she was asking him a serious question. The guards had sniggered.
“You are despondent, Lutz, you should not be,” Ribbonkoff said mildly. “A person’s weakness need not be hard to find. It is all about pressure in the right places.”
Ribbonkoff flicked water off his hands and reached out for a towel to dry them.
“I prefer to look for some form of persuasion to begin with, a compromise, for instance. Perhaps the person has an elderly relative they care for, and you can remind them that being in the hands of the Gestapo makes that impossible. You might have them think about what could happen to that loved one if they were not around,” Ribbonkoff handed Lutz the towel to dry his face. “If subtle persuasion does not work, you can always suggest that we arrest their loved one too and ask them for information instead.”
“Can we do that?” Lutz frowned.
“When you are rooting out evil, you can do anything,” Ribbonkoff told him, his voice insistent. “We are the keepers of law and order around here. Think of what this world would be like without our guiding hand. If we had not intercepted the plotters of the train bombing, how many innocent German soldiers would have died unnecessarily? Think of that Lutz. We have to be hard to protect ourselves. These people are ruthless and stop at nothing.
“Why, I heard only the other day of a Resistance group who have taken to kidnapping soldiers on leave and torturing them. Gouging out their eyes, castrating them, maiming them. These are the people we are up against.”
Lutz felt a little sick at the information. He had a very vivid imagination and it was not hard for him to transpose the idea of an anonymous soldier being tortured onto himself.
“We have to fight fire with fire, Lutz. That is the awful truth of the matter. These people turn us into thugs out of necessity,” Ribbonkoff studied one of his hands, the knuckles were bruised. “I do not inflict punishments on others with an easy heart. I would much rather there be no need for the Gestapo, but people feel they must rebel even against as upstanding an ideology as our own, and what are we to do?”
“Yes,” Lutz nodded sadly.
“You know for yourself, after your experiences at the hands of your enemies, that sometimes the only way to reason with these people is with violence,” Ribbonkoff looked at him sympathetically. “You were only doing your duty, were you not Lutz? And look how they treated you.”
Lutz gulped. He was trying to forget that.
“These are violent men, and women, they only know one language, so you must learn that language Lutz. After all, if they will not respond to niceties, what else can you do?”
Lutz had no answer, it was the very reason he was standing in the bathroom feeling sorry for himself.
“Let me show you something Lutz,” Ribbonkoff motioned for him to follow.
They left the bathroom and climbed up two floors. The headquarters was in a townhouse and the walls were still adorned with beautiful ornamentation and paintings. They headed down a corridor and Ribbonkoff opened a door onto a large bathroom. The floor was tiled in a Persian design and the walls were a duck-egg blue with gold decoration. In the centre was an enamel bath tub with gold taps and large lion-feet.
“There are ways to make a man talk without punching him, Lutz. Ways that a man like you could stomach. I know you are not the sort for violence,” Ribbonkoff smiled at him nicely, indicating that was not an insult, merely an assessment. He started to run water into the bath tub. “There are more ways to make a man talk than you realise. I shall show you, because I want you to succeed Lutz, I see your potential.”
“Thank you,” Lutz said meekly, his eyes fixed on the water running into the tub. “I am very willing to learn.”
“That is what I like about you Lutz, you are always willing,” Ribbonkoff slapped his shoulder. “It hurts me to think that those fools downstairs do not see what I see. If only they would just talk to you, imagine the difference it would make? I know, if they did, that you would absorb so much detail. You are good at details, Lutz.”
Lutz felt a little better, he even blushed a little under Ribbonkoff’s praise.
“I want to help you. I don’t like to think these people are defying you,” Ribbonkoff ran his hand under the tap water and seemed satisfied with the temperature. “My late brother devised this little trick, you know. Or rather, he heard of it from someone and perfected it. I have known it to make even the most stoic man talk and it does not cause lasting harm, which I believe is important.”
“Yes,” Lutz said, a touch anxious now, but also slightly excited.
Ribbonkoff turned off the tap.
“Go fetch your prisoner Lutz,” his eyes twinkled. “Time for another lesson.”
SOE Headquarters, London, England. 10.30am
Charlotte sat opposite Vera Atkins. At first glance the two women could appear polar opposites. Vera was older, handsome rather than beautiful, very formal in an extremely English way – as if she was making up for something, for she was more conservative in her dress than many of her colleagues. Charlotte was far younger – not yet nineteen – and wore her clothes with rather more flamboyance. The men in the offices at SOE, who occasionally bumped into Charlotte as she went to appointments with Vera, would give each other knowing looks – you could tell she was French, or rather, half-French, the English-half of her heritage imparting a certain degree of restraint.
But nothing masked the fact she was beautiful, even with the faint strain lines around her eyes and lips, even when her expression was one of utter seriousness. Charlotte glowed with an aura hard to define, the sort of thing no painting or photograph could ever capture. Her aloofness to everyone around her only added to her charm. She was the mysterious beauty who all the men were determined to get to smile at them, if only so they could see her truly radiant.
These days Charlotte smiled for few people, and the one person who could make her utterly happy was far away and she had not heard from him for several weeks. Not that that was unusual; this was war and they were both involved in secret business. Still, silence made her anxious.
Vera spread her hands on the desk between them, on top of a brown cardboard file. Miss Atkins, you always addressed her politely, if you knew what was good for you. No familiarity. No flirting. She was starched from the bone outwards, or so her male colleagues said. She had few female colleagues and they found her hard, unapproachable and suspected her guarded nature masked a past she would rather not be known. She operated as the assistant to the section head Colonel Maurice Buckmaster and was a worthy intelligence agent in her own right. She was responsible (though not solely) for the recruitment and deployment of agents into France. Her speciality was all the minutiae of a secret identity; the papers, the clothes and the pay. She took especial interest in Charlotte, for she was the first of what Vera hoped would be many women agents.
Now she folded her hands together, interlocking her fingers to form a tight ball. And rested her elbows on the desk, leaning forward a fraction in the process. Her face could seem stern, her lips thin and often pursed together, her hair combed up and back, as was fashionable for women serving in a military capacity. Though even here Vera seemed to take things even further, her hair so pulled back that it lacked any feminine charm that most servicewomen attempted to soften the look. Vera could almost appear masculine, and the plain skirt suits she wore only added to the sense of a woman trying too hard to be a man.
Yet her eyes blazed with passion and fire. Charlotte saw the same fervour in Vera that she felt in herself. It was why she trusted her, even if she could not say whether she liked her or not. She did not know enough about Vera to form an opinion about her personally, but professionally she felt she was reliable.
Well, as reliable as anyone was these days.
“Are you well rested?” Vera asked. In someone else it would have been a friendly conversation starter. With Vera it felt like an accusation, as if Charlotte would be in trouble if she denied it.
“I am,” Charlotte confirmed carefully. “I feel I have been back in England a long time.”
It was her turn for a polite accusation; suggesting she had been side-lined after her first mission which had turned into a debacle when one of her team betrayed their operation to the Germans. Charlotte had watched the weeks go by in her father’s house in London, waiting for some hint that she would be trusted to go on a mission again. She had been beginning to think SOE had decided to quietly forget about her, pretend she never existed. She had become defensive, snapping at her reflection in the mirror when no one else was around – it was not her fault Victor had been a cold-hearted traitor, she argued with herself. So why were they not giving her another mission?
And then she had been summoned by Vera.
“War is never as fast moving as people imagine it will be,” Vera said, choosing to ignore the implication in Charlotte’s words. “We have been waiting for the right mission for you. One that will suit your talents rather than mask them. I assume you still want to work for us?”
The ball had been squarely slammed back into Charlotte’s section of the court. She didn’t hesitate.
“Naturally. One unfortunate incident will not change my mind.”
“Good,” Vera flattened her hands on the cardboard folder again. “We are aware of a Resistance network in Rouen which is proving very reliable. They have been sending useful and informative messages to us, intermittently, for a while. However, it has been a very haphazard process and we only have a limited ability to contact them back. Therefore, we wish to send in a fully trained wireless operator to liaise with this group and provide a link between us and them. I need not explain how vitally important such a role could be. We want to be able to utilise these people in Rouen, coordinating Resistance operations that will serve a wider role than just occasionally stinging the backsides of the Nazis.”
Charlotte frowned.
“Rouen? Do you mean Josef Bierstein?”
Vera smiled.
“You are, of course, already familiar with the leader of the Rouen Resistance.”
“I should be,” Charlotte almost laughed at the obviousness of the remark. “He helped save my life and got me to England in the first place.”
“Then you would be willing to assist him?”
“Absolutely,” Charlotte did not even hesitate. “Whatever I can do to help Josef I will.”
Vera nodded and now she pushed the folder across to Charlotte.
“A new identity. Learn it off by heart. Josef will know the truth, but to everyone else in his organisation you will now be Betany Juhtt. You are a former dancer and singer on the Parisian stage, who has sought to leave the hubbub of the city for Rouen to wait out the war. You do sing, do you not?”
Charlotte opened her mouth and then grimaced.
“We used to do amateur dramatics at school,” she confessed.
“You listed singing as one of your skills on our recruitment form.”
“I believe I described myself as musical, which is slightly different,” Charlotte countered a fraction crossly. She had not sought to be modest on her recruitment form, which had asked her to list all the skills she was capable of, even if only at a basic level. She had been honest, however. “I noted that I had sung in my school choir.”
“Then you sing,” Vera shrugged her shoulders, indicating that was that. “In any case, you will not be required to perform. You will be living a quiet, secluded life avoiding contact with anyone. You see, you married a German musician just before the war and he left you to go serve his country. This will hopefully provide entry into the local community, as an abandoned wife, damn the Germans, etc, etc. While also giving you a shield against enquiring Germans. You will have a toe in both camps.”
“Delightful,” Charlotte muttered sarcastically. Vera did not react.
“We have primed Josef for receiving a wireless operative, but have not indicated your name. I don’t need to tell you about being cautious and that traitors can stalk anywhere. Recent experience has demonstrated that to you.”
“Somewhat,” Charlotte sighed.
She opened the folder and glimpsed over her new identity. It was like reading about a stranger, and yet also knowing that this stranger was about to become you. She picked up a couple of loose photographs that were sitting in the file.
“Your husband,” Vera explained. “Actually one of our male staff members here. We had the pictures posed. Please carry them with you for a while before the mission to wear them in. A crumpled edge or two never hurts.”
Charlotte picked up the pictures and examined the man in them, imagining herself passionately in love with him and then distraught by his abandonment. She would need to work at the feelings to make them automatic and seemingly genuine.
“Is he dead or alive?” Charlotte asked, referring to the fictional husband and not the actual man in the photograph.
“You don’t know,” Vera said, understanding the question. “You have not heard from him since the occupation of Paris, and you probably no longer want to hear from him.”
“Bit of a bastard, then?”
Vera’s lips twitched. She was used to swearing from the male staff, but she expected a higher level of self-control from the women.
“That is for you to decide. Don’t make a meal out of it,” Vera pulled back from the desk, a clear signal the meeting was at an end. “We hope for a full moon shortly, if this cloudy weather lets up, of course. Then you will be dropped in. Parachutes again.”
“Naturally,” Charlotte was not surprised.
“Expect to be summoned in a couple of days or so. You are going alone, you might be pleased to hear.”
Charlotte did not answer that, though she was secretly pleased. Her last mission comrades had been very uninspiring.
“We will sort out the packing, as usual. You still have your outfit from the last mission?”
“I do.”
“Wear that for the jump, and we will provide a suitcase with the rest. I suppose I ought to remind you how dangerous this has the potential to be. The Nazis are already attuned to this Resistance group which is proving quite the thorn in their side. They want it shut down, sooner rather than later. You might not be dropping into Paris, but that does not mean you are not dropping into considerable danger.”
“I’ll cope,” Charlotte said, the words blunt only because she did not want anyone thinking she had lost her nerve. She didn’t want to be tarred with the same brush as Victor, the man who had betrayed them all. His nerve had broken, or at least that was his excuse for selling them out to the Germans.
“Good. I won’t delay you longer, just be ready when we call,” Vera concluded this statement by opening a drawer in her desk and retrieving some paperwork.
Charlotte knew the interview was at an end and rose. She took her new identity in its cardboard folder, holding it almost tentatively. There was a magic to this process of becoming someone else; it was like a cloak you wore to veil yourself from reality. The magic was fragile but magic all the same. She walked to the door, pausing before she left.
“Is there any news on my father?” She asked softly.
“If there was you would have been told,” Vera did not look up. Her disinterest was cutting.
Charlotte sensed that Vera was not keen on her agent’s attachment to the past and to a father who had disappeared without warning. Maybe that was cause for concern – historic attachments generally were – but Charlotte had only agreed to join SOE under the arrangement that the intelligence organisation would do what it could to locate her father.
Oh, probably she would have joined anyway, because she wanted to do her patriotic duty. But they didn’t need to know that. Though, she had a hunch Vera guessed.
“It’s been several months,” Charlotte said slightly bitterly, her head turned away towards the door.
She heard Vera move in her chair.
“Intelligence work takes time and your father has been elusive. Now is not the time to fret about him, you have a mission to attend to. Unless you do not feel up to it?”
Charlotte was duly chastened.
“I just thought I best ask,” she corrected herself. “I will be ready when I am summoned.”
She left the office quickly, before her face could redden into a blush. Vera had stabbed her where it hurt, questioning her commitment to this work and to serving France. She was ashamed that the question had even been asked and even more ashamed that she had instigated it. The truth was she did fret occasionally about her father, or rather she mulled over everything with irresistible curiosity. Where was he? What was he doing? Did he think of her?
Never mind. Vera was right, there were more important things to concern herself with. She took a breath and composed herself, before marching down the corridor, ignoring anyone who passed her and heading back for home.
She had a task to attend to – for a start, she ought to learn to dance.
Greenman Cafe, London, England. 7pm.
“Nothing else for it,” Major Reynolds spoke solemnly. “You nearly killed a man.”
Klaus sat stony-faced. He did not regret his actions.
“It’s all been agreed. You would not believe the negotiations behind all this,” Reynolds let out a sigh. He was in his thirties, with dark hair that was beginning to show signs of grey. He was putting this down to the stress of war work. Stress which the gentleman he now sat next to, drinking tea, was increasing by the day. “The fellow you pounded within an inch of his life has finally recovered enough to be brought down to London to give evidence. You will need to be questioned and the whole thing dealt with as a military tribunal. I did try to spin things out and avoid the whole problem, but to no avail.”
“The police have questioned me,” Klaus said solemnly. Tall, blond and well-built, he was a Nazi poster boy if ever you saw one, except his heart rebelled against Hitler and his regime and he served the British instead in the hopes of freeing his country from fascism. “Why must I go to this ‘Cage’?”
“It is just part of the process. The police questioned you in Scotland, yes, but different police, different rules, not the military,” Reynolds took another sip of tea. He had chosen to conduct this interview in a café, rather than at his office, because he was trying to distance SIS from the problem. He was also trying to distance himself. “We have to be careful. The military already thinks SIS are trying to subvert their authority. They don’t trust us and this is a military matter, as it happened in a prisoner of war camp. You humiliated an army officer, remember?”
Klaus had not forgotten, he had just not given it much consideration.
“Anyway, this is how it works. Now the fellow is well enough he is being transferred to the London Cage. Ignore the name, it is just a holding area for interrogating prisoners of war. Usually only high-ranking Nazis, or those with useful information are sent there to be questioned before being moved on. On this occasion, the military want you and the man you assaulted sent to the Cage for questioning before it all gets taken to a military court.”
Klaus was not impressed. He had spent the last few weeks under strict house arrest. Every time he had protested, pointing out that he could be doing something useful for the war effort, Reynolds had bluntly reminded him that if Franz Herne died – the man who had nearly killed Klaus’ friend – then Klaus would be on trial for murder. And Britain still employed the death sentence for murderers.
Klaus did not regret his actions. He had been angry, yes, but Herne had deserved the bludgeoning for the cruelty he had inflicted on an innocent man. Klaus could not feel remorse, even though a part of him repeatedly told him he should. He warned himself that this was how his uncles behaved, apparently oblivious to their crimes. He was too furious to listen to heed his own warning. Too many hours spent alone in his small flat, mulling over what had happened and getting more and more angry. The anger should have been directed at himself, he knew that, instead he directed it at Franz Herne who had led him down this path. His hatred for the man he barely knew was quite extraordinary and, had he the opportunity again, he doubted he would be stopped from killing him. The vile anger churned within. He knew it was a bad thing and yet he indulged it.
“Klaus,” Reynolds snapped at him to bring him out of his torpor. “You need to wake up to this, man! The military has less care for what you did to that Nazi, than how you disrupted one of their camps and showed up one of their officers. The London Cage is a compromise. SIS but with a military leaning. They will accept whatever is found out there and present it to a military court. Try and show some remorse when you are questioned, if you are capable of it.”
Reynolds groaned.
“I allowed you free rein, and this is what happens,” he flew out his hands, as if he was indicating the table upon which their mugs of tea sat. Klaus knew he was not.
“I am sorry for that,” Klaus said, somewhat subdued. “It will not happen again.”
“You may not get a chance to redeem yourself,” Reynolds said sinisterly. “The military will want revenge and a prison sentence.”
Klaus’ eyes flashed with outrage. Though blue they could sometimes burn so darkly they appeared almost black. Reynolds occasionally wanted to shudder when he saw those eyes.
“I have work to do,” Klaus snarled. “I cannot be locked in a prison!”
“Then you should not have nearly beat a man to death,” Reynolds snapped back. “At least not in England. In France you would have had leeway, even more in Germany. Crikey man, do you not understand the enormity of what you did? We bend the rules for no one here.”
Klaus doubted that, but he kept his mouth shut. His only hope was that his importance to SIS and the wider war effort would outstrip his crimes. The man had not died, after all. Though he had come close. There had been complications from the incident; swelling on the brain and fears of a broken rib puncturing a lung. There had been a week when Franz’s life hung in the balance, but he was a tough Nazi dog and he did not die easily.
“I will do my best for you,” Reynolds tried to calm him, seeing the German’s fury growing once again. “Colonel Scotland is one of us, after all.”
“I thought he was military?” Klaus frowned.
“He was in the First War, until he was seconded to intelligence. He was very influential in our interrogation tactics and intelligence gathering during the last conflict. Then he was retired, before everything went pear-shaped again and he was asked to come back,” Reynolds paused. “He is a little odd. It would do to get on his good side, however.”
Klaus did not groan this time, he just nodded.
“I am going to make sure you have a first-class lawyer at your side. I know a chap who is a barrister in civilian life and signed up for military duty. The army keeps him busy with matters like this rather than fighting. They know the usefulness of a good lawyer as well as the rest of us. Anyway, I am going to have a word and see if he will mount your defence.”
“Does he mind Germans?” Klaus asked, knowing his nationality went heavily against him.
“I don’t think he minds anyone,” Reynolds replied, helping himself to more tea. “He defended the worst of the worst before the war and did a pretty good job too. We must make sure we have a top man on your side, one who can impress on the authorities that you are not a Nazi and that is why you behaved as you did. Only by proving you are not just another of Hitler’s thugs and hold yourself to a higher standard, can we hope to get a favourable outcome.”
Reynolds stopped for a moment, the tiny metal milk jug poised over his mug.
“You do hold yourself to a higher standard?”
Klaus looked grim.
“Always.”
“Then start looking more like it. Wouldn’t hurt for you to begin by showing some compassion for your victim.”
Klaus huffed.
“Do that in court and you are doomed,” Reynolds told him sourly. “You are a secret agent, man, you are supposed to be good at masking your real emotions.”
The German lowered his head, duly abashed.
“Look, it is in my best interest to get this out of the way and you back working for us,” Reynolds consoled him. “You are one of my top agents, currently at least.”
When Klaus glanced up at this mild criticism, Reynolds grinned at him.
“I am pulling out all the stops for you.”
Klaus frowned, not understanding the phrase.
“Means I will do everything in my power to keep you out of prison,” Reynolds explained. “I have no love loss for this man you attacked, though I would appreciate a little more restraint in future.”
“It was a bad lapse,” Klaus admitted. “My emotions overwhelmed me.”
“And that is an aspect we are going to press heavily in court. You had seen a friend close to death because of this man and, considering all you have been through, it pushed you over the edge. I think any man, especially a military one, must be able to understand how a war tests our nerves to the limit and it takes one thing to snap them,” Reynolds paused. “Franz Herne is unlikely to make friends in court either. I am reliably told that he is upholding the Nazi creed to the letter. Even in the hospital, when he was recovered enough, he refused to be treated by a doctor he thought was Jewish.”
Klaus raised an eyebrow. That was extreme even for ardent Nazis. Most were happy enough to accept assistance from a Jew, as long as the next day they could repair their damaged principals by sending that same Jew to a concentration camp.
“He doesn’t have a good word for Colonel Winters, either. Apparently he considered the camp commandant a fool and a sycophant. He is going to use his time in court to spout all his prejudices and phoney ideals. He won’t make himself popular.”
Klaus was tired of thinking about it all. There was no point mulling over what could not be changed or controlled. He had accepted his fate the minute his temper had died down and he had realised what he had done.
“When do I go to the Cage?” He asked, deciding he was fed up with this conversation.
“Herne is expected to arrive tomorrow. I imagine that once he is there, they will ask for you. A car will be sent over.”
Klaus nodded.
“So be it,” he said solemnly.
Major Reynolds gave him a long look, before he sighed. There really was no winning over the German.
“It’s not the end of the world yet,” he reminded him. “Try to remain hopeful, or, if you can’t do that, develop a stiff upper lip and lose the German morbidity. People find it depressing.”
Klaus snorted, but this time there was just a hint of humour to the noise. Major Reynolds smiled as he drained his tea.
“Get this over and done with and we can go back to winning this war,” he said merrily. “As I always say, do try to have a little faith in me.”
Klaus had no response for that.
Rouen, France. 10.01pm
Hogan put down the flimsy newspaper and scowled at it. The thing was barely four pages; one large sheet of paper had been folded in half to give the impression of something more than a leaflet. The paper, itself, was so thin and inferior that the words from one side were visible on the reverse and made reading the text time consuming. Hogan had never seen such a cheap piece of printing in his life, certainly not when he was at home in America. Even his school paper was printed on better stock.
Josef wandered into the kitchen. The room was just below the level of the ground, with the windows near the ceiling and covered with sturdy shutters. It was the only place in the chateau that it was safe to have an oil lamp lit, as the light did not pervade past the shutters and reveal that this abandoned building was really inhabited. Josef was after some cheese and bread, staples for everyone in the chateau since lighting the oven was banned. Smoke emerging from a chimney would be too clear a signal to the Germans that someone was here.
The older man, and head of Rouen’s Resistance, wandered into the large pantry just off the kitchen and returned a moment later with the scrag-end of a loaf of bread and some soft cheese he had had the good fortune to purloin from the black market. Josef was unremarkable, that was his secret to survival; average height, average build, salt and pepper hair and a humble demeanour that did not mark him out. The only thing that went against his mask of complete ordinariness was the fact that he had a very Jewish face. Josef was Jewish, so his looks were no surprise, but they had a tendency to attract attention from the wrong sort of people.
When Hogan had first met Josef it had been in the basement of the Rouen Gestapo headquarters. He was a prisoner, having played his American dough-boy card too far; all his rants and criticisms of the Nazi regime, which he had freely enough spouted, had finally overshadowed the fact he was from a neutral nation. Maybe the high-up Nazi politicians would not like to think that an American from an influential family had been arrested by the Gestapo, but the men working in Rouen went on the premise that what the higher-ups didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt them. Berlin, after all, was a long way from Rouen, and America was even further away.
Hogan had been lucky that Josef had considered him important enough to try and save. As much as it would be a noble thing to aim to rescue everyone who was taken by the Gestapo, the truth was that it was impossible and would put the Resistance at terrible risk if they tried to do so too often. They had to make the pragmatic decision of only saving those who either had information too valuable to let into Nazi hands or who could serve a purpose. It was a cruel practicality and no one much liked it, but it was the way things were. Hogan was just grateful that Josef had thought he could be of use to the Resistance. He was there to record everything he saw and, ultimately, to send his stories back to America to shift the yanks out of their quiet stance of neutrality. Josef believed, and was most likely right, that the great American public would only accept the truth of the situation in France from a fellow countryman. They had heard enough from the French themselves and could write it off as exaggeration. It was harder to ignore the words of one of their own.
Josef sat at the table opposite Hogan and began to break the bread into chunks and smear it with cheese. He paused after a moment and motioned to Hogan, a gesture offering him a portion. Hogan shook his head. He had eaten enough bread and cheese to last a lifetime. The French were obsessed with cheese, it seemed to be more important to them than the war. Everyone was worrying about where the next lot of cheese would come from and whether the brie producers or those making Camenbert would be able to carry on under the conditions of war. Would there be a shortage of good cheese? The horror apparently gave them more nightmares than any of the Nazi atrocity stories that circulated. Hogan had begun to think that if the Nazis really wanted to hurt the French they should ban cheese and wine.
Secretly, Hogan hankered for a good sausage. He would even eat the German sort, after all, he was not against a Frankfurter. He felt he needed more meat in his diet. A good steak wouldn’t go amiss either.
Well, as sacrifices of war went, this was not the worst the young journalist had faced. After all, he had come to France to see first-hand what was happening here. His plan had been to write frank articles on the conditions and to sell them to one of the great American papers. If Hogan was honest with himself, he had hoped to make his name in the process. This was the sort of opportunity journalists dreamt of – a war in Europe to observe and commentate on was the sort of thing that you could make your mark with. Hogan’s father had wanted him to go into politics, here was his chance to prove he was capable of something else, something which he felt was just as important. And all that had really happened was that he had written a handful of articles decrying the Nazi regime and ended up being arrested.
He hadn’t sent an article to the States since. He had not had the opportunity. Which made the flimsy rag in his hands all the more obnoxious to him.
“What is it?” Josef asked.
Hogan glanced up, he had not realised his expression had been so readable, but Josef was astute and was looking at him curiously.
“It upsets you,” Josef added.
“The French Communists have started up their own paper,” Hogan explained. “It is full of Russian propaganda, naturally, and very little in the way of actual news.”
“The Communists have awaited this moment,” Josef said softly. “Many of them were not happy at being meek sheep around the Nazis, especially when they were arrested and executed as readily as Jews. So now they have their own underground paper? It’s about time.”
“You do not seem concerned?” Hogan’s fingers tightened on the paper and he could feel it crumple.
“Why should I be?” Josef asked, the question not rhetorical, but genuine.
“The Communists only speak their version of the truth, and they have their own political agenda. To leave this… thing, as the only source of news for the people of France would be criminal,” Hogan threw the paper on the table. “It is poor journalism, at the very least, makes me cringe to read it. Have you read it?”
“I brought it here,” Josef said with a faint smile. “One of my contacts on the black market is a Communist. He gave it to me. You know, the Communists are very organised and very good at subterfuge, they have had years of practice. They were persecuted before the Nazis ever came to France and had to learn how to protect themselves. They are masters of the art by now, far advanced of us amateurs just getting started. They are also ruthless and prepared to take a great deal of risk.”
“You admire them, then?” Hogan was aghast.
Josef hefted his shoulders in a shrug.
“I respect them, they could be good allies.”
“They can’t write a damn article though,” Hogan scowled at the paper. “Never seen so much poor grammar and illiterate dialogue in my life, and I spent a whole six months at a country newspaper office in Texas.”
“I presume that means Texans are not the most talented writers?”
“Well, they are Southerners,” Hogan mumbled, considering himself a Northerner and therefore cleverer and better-educated than those from the Southern states. “Texans write a lot about cattle and the heat. You try writing good prose about cattle, it isn’t easy. No one ever wrote an ode to a cow.”
“Then perhaps they were missing out,” Josef replied, pulling the now badly creased Communist paper towards him to get a better look. “You have a solution to this?”
He pointed a finger at the paper.
“Hell do I!” Hogan growled. “But it isn’t going to happen.”
“Tell me,” Josef paused in the act of smearing cheese onto bread with a knife.
“I could write something far better than this and with much more accurate information. People don’t want politics at a time like this, they want news, real news. They want to hear everything the Nazis won’t tell them. You have seen the German papers that circulate about Rouen. They are full of nonsense, making out that Hitler has conquered the world and is some sort of god. Now, most people are smart enough not to believe it all, but it still dents their will to resist to only ever hear how great the Nazi war machine is and how it has crushed all its opposition.”
“Propaganda is a powerful tool,” Josef nodded. “I learned this in the last war. There were many papers circulating in the trenches, some were filled with stories of German atrocities with the aim of making us angry and to keep fighting. Others were clearly printed by the enemy and slipped into our trenches to create dissidence. It was an uphill battle keeping on top of it all.”
“Then you agree that misinformation is as much a danger to France as any bomb?”
“In terms of morale and the people’s hope, it is a very great danger,” Josef agreed companionably. “But how will we stop it?”
“I don’t know!” Hogan snapped. “If I only had…”
He shook his head, no point thinking about the impossible, he had to focus on what he could achieve and not daydream.
“What were you going to say?” Josef asked softly, his eyes were now fixed on Hogan with an intensity that the American had learned to be wary of. It usually meant Josef was thinking up a plan, probably a risky one.
Hogan wasn’t sure what to say, then he just gave in and spoke his thoughts.
“If I only had my own printing press I could produce a newspaper ten times better than this rag. It would contain all the news people needed to know. The real stuff about Nazi defeats and about Vichy’s dark dealings with the Germans and what the British were up to. That sort of stuff.”
“And no politics?”
“There is always politics,” Hogan admitted reluctantly. “But I would not have an agenda, other than to undermine the Nazi war machine, that is. Not that it matters. I don’t have a printing press.”
Hogan stared venomously at the Communist paper. Clearly they had a printing press and it was just not fair. Especially seeing the rubbish they were using it to print. Josef sighed thoughtfully and that drew Hogan’s attention back to him. Josef was smiling.
“I know where we could get our hands on a printing press,” the Frenchman said.
Hogan started. He slammed his palm down on the table.
“Why have you been holding out on me?” He complained.
“You had not asked for one before. I was not going to risk my men unnecessarily,” Josef rebuked him politely. “This press is not going to be easy to get hold of.”
“Where is it?” Hogan dropped his voice.
“There was a newspaper office in the heart of Rouen. The Nazis shut it down, but there is one of those old printing presses there. The sort that is operated by a handle. It’s an antique, from the time the office first was established. It is also just standing idle in an empty building.”
“You said it would not be easy to get hold of?” Hogan pressed.
Josef smiled again.
“The old office is right next to a café that is a favourite of the Germans. The owner of the café is very friendly to the invaders and his waitresses are very pretty. At any time, day or night, there are German soldiers hanging around the place. I have seen the Gestapo there too. To remove the printing press, we shall have to get past them.”
Hogan paused at this information. He knew Josef well enough to be sure that he would not have even raised this as a possibility if he had not already thought through the operation of reaching the printing press. He just needed to know that Hogan would make good use of it, if the Resistance went to the trouble of retrieving it.
“You get me that press and I will have Rouen flooded with words before the week is out,” he said with certainty.
Josef might have been amused by the statement, which was so full of American self-assurance, but he merely carried on with his cheese.
“Good. I shall make arrangements. But, first of all, we should have a guest arriving soon and that is my priority.”
Hogan’s face fell.
“Do not be disheartened, Monsieur,” Josef told him gently, rising from his seat. “You will have your printing press soon enough.”
Josef deposited his used knife in the sink and quietly left the room. The only sign he had been present were the crumbs on the table and a few fragments of cheese, which the chateau mice would soon deal with.
Hogan realised his heart was suddenly beating fast. He was excited, that was the simple answer. It had been a long period of waiting for him, of being patient and feeling frustrated. He was always on the periphery of the Resistance, as Josef did not want to risk losing him in an operation. He was an observer at all times, but one who could do nothing with his observations and now… at last…
Hogan was already thinking of the articles he would write using all the snippets of information he had collected but been unable to do anything with. He had that flash of premonition again, the one where he saw his name boldly printed in the by-line of an important article in a prestigious paper. This was just the start. From humble acorns, mighty oaks grow.
Ok, so there was also the element of keeping the war effort alive and well in France, and providing the people with optimism and hope, but he could not ignore that whisper of vanity, that hint of fame. When this war was over, he would be the journalist that the others looked to. The one who had actually been in France during the war. Who had operated an underground press and rebelled against the Nazis.
Hogan had to shut his eyes and remind himself of where he was right then and there. His excitement was making him almost queasy. Here, at last, was his moment and he just knew – he really just knew – that this would be the thing that defined him. He could barely contain himself.
Who was this guest who was delaying his moment of glory? They better be important! He had visions of another pretentious and pompous French general or someone political. That was what being ‘important’ seemed to mean over here. He hoped they wouldn’t disrupt his plans for long. Best they just get on with it.
He rose from the table and grabbed up the Communist paper. He crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the old fireplace, which was of course unlit. He would rather there had been a blazing fire so that the flimsy, tissue paper would have incinerated in an instant. Instead, he had to be satisfied with the paper ball bouncing off the back of the hearth bricks and landing in the grate with a reproving flutter. He narrowed his eyes.
“Communists,” he snorted. “Time to show them what it is to be a real writer!”
London, England. 5pm
Charlotte received the phone call while she was in the bath. Vera was on the line, telling her that the weather reports looked promising and that she ought to ready to be collected by car within the hour. Charlotte dried herself off and dressed in the outfit SOE had approved. She went over herself from head to toe, checking for anything on her person that could reveal her for a British agent.
She had arrived in England with just the clothes on her back, and they were not in the best of shape after her flight from France. SOE had provided her with new garments, everything from blouses to underwear. Some of it was genuinely French, sourced from pre-war stock or loaned from refugees who had fled to England. A lot of it was made in Britain and then had fake French labels attached. There was no detail too small to overlook. The Gestapo would certainly not overlook anything. They would check every button, every brass hook, every seam for a hint that the clothes were not made in France. They would check pockets for forgotten receipts or English coins. No stone would be unturned, so SOE had to be one step ahead.
The clothes were a good cut, but a little too formal for Charlotte’s liking. A real connoisseur of French fashion would have found them too starched, too fussy, a sure sign of an English hand at work. But the Germans were not generally very good on French fashions; they could spot an English label, but not the work of an English seamstress.
A black car pulled up outside. It rolled slowly to a halt and it was a moment before the driver appeared and rang the bell on the front door. Charlotte saw him from her upstairs window, where she had been stood impatiently watching, and was ready at the door. If he was surprised by how she opened the door before the bell stopped ringing, he did not show it.
“Miss Guiffre?” He questioned her using one of her codenames.
Charlotte nodded and politely answered ‘oui’. From this moment on she would not speak English, but immerse herself in the language of her father, the language that came as second nature. She was bilingual, switching to English from French and back again without a thought, but that could be a problem too, as sometimes she slipped between the two unconsciously. The last thing Charlotte needed was to accidentally say an English word while in France. It was hard, as being in England necessitated speaking English all the time and it became a habit to use certain words instead of their French equivalent. For the first few days in France she would have to be extremely conscious of her words; a single slip could mean capture and potential death.
They drove to the airstrip in silence. Charlotte had hoped she might practice her French on the driver, but he was not inclined to talk. It was a long trip, leaving behind London and its smoking ruins where bombs had knocked the city about. A quick glimpse might make it appear that Hitler had given the Capital a good pounding, but a closer inspection would reveal it was all surface damage. Beneath the rubble and the leaking water pipes, London’s heart beat as proudly and strongly as ever.
Charlotte hoped that the same could be said for Paris, the city she loved. She hoped Parisian resolve to survive was as great and as defiant as that of Londoners.
As they travelled, the evening pulled in and the landscape was cloaked in darkness. ‘Lights out’ had become habit for the citizens of Britain and, as night drew on, thick curtains were pulled and shutters went up in windows. The world seemed to disappear, as squares of light vanished and houses became black boxes, shut up stoutly to prevent even a chink of a glow slip through. Somewhere a voice cried out;
“Blackout, madam, get those shutters up!”
A policemen or ARP warden would be patrolling and making sure that the English abided by their duty. A cloak was thrown over the country, a fragile protection against the prowling Luftwaffe who might come tonight and drop their explosives. Charlotte thought of her own house, empty now, so there was no one to shine a light by mistake. She wondered if it would still be standing when she returned. She hoped so.
They arrived at the airfield, having very carefully negotiated a number of country lanes with the car’s headlights suitably dimmed. The last dregs of daylight were a glimmer on the horizon, and by them Charlotte could see the outline of wings and the nose of a plane. Until the moon rose the aircraft would disappear into the shadows and be virtually invisible. Her stomach lurched. Despite all the parachute training, and the fact she had already successfully managed one drop into France, she could not help but feel slightly sick at the prospect of doing it again. She knew that, from the moment she climbed into the plane, her life would be hanging in the balance; the slightest error, either her own or someone else’s, could mean the end. It was not a good thought and she wished she could erase it from her mind.
The driver deposited her at the door of a building and she was greeted by Vera. The woman gave her a keen look, clearly assessing whether Charlotte had followed instructions and was only wearing clothes provided by SOE. Her look softened and it seemed that Charlotte had passed the test.
“Come inside, dinner is ready,” Vera ushered her in.
It was custom to make sure agents had a good meal before heading for France. There was usually wine involved and Charlotte detested the practice – not because she did not like a hearty dinner and a good wine, but because her stomach was so churned up by what was to come that it was hard to eat. Anyway, the custom rather felt like giving a condemned man his final supper, and Charlotte wondered if it was SOE’s way of offsetting their guilt at sending people to their potential doom. A lot of agents did not survive their first mission – they were either captured, killed in an accident (such as their transport plane being shot down) or executed by the Nazis – others simply went missing and no one could say what had become of them. It made SOE uneasy, especially when the agent in question was female. Sending people into such danger, when they were never going to go themselves, seemed to unsettle some of the higher-ups in the organisation.
Charlotte would have liked to have explained to Vera that she understood the risks and accepted them without hesitation, but she knew she would not be believed and that Vera, and others, would feel the burden of her departure until the moment she returned. And if she did not… Charlotte never thought of that. Charlotte did not allow doubts about whether she would return fill her mind. They might occasionally pop into her head, but she banished them as rapidly as possible. Her survival was her ultimate goal and she would not let slippery thoughts threaten that.
“We expect departure at nine o’clock,” Vera said. “The weather reports look extremely good.”
By that she meant there was no cloud cover or stormy weather predicted. SOE employed various transport planes, but mainly Lysanders, which were small, nimble craft best suited to avoiding German anti-aircraft guns. Even better, they could land and take-off on a sixpence, which was essential when they sometimes had to set down on rudimentary runways hastily marked out on fields. Not that Charlotte would get the luxury of a landing on French soil. It was still preferable to have agents drop by parachute, the Lysander belching its human load and then turning back for home.
They entered a small room at the back of the building and Charlotte saw that a table was set for a meal for two – herself and Vera. She was alone on this mission, unlike the last. She was starting to feel less happy about that. At least when there were other people with you there was someone to share the nerves and to take your mind off things.
Vera motioned for her to sit.
“We have arranged for the BBC to broadcast a coded message to France, to inform the Rouen Resistance that you will arrive tonight,” Vera explained as she too sat down. “We have been making contact with the group as best we can for a while. It will be so much better when you are with them and can regularly send back messages.”
Charlotte found she was too nervous to say anything. She just nodded.
The meal was typically English; roast beef and potatoes, followed by a suet pudding and custard that Charlotte found largely inedible. She ate some of it, nonetheless, not wishing to offend anyone. The English took a lot of proud in their robust national dishes, even when they were not the best thing for an agent about to throw herself from a plane to eat.
Just before nine, Charlotte was taken aside by Vera and had her clothes checked from top-to-bottom. Vera asked delicate questions about her underwear, and Charlotte assured her that this was also suitably French. She was handed a suitcase that contained further clothes, toiletries, her false papers and a large quantity of money. Charlotte would buy everything else she needed once she was in France. Vera showed her a second suitcase that contained the wireless set.
“We’ve packed it as best as possible this time,” Vera said, somewhat apologetically. Previous sets had been damaged in the drop and required repairs. “There is a spare set of crystals in your own luggage. I suggest, as soon as you are on the ground, you find them and hide them. You don’t want them left on your person.”
Charlotte could only nod again.
“Nervous?” Vera asked.
Charlotte thought it impossible not to be, but she cleared her throat and replied.
“Only about the flight.”
Vera smiled, then she walked with Charlotte back outside to where the Lysander was waiting.
“Your pilot is a young man by the name of Robert,” she whispered to Charlotte. “He has done three trips back and forth to France so far. He is very reliable.”
A gentleman Charlotte did not know offered her a hand to help her into the back of the Lysander. The plane was not designed to take passengers and Charlotte had to squeeze herself into the rear of the fuselage, and crouch uncomfortably on the metal floor. Her luggage followed and Vera made sure she had put on her parachute before she said her final goodbyes.
“Good luck, expect to hear from you soon!”
Her tone was chipper and no doubt aimed to bestow confidence on Charlotte. Instead it made her feel uneasy.
Vera withdrew, the hatch was slammed shut and Charlotte felt like a trapped animal in the metal hull of the plane. Her breath seemed to come in sharp, almost ragged, gasps and she knew she was beginning to panic. From the cockpit at the front, the pilot turned and glanced over his shoulder. It was too dark to see much of his face, but Charlotte caught the glimmer of a smile.
“I’ll get you there safely, miss,” he said. “Call me Robert, anything you need, just shout.”
Then he turned back and started to push the aircraft forward. Charlotte closed her eyes as they picked up speed and the tail lifted. The propellers whirred loudly and the plane started to bounce a little, like a boat on the ocean. Without opening her eyes, Charlotte knew when the wheels had finally lifted from the runway and they were rapidly soaring upwards.
The dark sky sucked them in, enveloping them and hiding them from those who had watched their departure. They were off to France, come hell or highwater.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 10pm
The anti-aircraft guns blazed. Private Hertter ran a message back to his commanding office as he had been instructed. He tripped over a block of concrete that he had forgotten had recently been put in the middle of a roadway to prevent vehicles driving straight through to the guns. They had had problems recently. Some local Communists who had decided to take out their anger at the invasion of Russia on them.
Hertter corrected himself and found the command house. Captain Durst was just rousing himself from his bunk, having heard the guns. Of course, he should have been asked first before they started firing, but a long time ago everyone had stopped asking Durst anything. Mostly he was drunk or sleeping off the effects of drink. When he was neither of those things he was moping in his private rooms, depressed beyond all reason by things no one really understood. Sergeant Cophen tended to give orders in his stead, anticipating what the commander would want them to do. The unit was very protective of Captain Durst; he was a hero, having nearly died preventing an assassination attack on the Deputy Fuhrer before the war. That was why no one ratted out his drunken depression, it was also why he retained this post. He should have been demoted, or court martialled, instead he was allowed to continue, his failings ignored as long as his men served well enough.
Hertter had heard mutterings that this would all come to an end now that the Deputy Fuhrer had been unmasked as a traitor. So far Hitler’s fury had not reached this outpost, he was too busy dealing with those nearest Rudolf Hess, the betrayer. But, eventually, eyes would turn in this direction too. Until then, Durst’s men would do all they could to protect him. It was hard not to like Durst, after all. He was a good commander when he was not in his cups, and very likeable. He told the men stories half of them didn’t believe, but which they liked to hear nonetheless. And he made them feel good about manning this backwater post, when their friends were marching into Russia and being glorified as conquering heroes. You could feel resentment about all that; envious of the lads getting all the praise and the women. Durst made his men feel they were doing something just as important here and that the only reason they were not accorded the same respect was because people didn’t understand how vital their role was.
Let them hug and kiss the boys who went to Russia, he would say, what are hugs and kisses when you are freezing your arse off in an Eastern European winter and haven’t shaved for weeks because the water is never unfrozen, and can never get comfortable because you are being eaten alive by Bolshevik lice? He would point out their nice barracks, their working showers (hot and cold), the regular food and the pretty French girls who often walked by. Remember, he would say, glory is fleeting and it doesn’t warm your bed. Anyway, girls didn’t kiss lousy, bearded soldiers, no matter how heroic they had been.
Durst made them all laugh and they liked him. When he was not drinking or moping which, admittedly, was somewhat rare these days, he was a good commander.
“Captain Durst?” Hertter lowered his voice so as not to crack his commander’s aching skull. Rumour was that Durst had drunk a whole bottle of Schnapps at dinner, followed by several pints of beer. “There is an enemy plane overhead.”
Durst grunted.
“It would appear to be a small British plane,” Hertter continued. “The spotters are trying to identify it.”
“And we are shooting at it,” Durst muttered.
“Yes,” Hertter nodded. “Sergeant Cophen said we should.”
Durst grunted and fumbled around on the floor beneath his bed, finally laying his hand on his army cap. He sat it on his head.
“Which way is it headed?” He asked, rubbing at his forehead.
“Inland,” Hertter said promptly.
In the past, they had been surprised by British planes appearing over them heading back to England. It was possible the craft had taken a different route inland and thus had only flown over them once, but it was far more likely they had missed them when they were inbound. There were only so many places the British crossed, depending on airfield locations, location of targets and the distance to be travelled. Saving fuel was always a priority. The last thing an anti-aircraft battery wanted to hear was that they had missed a target.
“Alright, best come see,” Durst levered himself up from the bed. “Little plane, you say? Alone?”
“Apparently,” Hertter said. “The spotters have it in the lights.”
Hertter escorted his captain outside. Durst looked delicate and winced as they drew nearer to the guns. Up above, caught in the beam of a spotlight, a small aircraft jinked about like a hare trying to elude the hounds. The spotters were pursuing it mercilessly with their lights, tracking its movement despite the best efforts of the pilot to evade them. Durst raised his eyes and watched the drama.
The bullets of the guns left trails as they lanced upwards and it was possible to watch their progress through the night sky. The gunners were working hard, trying to pierce the aeroplane, frustrated by the valiant efforts of the pilot to avoid them. No sooner did they appear to be locking on, then the plane would suddenly drop to the side, or nose down, and they would lose their bead and have to hastily reposition.
“Good man,” Durst whispered under his breath.
Hertter glanced at him, startled by the words, then looked away again quickly. It was no more the done thing to look at your commanding officer in a questioning fashion, than it was to praise the enemy.
Durst drew a sharp intake of breath, as a line of bullets came close to the wing of the plane.
“Nearly there, go on, man,” he mumbled to himself.
Hertter heard it all, though he knew he was not supposed to. He wanted to grimace, but kept a stony face.
The plane had almost escaped the range of the spotters, a few more seconds and it would be out of the spotlights and the guns would lose it. There almost seemed a pause from the gunners as they realised they were about to be evaded. One of the guns fell quiet as it was hastily repositioned. Hertter glanced in its direction, noticing that Sergeant Cophen was standing at the base and giving hasty instructions. The British plane had levelled off, sensing triumph and thinking the Germans had given up. Its nose was pushing back into the darkness, the spotters’ beams turned to their full extent and powerless to follow.
In that moment, the gun Cophen had been directing opened fire for a final time. Whether it was luck, or a good bit of calculation, the bullets of the gun sliced upwards and caught the tip of a wing. The aircraft jerked in the sky, wobbling a fraction, as the bullets kept coming, slicing a line up the side of the plane and then hitting the tail.
It was hard to know how many of the bullets actually struck, but the plane started to smoke and the way it wobbled suggested that enough had hit to make it no longer capable of flight. As the aeroplane drifted out of the range of the searchlights, it was plain it was going down.
“Experienced pilot should land that,” Durst said thoughtfully, this time loud enough that others besides Hertter could overhear.
Sergeant Cophen was running towards them and saluting hastily.
“Sir!”
“Get a car ready, Cophen. We ought to try and find where that plane crash lands,” Durst told him. “Get a map and devise a search area. Can’t think it will be far away.”
There had been no sign of an explosion and Hertter concluded that Durst was right and the plane had landed. You could hear a crash from miles away on a still night like this, and the smoke would plume high and mark the spot. No, it looked likely the pilot had landed his damaged craft and was now a fugitive in enemy territory. Hertter felt a sudden spurt of excitement; this could be the making of the unit. If they were to capture an enemy pilot, it would be big news and earn them a lot of praise, hopefully offsetting Durst’s unfortunate involvement with Rudolf Hess. None of them wanted to lose their captain, and this might just be the way to save his position, at least for the moment.
As Cophen ran to organise the map and car, Durst belched as discreetly as he could and pulled a face. Schnapps had that effect on you, it was why Hertter no longer drank it. Durst patted his chest with a hand, coughed and then glanced at the soldier at his side.
“Something the matter, private?”
Hertter flinched, realising his expression had been too obvious.
“No Sir!” He said quickly, saluting just as fast.
“Good,” Durst grinned at him. “Get a rifle and be ready to join us. Ever met a British airman before?”
“No Sir,” Hertter repeated himself.
“Tough buggers,” Durst told him. “And that one was a good flier, experienced by the looks. They don’t like being shot down, well, would you?”
Hertter was not sure if he was meant to reply or not.
“Go get a rifle, man!” Durst commanded again.
Hertter didn’t hesitate a second time. He ran to get his rifle. He was pleased to be picked to join Durst and Cophen, even if he knew it was only because he had been near-to-hand at the time. He wanted to help capture the British airman and earn his unit some well-deserved glory. It was about time the battery received the praise they were due. Usually all they got was criticism for not shooting down enough planes.
By the time he had found his rifle, a compact army car had been driven out of its garage and Durst and Cophen were sitting in the back. A second private was in the driver’s seat and Hertter had to run to clamber in before they drove off. As he half fell into his seat, he briefly locked eyes with Durst.
His captain smiled at him. It was a secretive smile, as if they were not meant to be looking at each other at all. It was only for a moment, and then Hertter was in his seat and they were driving off to lay claim to the enemy they had just shot down.
Rouen countryside, France. 10.15pm
The torches were on the ground, their beams creating an ‘X’ on the grass. Josef thought of it like the treasure maps he had read about in adventure stories as a youth – X marks the spot. Only, there was no plane in the sky to drop its cargo to earth. He stared at the stars, straining his ears to hear just a glimmer of an engine. A cold wind whipped out of nowhere and seemed to be a forewarning of trouble.
“Nothing,” he muttered to himself.
Josef turned his attention to the trees that dotted the boundaries of the field. There were people lingering among them, hiding out-of-sight in the shadows. He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember which one of the unidentified shadows was actually Benoit. He settled on a tall figure off to his left and marched towards him. The moon was casting enough light down to earth that when Josef was close to the figure he could make out the rough details of his face.
Benoit it was. The train engineer was still dressed in his work overalls and his soft cap was on his head. Benoit went nowhere without his cap, if he was going to a wedding or a funeral, Josef was sure he would still wear it. It was a part of his identity, as much as his square-jaw and tanned skin. Josef paused beside his second-in-command.
“I don’t think it is coming.”
Benoit had been looking at Josef, now he turned towards the distant sky.
“No,” he agreed. “Either the weather over England turned bad, or…”
“The buggers got tangled up with the German coastal guns,” Josef finished for him. He grimaced. “Can’t do anything about it.”
“No,” Benoit agreed again. “Shall we collect up the torches?”
“I think so,” Josef glanced across the field. “How near does that German patrol go by here?”
“Not close enough to see the torches,” Benoit reassured him for the fifth time since they had settled on the rendezvous point.
“What if they have changed their patrol?”
“You always look on the bright side, don’t you?” Benoit groaned. “I cannot predict what goes through the mind of the German officer in charge of the Rouen patrols. If they change their route, they change it and we must make the best of it.”
Josef ignored his gruff tone.
“Pick up the torches and disperse everyone,” he said. “I’m going back to the chateau.”
Josef stared at the sky for a second longer, for a brief, hopeful moment he thought he heard the whine of an engine, but the sound did not grow and no plane materialised. He was dreaming it.
“Shame,” he repeated to himself. “Damn shame.”
Somewhere in France. 10.15pm
Charlotte gulped. The pain in her leg was almost unbearable. There was blood trickling down her calf. The bullet had gone clean through the back of her leg, but she had been lucky as it had not hit the bone. Still hurt like hell, but a broken leg would have been even worse.
She had blacked out for a moment. She didn’t think it had been for long. When the plane started to drop, the force of gravity hitting her, along with the shock of the bullet wound, had made her briefly lose consciousness. That, in a way, had been a mercy. She had not experienced the terrifying seconds as the ground veered up sharply and Robert valiantly fought the steering column to lift the nose and enable them to crash land without dying.
The last time Charlotte had been in an air crash – and, unfortunately for her, it was becoming something of a habit – the plane had caught fire and the pilot had died. When Charlotte had woken up she was terrified the same might happen again.
“Robert?” She called out.
She lifted her hand to a metal strut, trying to pull herself to her feet.
“Robe… Oh shit!”
Charlotte doubled over as she tried to put weight on her injured leg and pain lanced through it. It was like someone had jabbed a spike into her heel. She clung to the strut, trying to take the weight off her leg. The sensation slowly eased and she began to breathe evenly again.
“Miss?”
From the cockpit Robert gradually untangled himself from his safety harness.
“I blacked out for a bit,” the young pilot turned his head to her, looking over his shoulder. He seemed somewhat dazed to discover they had survived their awful landing.
“Are you hurt?” Charlotte asked, her own teeth gritted hard to stop her crying out.
Robert blinked. Charlotte could almost see the thoughts crossing his mind as he did a mental check of himself.
“No, miss, I don’t think so,” Robert pushed open the cockpit canopy, letting in fresh air and enabling him to stand up. “I’ll climb out and open the passenger hatch.”
He vanished. Charlotte allowed herself a small groan. The pain in her leg was worsening, even with the weight taken off it. She also felt sick and light-headed. She didn’t want to look down at her leg, but from the damp sensation on her skin, she could surmise that she was losing a lot of blood.
Adjusting her grip on the metal strut, she tried to lean over on her good leg. Everything was going a bit fuzzy, as if she wasn’t really there anymore. She knew that was a bad sign, yet she could do nothing about it, except take another long breath and hope she could stay awake.
The grinding of a metal handle told her that Robert was opening the hatch. It seemed to take him two attempts and Charlotte felt a fresh wave of panic. Being trapped in a plane, being trapped anywhere, had recently become one of her worst nightmares. Her fears were exacerbated by her sudden certainty that she could smell smoke. That was enough to dispel the fuzziness for the time being. She reached out to try and help push the hatch open, but before she could Robert had hauled it back. He grinned at her, then he saw her leg.
The dark frown that grew on his face did not inspire hope in Charlotte.
“Help me out,” she called to him.
Robert woke from his temporary distraction and reached in to assist her. He put his arms around her waist and she leaned forward to press her hands onto his shoulders. She was higher up than him and had to bend slightly to duck out of the hatch. All the time she was trying to move her injured leg as little as possible. Robert took her weight and for a moment they paused as they both tried to think of the best way to get her out. An able person would normally jump out of the hatch to the ground, but Charlotte did not think she could manage that. She had a hunch the pain such a move would cause would be hideous.
“I’ll lift you out,” Robert said, his grip now firm on her waist. “Trust me.”
Charlotte wasn’t convinced. Robert was light-boned, a typical young pilot. Not overly tall and lean to fit in the narrow cockpit. She wasn’t sure he would have the strength to support her weight, but she also had no choice. She braced herself.
“Alright,” she said.
Robert adjusted his grip and then he grunted and lifted her. Charlotte leaned into him, raising her good foot as he took her full weight. There was a perilous moment when she felt she would fall forward, then Robert pulled her towards him and she was out of the hatch.
He was stronger than he looked, but he was also trying to lift Charlotte at an awkward, overhead angle. He nearly lost her and as she stepped free of the plane and her full weight was in his arms he wobbled and had to put her down faster than he intended. The result was a jolt to Charlotte’s bad leg and she doubled-up. Robert kept his grip on her, but she would have rather he had let her slip down to the ground. She screwed up her eyes and took short breaths, controlling the scream that wanted to come out. It seemed to take forever for the pain to ease.
“I need to sit down,” Charlotte told the young man and he helped her to crumple onto the grass.
Had she not been in such pain, Charlotte would have felt more urgency to get away from the aircraft. As it was, she was just glad to be sitting on the ground, making the effort to control her breathing and to let her leg rest. Robert crouched beside her and pulled a torch from his pocket. He shone the beam on her leg.
“It’s not broken,” Charlotte promised him.
The bright circle of light from the torch crept over her leg. Charlotte could see what she had feared, that the wound was bleeding profusely and her skin was caked in blood.
“I’ll bandage it up,” Robert said, his hand a little shaky as he put the torch down and searched in his flying suit for the emergency first aid package all pilots carried.
Charlotte dipped her head. The wooziness was returning. Gulping air was not helping. She dug her fingers into the grass, clinging to it as if that would keep her conscious. Her thoughts were becoming disconnected. Logically, they ought to get as far away from the plane as possible. There was no knowing if someone had seen it come down and was heading for them. There was no knowing if the Germans at the anti-aircraft battery would try to find the downed British plane. They could not hang around, escape was vital.
Robert had wrapped bandages around her leg. Blood was seeping through them already. Charlotte felt a new pang of pain as the fabric touched her calf.
“Help me to my feet,” she instructed. She was taking charge as Robert was looking a little bewildered.
“I don’t think you ought to try to stand,” the pilot countered.
“We have to get away,” Charlotte explained. “If I can stand…”
She started to put weight on her bad leg to lever herself up and cried out at once. The pain was unspeakable, she fell back onto her side and slapped her palm down on the grass.
“Damn it!”
Robert rested a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll carry you,” he said.
Charlotte caught her breath. The pain was getting duller, but not because the wound was improving, but because she was slipping away. The world was dimming, the shadows of the night getting dramatically darker. She was going to faint soon, and she could not allow that to happen without making sure she had disposed of her wireless set.
“The black suitcase,” she told Robert, who was leaning over her. “Get it out of the plane and hide it as fast as you can.”
“But…”
“This is extremely urgent,” Charlotte insisted. “Do not worry about me.”
Robert looked uncertain, then he leaned into the plane and retrieved the two suitcases.
“The black one?”
“Yes. Bury it or something, but hurry!”
Robert hesitated again, his face a picture of concern, then he obeyed and disappeared into the trees with the black suitcase. While he was gone, Charlotte opened her own personal luggage and rummaged about until she found the spare crystals. She held them in the palm of her hand and considered her options, which were not great.
Charlotte knew that the odds were they would be found and captured. Her leg wound made that extremely likely. She could not walk and Robert could only carry her so far. They would need to learn where they were and find a doctor, all things that would attract attention and you never knew who was an informant these days. Charlotte shut her fingers over the crystals. She had to get rid of them.
Glancing around her, the options for disposing of the crystals were limited. But where the wheels of the plane had touched the ground they had eaten into the earth and left deep ruts. Charlotte twisted over onto her other side, she almost screamed as the pain once more shot up her leg, but she was able to suppress it to dull curses. Tentatively, she reached out for the nearest wheel rut and dug her fingers into it. The soil gave at her touch, the ground soft from recent rain. Charlotte groaned in relief.
With her finger tips she dug a hole in the ripped earth, pulling up the earth to make a finger deep depression. Then she took the crystals and pressed them hard into the dirt. There was little light to see by, and she worked mainly by feel. Carefully she pushed the soil back over the hole, covering the crystals and massaging the earth flat with her fingers. Robert had left his torch behind. She picked it up and shone it on the spot where she had buried the crystals, examining the dirt in the hopes that she had left no sign of her activity. As far as she could tell, the hole was well covered and no one would think anything of the disturbed soil where the wheels had dug in.
Charlotte turned over onto her other side and groaned again. The world was fading with each breath, no matter how hard she tried to hold on to it. The pain was duller now, but she didn’t think that was a good sign. She closed her suitcase and propped her head on it, turning it into the hardest pillow in living memory. There was nothing else she could do, moving was impossible.
Charlotte detested being helpless. Everything she did was in an effort to avoid such a scenario; now, through no fault of her own, she was wounded and reliant on others – namely Robert. At least with the wireless set hidden they might stand a chance. The last thing they needed was to be identified as agents of the Resistance. Robert could rely on his uniform to protect him, but Charlotte? What hope was there for her? Who would believe she was somehow an innocent caught up in this war game? She had been flown to France in an aeroplane – what reason could there be for a woman to be transported like that other than Resistance work?
Charlotte knew things looked bleak, but if they could just avoid being captured they might stand a chance. She still had a mission to fulfil and reaching the Resistance had to be a priority. They could not be so far away. As soon as Robert returned they would disappear into the countryside, lay low for a few days, before discovering where they were and plotting how to reach Josef. She had eluded the Germans once before, she could do it again.
Her eyes were beginning to droop. A terrible weariness was enveloping her. In the distance, she saw Robert hurrying back out of the trees where he had been burying the wireless set. He stumbled on the grass, as if he had lost his bearings. Charlotte tried to call out to him, but her voice did not seem able to rise from her throat. She closed her eyes a moment too long and was almost unconscious. It took a great effort to rouse herself.
“Robert,” she mumbled, but it was barely a whisper.
She lifted her head, forcing her mind awake. Robert was nearer now, but slowing down and seemed to be taking in the shape of the plane. She wondered what had disturbed him so much.
“Rob…” her cry descended into a dry cough. Her chest heaved and her leg throbbed. Charlotte cursed herself, but the noise had at least alerted Robert to where she was.
He came closer, slowly and deliberately. In the dark he seemed taller. Charlotte pulled back her head so she could look up into his face.
“We need…”
Her words died on the wind. The man who had approached her was not Robert. He was not an English pilot. Charlotte stifled the panicked yelp that wanted to leap from her mouth as she realised the figure leaning over her was a man in German uniform. She had been taught to recognise German military ranks during her SOE training, but the dark made it hard to see. She thought the man was a private, but she couldn’t be sure. Switching to German, which she had been practicing hard for months, she spoke to him.
“About time someone came, I’m hurt!”
The German looked startled by her outburst. That was exactly what she had intended. Charlotte’s odds of survival were not looking great, but if she could convince the Germans that she was something other than a Resistance agent, preferably something that would impress a German, then she might just make it out alive.
“Good evening Fraulein,” the German spoke politely. “How are you hurt?”
“You bastards shot me!” Charlotte snapped. “Someone fired on my plane!”
The German was once more stunned and looked up at the aircraft as if he had only just noticed it. He scratched his head.
“It’s a British plane.”
“Of course it’s a British plane!” Charlotte jeered him. “Does no one tell anyone anything these days? Look, I need to see your commanding officer at once! At once!”
The private was most baffled, but the sternness of Charlotte’s voice made him responsive to her orders. He backed off and started turning around, looking for someone else. Charlotte was fast concocting a suitable lie in her head to explain what she was doing being flown into France by the British. Vague ideas were bubbling in her mind, but they were being diminished by her rapid fall into unconsciousness. She could not quite connect two thoughts together, no matter how hard she tried.
Charlotte’s eyes sagged heavily once again. She deliberately jerked her leg to shoot pain up it. Even that was not as powerful as before, though she did cry out involuntarily and momentarily come alert. Two more men were walking towards her, joining the private. She could not see any sign of Robert and she hoped that meant he had gotten away. At the very least, she prayed he had successfully hidden the wireless set.
She propped herself up on her elbows as the three Germans gathered around her again. She hated being on the floor before them, and pushed herself up as much as she could, forcing herself to sit upright even though new pain sprung in her leg and made her whimper.
One of the Germans – an officer, she could tell that much – crouched before her and she could smell alcohol on him. The scent surprised her, but she didn’t show it. A new hope crept into her heart. A German officer who was heavily into his drink when on duty had the potential to be easier to fool than a sober one. She was beginning to wonder who these men were.
“I am Captain Durst,” the crouching German told her. “And you are now a prisoner of the German army.”
She was relieved he did not use the words ‘Nazi’ or ‘Third Reich’, that suggested he was regular military.
“I am a prisoner of nobody,” Charlotte told him pertly. “But I will accept any aid you can offer me, and then you can explain why my mission has been sabotaged.”
Durst looked puzzled.
“Mission?”
“Indeed, I have spent months in preparation for this,” Charlotte glowered at him. “Now, before I can even begin…”
Charlotte had meant to say more but a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness prevented her. Her head felt incredibly heavy and drooped forward. Distantly she heard Durst talking.
“Shot… been shot…”
She tried to rouse herself again, but this time her mind would not respond. No amount of bullying her senses would work. The blood loss and shock were too overwhelming. She was only vaguely aware of lying down and of movement around her. Voices spoke, but the words were meaningless. Darkness drew her deeper down, sinking her into a pit of oblivion. She found she was craving it, that happy abyss. The world fled from her, taking with it the pain and fear.
Charlotte had no choice. Her mind went blank.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 1.30am.
Captain Durst nursed his head. His forehead throbbed and nausea cramped his stomach. Not for the first time he regretted drinking so much the night before. Oblivion had become Durst’s companion. And drink offered him the necessarily deep oblivion.
Durst didn’t like war, which was ironic considering he had voluntarily joined the army in 1930. His father had thought it was a good idea; a safe occupation. Germany would always need soldiers, he had said, and when other industries were going to pot, the army at least would be secure. Hitler seemed a military man, Durst’s father had mused, he wouldn’t neglect the country’s armed forces. Durst could not fault his foresight, for he had been utterly correct. Over the years, Hitler had reinforced the army, recruited many more men and allowed a few nasty little side branches such as the SS.
Durst hated the SS, but that was another story.
The trouble was, no one had ever said anything about actually fighting when he joined the military. At that time everyone was still stinging from the last war and the old recruiting officer who signed him on swore that there was not going to be another conflict for many generations. The country could not afford it and the losses of the last turmoil were still too fresh in peoples’ minds. He had not taken into account the rise of Hitler. Hitler did not care about losses, he cared about revenge.
Durst tried to stand up and knitting needles stabbed into his skull and made him wince. He sat down again quickly, the force making more pain jerk up through his brain. He sighed and consoled himself that this too must pass.
Maybe if he drank a little more schnapps…
“Captain Durst!”
The door to his room had been ajar and the soldier had taken that as an excuse to stride right in and address his superior. Durst knew the discipline in the unit was a little lax in such regards, but he could not recall telling his men to shout at the top of their voices. He cringed. Wearily he lifted his head a fraction and looked at the intruder.
“Private Hertter?” He queried.
“Yes Sir!” The young soldier snapped to attention.
Durst felt such enthusiasm was a sign of naivety these days. Any man who understood the ways of the world (and was not a fanatical Nazi) had had all their enthusiasm for military protocol knocked out of them.
“You wish to tell me something,” Durst continued when the private said no more.
“The woman is awake, Sir, the doctor sent me.”
Durst sighed gently. The battery had a medical orderly for emergencies and Durst had instructed that the woman be put on a camp bed in his office and for the orderly to attend her. He felt she deserved privacy. All his men were curious, wondering what a pretty girl was doing in the camp, especially one with a bullet wound to her leg. Durst had already heard one private whispering that the captain had shot the girl by accident. It had upset Durst to learn what the men thought of him. Was he just a washed-up drunk to them?
“Awake,” Durst made the effort to stand. The nausea was insistent, a burn in his chest, and the pain was trying to blind him, but sheer willpower thrust him to his feet. “I best see her, then.”
“Yes Sir!” Hertter replied, slapping his hand to the side of his head again in a salute.
Durst wanted to take him aside and explain that the world had gone insane, that such dedication to duty was a fool’s game and a bit of cynicism would not go amiss. But what could you do for the young? Maybe Durst had once been like that.
He mulled the thought for a moment – no, he had never been like that.
“Take me to her, then,” he instructed the private.
The young man stepped back and allowed Durst through the doorway. Sergeant Cophen was just coming out of his own office with the latest weather reports. They kept abreast of the weather, as that would give them an indication of how likely it was that enemy planes would fly overhead. Spotting was a tiring business and it was better if the men knew how alert they needed to be.
“Sir,” Cophen spoke softly to his commanding officer. In another unit it might be seen as disrespectful to almost whisper at your captain, in this battery everyone knew what Durst’s hangovers were like, except, it seemed, for overly keen privates. “Do you need anything?”
Durst was pained by the man’s look of concern. He meant did he need painkillers and coffee, both of which Durst would love at that moment, but his pride prevented him from saying so.
“I am just fine, Sergeant,” he nodded and even managed a smile. “Carry on with your duties.”
Cophen saluted and disappeared. Durst felt that need to sigh coming on him again. It was become too much of a habit, rather like the way he seemed to shuffle rather than walk. He acted like an eighty-year-old man, when he was not even yet thirty.
Private Hertter was waiting for him by his office door. He looked ready to dash off another of the dramatic salutes that made Durst’s head spin. He also seemed prepared to speak too loudly. Durst cut him off before he could.
“Thank you, Private, that will be all.”
Hertter looked mildly disappointed, as if he had wanted to join Durst in the office. The captain was not about to let that happen. Bad enough there was talk all over the battery about this pretty girl, he didn’t need every single man flirting with her, especially as he was not yet sure what it was she was doing here.
Durst ignored the private, it was not his responsibility to worry about the young man’s disappointment. He entered the office and nearly fell over the end of the camp bed, which had been slotted into the room lengthways, the foot nearest the door. Beside it was the heavy desk Durst worked at – when he worked. Cophen was shouldering a lot of the paperwork these days. Another reason to feel guilty. The medical orderly was perched on the edge of the bed.
His name was Gruper and he was one of the few who knew Durst’s darkest secret, the reason the captain felt it necessary to drink himself into oblivion daily. The knowledge that here was a man who knew his most intimate details unsettled Durst. He valued his privacy, despite everything. Nonetheless, he nodded at Gruper politely.
The orderly gave him that worried look which had become something of a habit. Durst wanted to curse him. He needed no pity. Instead he turned to the bed, where the girl lay. She had propped herself up against the wall, pillows behind her back. The effort had caused her pain, and she still had a frown on her face from gritting her teeth, but she had been determined to meet Durst sitting upright. Durst was starting to like her.
“You can leave us,” he said to Gruper.
Gruper gave him that uncertain look again, as if Durst might suddenly do something odd, like start fitting.
“I am perfectly fine,” Durst insisted.
Gruper reluctantly left. He clearly wanted to take another look at Durst, fearing for his wellbeing. Well, he could fear. Durst was not going to spend his life being poked and prodded.
Alone with the girl he felt he could relax. He took a step closer and caught her eye. She looked surly and defiant. That did not alter her prettiness. She was a beauty with blond hair and pale blue eyes – eyes that burned at him. She was still quite young, but there were lines on her face that suggested hard times. He thought she could have been a film actress, if she had wanted.
“I am Captain Durst,” he introduced himself. “You are?”
“Betany Juhtt,” the girl answered.
It was the name Durst had read in her papers. There had been a passport and letters. In a pocket of the lining of her suitcase were photographs of a young man, on the back of them, written in pencil, was the name Albert Juhtt. German.
“Fraulein Juhtt…”
“Frau,” she corrected him sharply. “Not that it really matters. I haven’t seen my husband since 1939. Last I heard he was in the army. Probably has run off with some tart he met during the invasion.”
Betany folded her arms and glared at Durst, defying him to feel sorry for her. Durst cleared his throat.
“More fool him, then,” he said politely. “This does not explain what you were doing in a British aeroplane?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No,” Durst smiled at her. “It is not.”
Betany gave a long sigh, implying she was despairing at his lack of insight.
“I am French, and the French are all expected to join the Resistance, are they not?” She said.
Durst almost shrugged, then remembered himself.
“I believe there has been a call to arms, so to speak.”
“Well, I am also German by marriage. Not a happy marriage, I will admit, but I have connections to Germany and it is my duty as a wife to support my husband’s nation. When war broke out, I was with my husband in England. We were performing there.”
“I noted on your passport it said you were a performer,” Durst nodded.
“I sing and dance, though…” Betany paused and looked at her mangled leg.
“It will heal,” Durst told her quickly, suddenly feeling guilty that it was one of his unit’s bullets that had caused the injury.
Betany shook her head.
“I don’t want to talk about that. The short answer is that I was stuck in England when my husband hastily left to serve his country. I haven’t heard from him since 1940. It isn’t in my nature to just give up and accept he has disappeared,” Betany snorted. “Who knows, maybe he is dead. In any case, I intend to find out. If he is dead I know I am a widow and can carry on with my life, if he is alive, then he will have hell to pay.”
Durst did not doubt that. He almost wanted to chuckle in amusement at the thought of Herr Juhtt being suddenly confronted by his outraged wife. He suspected she would skin him alive.
“But I was stuck in England,” Betany continued. “Getting to France was impossible, at least as a pure passenger. They would look at my papers and see I was married to a German and, well…”
Betany motioned with her hands to indicate how impossible that would all be.
“I had to come up with something else, and then I heard a whisper through a friend of a friend, that the British were hiring French refugees to act as agents for them in France. It seemed as good a chance as any to get back to Europe. So, I volunteered.
“It wasn’t easy. They wanted to do all these checks, they wanted to confirm my loyalties. But it did not take much to convince them that I hated all Germans because of my husband. In any case, I am not going to betray France, or the British. I just wanted to get back on French soil.”
“They trained you and flew you over?” Durst said.
“Yes, and my plan was to vanish as soon as I had the chance and head to Germany to locate my husband’s family. Instead I was shot down.”
Betany pulled a face and Durst felt her ire burning straight into him. He wouldn’t want to be Albert when she found him.
“What are you going to do with me?” Betany demanded, putting him on the spot.
That was a good question. She had flown over in a British aircraft and technically she was an enemy agent. He should hand her over to the Gestapo and let them decide whether she was telling the truth or not. But he didn’t want to do that, and there was no reason why he should. The army was not beholden to the Gestapo, at least not yet. They were still a separate force and Durst had long ago stopped caring about any reprisals the more savage branches of the Nazi regime could mete out on him.
“Where is your pilot?” He asked Betany suddenly.
She looked surprise.
“I assumed you had captured him.”
“It appears he fled after the crash,” Durst pulled a face. “Cowardly to leave you behind.”
Betany shrugged her shoulders and snorted.
“Men!”
“We are not all so inconsiderate and uncaring,” Durst corrected her, feeling offended for his sex.
Betany’s eyes softened a fraction.
“I spoke without thinking,” she apologised. “I clearly associate with the wrong men. Everyone here has been most proper and kind to me.”
“You are welcome,” Durst said honestly. He liked the woman. She was angry at the moment and in pain, but he could see how pleasant a character she might be in another frame of mind. She was strong-willed, for sure. Durst liked strong-willed. “I’m afraid you must remain here until I can decide what do to. And you must rest your leg. The nearest German hospital is for military only, I would not send you there.”
“I can be patient,” Betany’s groan implied that was a lie. “I have waited this long.”
“In the meantime, I shall make some enquiries about Albert Juhtt and see what I can come up with,” Durst offered her an olive branch. “What unit was he with?”
“He never told me,” Betany answered coldly. “His letters were always so secretive. Maybe he never even joined the army, maybe he just wanted to leave me and used that as an excuse! It wouldn’t surprise me!”
Betany became downcast.
“I should never have married him. My friends said he would use me. I hate that they were right. I am… was… a very good dancer and he was a less than remarkable actor. They said he married me to promote his own career and to get to know the right people.”
“That seems harsh,” Durst said soothingly. “He must have also considered the charms of being married to such a beautiful and talented woman.”
Betany dropped her head and blushed. Durst felt a pang of excitement at being able to crack her hardened façade. He had not felt this alive since…
He knew he was walking a dangerous line and was about to make a very questionable decision, or three, but he didn’t care. Betany was a bright light in the darkness that had engulfed him. He knew, in that instant, that he would do all he could for her.
“I have disturbed you too long,” He said, remembering himself. “You must rest. You lost a lot of blood. Tomorrow I shall have proper quarters arranged for you and, while you heal, you will be my guest.”
“That is… unexpectedly kind,” Betany said in a hush, her eyes still lowered.
“I feel I must redeem German manhood,” Durst said gently. “Your husband has portrayed us as ungentlemanly callous oafs. I shall demonstrate we are not that, while you are here, at least.”
Betany looked up and met his eyes. Hers were teary with gratitude.
“It has been so long since someone offered to help me without wanting anything in return. I do not know what to say.”
“Just accept my offer, that will be enough,” Durst stood. “You will be quite safe here as you recover.”
He bowed to her and left the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, the pain which he had been ignoring suddenly sprang back with force to his skull. He barely made it to his bedroom, and to the bathroom attached, before vomiting heartily into the toilet bowl. Jagged pain lanced through his temples. He felt woozy and fit to fall forward. He gripped the edge of the pan and shakily took a breath. Maybe Gruper was right to be worried about him.
He wiped his mouth and stumbled to his bed. There was a fresh bottle of Schnapps on the bedside cabinet. He looked at it, knowing the burn of the alcohol would be worth the sleep it brought with it. For once, he was not tempted. He was thinking of the girl in his office and that could temper all his other concerns. For once, he did not need alcohol to nurse him to sleep.
The London Cage, London, England. 11.34am
Colonel Scotland had the face of a doting grandfather, with round spectacles and a cheery smile. You could imagine him acting as Father Christmas during the festive season and doling out sweets to tiny children. He did not look like a hardened interrogator. Klaus had long ago learned appearances were deceptive.
“Klaus Ribbonkoff,” Scotland had a notepad before him, and a shorthand secretary was sitting to one side. “You know why you are here?”
Klaus almost shuffled in his seat, and that troubled him. He did not usually struggle with interviews. Scotland was somehow too fatherly, too innocuous, and it was making him uncomfortable.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I have already questioned Franz Herne extensively,” Scotland continued, that gentle smile still on his face. “Of course, his version of events is very heavily weighted in his favour.”
“I can offer no validation of my actions,” Klaus interrupted. “I can explain why I did such things, but that will not make it right. I allowed my temper to get the better of me.”
“Yes,” Scotland seemed to be only half-listening. “Herne is a Nazi, I understand?”
The question was misleading; Scotland knew that Herne was a fanatic. He wanted to see how Klaus responded.
“I believe Herne has been graded by the British system as ‘black’, meaning he is more ardent than most. Then again, he is SS.”
“Hard not to be a Nazi in that organisation, you mean?”
“I don’t think you would get far if you were anti-Nazi,” Klaus replied.
“And do you hate the SS, Herr Ribbonkoff?”
Klaus hesitated. He had never paused to consider his feelings on the subject.
“I hate what they stand for. I do not know them all personally to be able to say if I hate them as individuals.”
“But, being a member of the SS would taint a man, in your eyes?”
Klaus was feeling uneasy. He wasn’t sure where this was leading.
“I have to wonder at a man’s ethics when he agrees to join such a unit,” he sidestepped the question.
“You would consider Franz Herne as slightly immoral then?”
“I think he is fanatical and that can lead to questionable judgement.”
Scotland looked at him with that warm smile, a smile that became all the more sinister as you realised it did not touch his eyes.
“I find you rather slippery, Herr Ribbonkoff. A man such as Herne might be a fanatic, but at least he answers with ‘yes’ and ‘no’ when questioned,” Scotland paused. “Would you have attacked Herne if he had been an ordinary soldier or an airman?”
“My actions were not based on politics,” Klaus said carefully. He was anxious how much of this interview was going to be used in his subsequent trial.
“What were they based on, then?”
“Outrage for my friend,” Klaus stated. “Everyone is concerned that I nearly killed Sergeant-Major Herne, but no one seems to be worried that he nearly murdered a fellow inmate. And his actions were based on his politics.”
“Do you think your attack was justified then?”
“I never said as much.”
“Maybe you felt your friend, who Herne nearly killed, would not get justice from the British system and so you took it upon yourself to resolve the matter?”
Klaus was getting cross, but he refused to let it be seen.
“No,” he said. “I lost my temper, that is all.”
“If you had not been stopped, you would have killed Herne.”
“Probably,” Klaus admitted. “But I was stopped.”
“Do you regret what you did?”
Klaus looked up and met Scotland’s eyes.
“Yes.”
Scotland’s lips twitched as the soft smile grew.
“And why is that?”
Klaus had contemplated such questions over and over. He had regrets, but they were not for the reasons people would appreciate. He regretted that his loss of temper with Herne was putting his work with SIS at peril. He regretted that he was being forced to explain himself. He regretted that a nasty SS thug was being treated like a victim and cossetted. He regretted that his actions overshadowed what had happened to Hermann, his friend, the man Herne had nearly strangled to death. None of those answers were wise to speak aloud.
“I regret that I did not have faith in the British justice system,” he offered an alternative explanation. “In Germany, we have lost our sense of justice. If a man is a Jew or a Communist or politically neutral, then he cannot expect justice. Time and time again I have heard the stories. An SS thug, or just a Nazi follower, beats up a Jewish shopkeeper, rapes his wife and burns down his premises and nothing happens to him. He might even brag about it, but no one will touch him. Because of who his victim is and who he is. In Germany, when you become SS or Gestapo, you find yourself above the law.
“As a German, I have come to accept this. Not to like it, but to accept it. I cannot change that fact and so must always endure the injustices done against others. I forgot that the British are not like the Nazis. That no one is above the law here.”
“Mostly no one,” Scotland muttered as an aside to his secretary, who duly smiled in response.
“In my fit of emotion, I feared Herne would get away with his crimes and the only justice I knew was the sort meted out in Germany. Personal justice, the justice of violence and retribution.”
“You want to blame your culture for your indiscretion?” Scotland asked.
“I blame only myself. I merely wished to explain why I reacted the way I did and why I now regret my actions,” Klaus paused to take a breath. “I am prepared to face the British justice system. I am pleased to see that I will be treated the same as any offender.”
“Spare me the sycophancy,” Scotland snorted. “Do you really think I am fooled? I see through you Herr Ribbonkoff. You are a clever thug, but a thug nonetheless. You dress it up with words, but you are a violent man. You are no different to Herne, and I think you know that.”
Klaus was hurt by the implication. He also feared it was true. He told himself that he held himself up to a higher standard, but sometimes he had tremors of uncertainty. He didn’t like that someone else was voicing the same doubts.
“I am not here to assess your guilt. I am merely here to get facts. But, were it up to me, I would consider you a criminal and sentence you to time in prison. There is no place for men like you in this country, none at all.”
Scotland was jabbing at him now, trying to provoke a reaction. Klaus saw through the tactic and suddenly didn’t feel so bad. Scotland was trying to push him and flare his temper, prove that Klaus had a short fuse. He would not get the satisfaction.
Klaus remained silent.
“You have nothing to say?” Scotland poked him again.
“You did not ask me a question,” Klaus replied politely.
Scotland breathed heavily through his nose.
“Sarcasm will get you nowhere,” he snarled. “You nearly beat a man to death and you will face the consequences. You are just fortunate Franz Herne survived, else a noose would be around your neck.”
Klaus said nothing.
“Do you hate Nazis?” Scotland attacked again.
Klaus resisted groaning.
“I hate what Nazism stands for, however, I cannot say I hate every Nazi. I have not met them all.”
“Sarcasm, again,” Scotland grunted.
“Honesty,” Klaus countered quietly. “My father is a member of the Nazi party. I do not hate him.”
“Then you are a Nazi sympathiser?” Scotland snapped.
Klaus knew there was no way to achieve anything with this man. He would twist and turn his words as he willed it. Klaus only hoped he was not involved in the military tribunal.
“Why would you say that?” He turned the question around.
“Answer the question, don’t ask one!” Scotland barked.
Klaus was not sure if the man was getting annoyed, or whether this was his normal attitude when interrogating someone. Klaus hoped it was the former. He had come to the conclusion that if the interview was not going to be conducted fairly, he had no inclination to play nice. He could be obstinate and awkward if he wanted to be, and now felt like the time.
“How can I answer a question I do not understand?” Klaus said, endeavouring to sound politely embarrassed by his failings.
“The question is plain!” Scotland snapped.
“Is it?” Klaus asked petulantly. “I tell you I do not hate all Nazis, that I cannot as I have not met them all, and you ask if I sympathise with them. Sympathise with what? Their cause? Their mentality? The fact they are despised by so many? Your question is too vague and general for me to answer truthfully.”
Scotland’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He seemed, for just a moment, to be taken aback. He normally dealt with ardent Nazis, ones who spat and swore at him, spouting Nazi propaganda and doctrine at every turn. He had not dealt with a man like Klaus before. Klaus was something else, something unique to himself.
“Do you sympathise with the Nazi cause?” Scotland rephrased, clearly uncertain how else to proceed.
“No. I told you. I detest Nazism.”
Klaus folded his arms. It was a slow gesture, it could almost have been an unconscious move. It was not. It was a deliberate action that created a barrier between him and Scotland and spoke of his confident defiance. Scotland’s hackles went up.
“But you like some Nazis?”
“I do not hate them, there is a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes. I do not hate you, for instance, but nor do I like you.”
In the corner, the secretary gave a small chuckle under his breath, but quickly turned it into a cough and kept taking notes.
“You are deliberately clouding the issue!” Scotland snapped at Klaus.
“No,” Klaus replied patiently, “I am merely demonstrating how complicated life is these days. Do you hate Nazis?”
“You do not ask me questions!” Scotland barked.
Klaus raised an eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“Because I am interviewing you!” Scotland growled. “Understand?”
“Yes,” Klaus nodded. “However, you did just answer my question. Thus, your statement that I was not to ask you any questions is patently flawed.”
Scotland reared back in his chair. He looked less like the old grandfather and more like a demented bull that has just seen someone stumble into its field. He was ready to charge. Klaus was ready for him too.
“You need to watch yourself, Herr Ribbonkoff!” Scotland pointed a finger at Klaus, his nostrils flaring open and closed. “Sharp as you are, you might just cut yourself!”
Klaus did not understand the saying, but he was not about to admit that. He sat silent again, surly and defiant. Long ago he had developed a dislike for authority, especially when that authority was enforced by men he considered stupid or deluded. This lack of respect for his superiors was one of the reasons he was prepared to defy the Wehrmacht in the first place.
“If you act like this in court, you will alienate the judges,” Scotland hissed, taking pleasure in the statement.
“I see you are sympathetic with Sergeant-Major Herne,” Klaus remarked mildly.
As he expected it to, this flared Scotland’s temper.
“I have no sympathy for that dog! I do not support Nazism!”
“Yet, you seem to favour him over me. I do not expect sympathy, of course. But I had hoped for neutrality from those in charge of my case. I had faith that was what I would receive.”
“You bastard!” Scotland slammed a fist on the desk. “Questioning me? Me! How dare you?”
“I have to know what I am up against,” Klaus replied placidly. He had been angry before, now he was enjoying himself and it was not hard to remain calm. “Are you typical of the men I will face at the military tribunal? I need to know.”
“Bastard!” Scotland repeated under his breath, then he started shuffling papers on his desk and seemed to have lost interest in Klaus. Or, rather, he no longer knew how to fight him. “You can go around and around in circles if you wish. That is your choice.”
Klaus said nothing.
“Barnes, go summon the guard and have him take this man back to a cell!” Scotland yelled at the secretary, who rose and went to the door.
Klaus maintained his stony façade. He wanted to laugh, but was resisting the temptation. The guard entered and Scotland repeated his instructions. Before he was done, Klaus had risen to his feet to follow the soldier.
“You won’t be so cocky when you get in that court room,” Scotland hissed as Klaus left, a last threat to unnerve him.
Klaus turned back and bestowed upon him a smile.
“Thank you for your time, it has been a most interesting chat.”
As the door closed behind Klaus he heard Scotland screaming one last time.
“Bastard!”
Rouen, France. 11.41am
The Jewish quarter was starting to look a little empty. Josef did not blame the residents for leaving, if they could. Many had packed handcarts or bundled up their belongings and fled for the countryside. They could not afford to go abroad, to England or one of the neutral nations, they would have to make do with the life of a vagrant for the duration. Josef did not know whether to be glad they had the sense to leave or to pity them.
Rouen was full of Germans these days. The town was a popular location for soldiers on leave. Near enough the coast to make it almost a seaside resort and not so far from Paris to be an inconvenience. There was a thriving black market, supported by smugglers who brought goods in by the sea routes, and this meant that German officers in the town could get the sort of food and drink that many only dreamed of. Goods that were impossible to find legally, could be bought for the right price in Rouen. Also, there were the girls.
Rouen was no more remarkable for its brothels than any other French town, but the numbers of its prostitutes had grown in relation to the number of German officers and soldiers arriving there. Supply and demand; the basics of every business. Rouen was becoming known as the place to enjoy your leave if you were in the German army.
Ironic, really, considering the flourishing resistance network Josef was managing. But, then again, his activities were the reason that Rouen also boasted a Gestapo unit. They had commandeered a nice chateau overlooking the main town square, after their last headquarters was raided by the resistance. They were angry dogs, scouring the streets for clues as to who was operating the rebellion and how to catch them. They had come close just once, and Josef was determined they would never get close again.
With such a strong German presence in town, much of it favouring the Nazi regime, native Jews were feeling uneasy. Rouen had an average population of Jews, ranging from the poorest to the richest. They were dispersed about the town, but the largest number lived in what had become known as the Jewish Quarter.
It was where the working class Jews congregated. The situation had come about naturally enough. The Jews helped each other in times of trouble, and it was logical to live in properties close to one another. Though anti-Semitism was not a great problem in Rouen, its influence could be felt and it seemed safer for the Jews to huddle together, knowing they were among understanding comrades. What was meant to create security, also created more tension and isolation. Splitting themselves apart from the other residents of Rouen fuelled a ‘them’ and ‘us’ mentality. It was not helped by a number of Eastern European Jews coming to Rouen and settling in the Quarter. Many had yet to master French and spoke in their native tongues. Some citizens found this intimidating, feeling that their town was being overtaken by foreigners – and not even Christian foreigners. The notion was foolish, of course, there were only a handful of these foreign Jews in the town. But the fear of their presence overshadowed the reality.
Josef knew this was why Rouen’s citizens had been rather modest in their efforts to prevent German attacks on the Jews. The Gendarmes were very casual about interfering when a German soldier, or four, decided to wander into the Jewish quarter and begin drunkenly beating on the nearest resident. When the news of these assaults became public knowledge people would tut and remark how awful it was, but in the same breath they would mutter ‘if they will keep themselves to themselves like that’ ‘asking for trouble’ ‘to be expected’ ‘funny bunch.’ And so forth.
The under-riding feeling was that the Jews had brought this on themselves, though it was still very sad, nonetheless.
Josef largely stayed clear of the Jewish Quarter because you could never be sure when the Germans might decide to do one of their round-ups. It would be a pretty poor show if he got himself arrested in such a way. Sometimes, however, he had to come here. Today was one of those days.
He was looking for Rene Eugene Petiere, a great French journalist in the thirties, who had fallen into drink and drugs when war had crippled his creative output. He barely wrote anything these days. Josef felt that he barely existed. But he was a great resource of information and, if anyone was to know the best way to get hold of the old printing press Josef had his eye on without alerting the Germans, it would be Petiere. He had worked at the old newspaper office, he knew its ins and outs. Maybe there was a basement or a back way they could use? Or maybe there was someone who could be bribed? Petiere must know.
Josef had promised Hogan a printing press and he did not plan on disappointing him.
Petiere was not Jewish, but when the Germans had occupied France he had retreated from his glamorous apartment and disappeared into the back streets. He was a wanted man. He had written some pretty disparaging articles concerning Hitler in the past. His name was known and the Gestapo had their eye out for him. Petiere had slipped into hiding and into despair.
Now he drank away his days, plagued by headaches that he feared were an inherited curse from his mother. His doctor supplied him with morphine from time to time, but not enough for Petiere’s liking and he now was a regular to the black market drug dealers, dabbling in whatever eased the pain. Josef felt sorry for him and feared he would not outlive the war. He had been a genius, a man of great talent and craftsmanship. Now, he was a drunken drug addict living only for his next fix. Maybe the headaches were a genuine illness, or maybe they were the result of his substance abuse, the problem was, either way, he was dying.
Josef knew the house where Petiere rented the attic room. It was a narrow building squeezed between others, consisting of a basement, three floors and then the attic. The woman who owned it was a widow who kept only the ground floor rooms for herself. All the others were rented out, even the cellar which was really only suitable for wine bottles and cheese. Josef wasn’t sure if Petiere was actually paying rent these days. It seemed the sort of thing the man would have forgotten about in his delirium. Yet, the woman kept him and cared for him. Maybe she had been a fan of his work in happier times.
The woman was a foreign Jewess and did not always speak the easiest of French. At one time, when her husband had been alive, she had been relatively wealthy and the whole house had been her domain. Now her husband was dead and she lived day-to-day, hoping just to survive tomorrow and no more. She knew Josef, however, and what he wanted when she opened the door to his knock.
“Petiere?” Josef had barely finished the word when she motioned with her hand that he should follow her.
The house had a narrow staircase. Josef thought of it as a sort of deliberate death-trap, designed by someone who had no real concept of what a staircase was for. There seemed not one step upon it that was the same height as its neighbour and they all sloped forward, making keeping upright challenging. They twisted upwards, with no light except what came through the open doors of the rooms on each landing, and as those doors were largely closed that meant the staircase, even in the day, was cast in heavy shadows. The old widow led Josef up without the aid of a lamp or candle, attuned to the vagaries of her house. Josef had to be more careful and considerate of his footing.
The higher they climbed, the narrower and more twisted the stairs became. Josef thought it was a miracle that Petiere came down them at all without breaking his neck. How he negotiated them in his drink and drug addled state he would never know.
They finally arrived at a dark door. Josef noted that there was now a broken section at the bottom and glanced at his guide. She shrugged.
“I do not know what he did,” she said in stilted and forlorn French, then she turned around and departed.
Josef heard her footsteps as she carefully returned to her own world. He nudged the broken and fractured wood at the bottom corner of the door. There was a hole large enough to fit his foot through and he could hear someone snoring within the room. He hammered on the door. The snoring continued. Josef sighed and hammered harder, then he gave up and tried the door.
It was not locked. There was no key in sight. Probably Petiere’s landlady had confiscated it. She would want to be able to get in whenever she needed to. Josef noted that the lamp that used to be in the room was also missing. Petiere had been known for his carelessness with it. Perhaps he had nearly burned the house down once too often.
Josef strode across the room, stumbling over a pile of paper and half-colliding with an old writing desk standing in front of the narrow garret window. He pushed open the shutters and allowed in the bright daylight. Sunshine fell on the dingy bed where Petiere lay, covered by a ragged blanket and more papers. Josef picked one up idly and saw that it was an attempt at an article. The writing was meandering and in places did not make any sense. It had been typed on the old typewriter Petiere had brought from his apartment. Josef started to read the piece, which seemed to be a critical description of Rouen in its current state, but it rapidly became incoherent and disjointed. There was nothing there of value. Josef sighed, crumpled the paper and tossed it away. Such a waste of talent.
“Petiere!” He shouted at the man, but only briefly interrupted his snoring. He went to the bed and shook him. “Petiere!”
Petiere raised one arm and flailed at him. It was a pathetic gesture and Josef caught his wrist.
“Rene Petiere! Get that fog out of your head!”
He shook Petiere more violently. The man’s dissolution somehow infuriated Josef. He understood despair, he suffered from it himself, but he did not allow it to leave him a useless wreck. It angered him that Petiere was a man who could do good, if he just left off the drink and drugs and tried, but instead he repeatedly descended into this personal oblivion. There was something so selfish about it; Josef knew people far worse off than the journalist who soldiered on and risked everything. Risking it so men like Petiere could wallow in their own self-pity.
“For crying out loud!” Josef growled crossly, before going over to a ewer near the desk and picking it up. He was pleased to see it contained water.
“Wake up!” He demanded of Petiere before pouring the entire contents over his head.
Petiere howled like a wounded cat and came upright coughing and spluttering. He clawed at Josef uselessly, for Josef had taken a step back.
“Bastard!” Petiere swore. “What… what…”
Petiere’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish’s in its bowl. He was trembling from the cold of the water.
“Bastard,” he repeated more softly.
“Now you are awake,” Josef put down the empty ewer, “we can talk.”
“Josef,” Petiere snarled. “I should have known it would be you. Only you are so unchivalrous to me.”
Petiere’s anger had become tempered as he pressed a hand to his forehead and gasped. He bent over double and there was no doubting the pain he was suffering. Josef felt a pang of remorse. Whatever was the cause of the agonies Petiere suffered, he did not like to think he had added to them.
“Are they worse?” Josef asked him.
Petiere almost shook his head, then stopped himself.
“Actually, most of the time they are better,” he whispered. “Unless people throw water over me.”
“Then you are no longer dying?”
“My doctor thinks it unlikely,” Petiere snorted, as if this was the worst diagnosis possible and a clear sign that the doctor was not trying hard enough. “What do you want?”
Josef was pleased to see that for once Petiere was actually quite alert. He also noted a lack of alcohol bottles in the room.
“Are you trying to get clean?”
Not by design,” Petiere grumbled. “My doctor had words with my landlady and she will no longer bring me anything stronger than weak beer. They have been weaning me off drink, taking advantage of the fact I cannot leave this room.”
“You do not go out anymore?” Josef asked.
“I do not dare. The Germans still look for me, you know?” Petiere became agitated and started to fidget with his fingers. “Someone reprinted one of my articles, I don’t know who. I never gave permission.”
Petiere huffed and some of his old pride returned.
“They have not paid me my royalties, either.”
“So, you do not go out?”
“No,” Petiere groaned. “And the man who would bring me extra morphine and such. He has been shot. He was a Communist.”
Petiere looked miserable.
“June was awful, Josef. Had you come to me then you would have met a man racked by the tortures of the Devil himself. I thought I was dying and my doctor would only give me the smallest of doses to ease the torment. I do not want to think about it,” Petiere closed his eyes. “I suppose all that means I am clean.”
“It is nice talking to the old Petiere,” Josef smiled gently.
Petiere shrugged.
“Old is the right word,” he winced again. “My doctor thinks the pain is to do with my teeth now, did you know that pain from the teeth can manifest as headaches? I clench my jaw, apparently, and I do not breathe well when I sleep. I choke sometimes. I am supposed to always have the window open, to help.”
“At least those are things that are easy to solve,” Josef consoled him.
“You think? What my doctor is saying is my nerves are shot and all my physical symptoms are a result of this. I am really quite mentally deranged, you see?”
“Now, now, there is no shame in all that,” Josef told him. “And who of us can claim to have sound nerves these days?”
Josef snorted and noted the typewriter on the floor.
“You are trying to write again?”
“I thought about it. I tried…” Petiere picked a sheet up and glowered at it, before dropping it with a look of disgust. “But I no longer write.”
“You should.”
“What is there to write about?
“You really have to ask?” Josef looked at him incredulously.
“Oh, I know… outside…” Petiere looked towards the door which stood open.
“I want to start a publication,” Josef decided to try and nudge him into enthusiasm. “A rebellion against the current papers. A newspaper that tells the truth, which I suppose would be considered quite ironic.”
That raised a smile on Petiere’s face.
“The Communists are publishing a paper these days. My landlady brought me a copy once. I never read worse drivel,” Petiere laughed. “You can do better than that, my friend.”
“I hope so!” Josef replied. “But I need your help.”
“In what way?” Petiere asked.
“I want to steal the old printing press from the offices of The Rouen Citizen.”
Petiere opened his mouth and seemed to hesitate, then his eyes flashed with a sudden spark.
“Monsieur Dubois’s grandfather used the press to print his very first paper. He was a revolutionary too late for the revolution and he liked to print pamphlets containing his opinions on the government. The press is hand operated.”
“It will do for my purposes,” Josef grinned. “But I need to get to it, and the offices are right opposite a café frequented by the Germans.”
“The Perfect Pastry,” Petiere mumbled. “I’m afraid, my friend, that is not your only problem.”
“There is worse?”
Petiere gave a long sigh.
“The Communists want that press too.”
“They have a press,” Josef snorted, angry that the Communists would be greedy enough to want his press too.
“Their printing operation was raided last night,” Petiere explained. “One of my friends is a good Communist. She visited me this morning and told me. They lost their press and those who were involved in creating their newspaper.”
“More fool them,” Josef grumbled. “They cannot have my press just because they could not take care of their own.”
“I believe the press actually belongs to Monsieur Dubois,” Petiere pointed out.
“But he is effectively retired from the newspaper business, at least for the duration. That press is an antique and must be saved before the Germans decide to smash it.”
“Or the Communists get it,” Petiere added.
“That too,” Josef nodded. “I hoped you could provide me with details of how to get into the building discreetly.”
“The front door is out of the question. The Germans see it from the café and, even if they were not paying attention, the café owner would be watching. He is a fiend. I disliked him before the war, I hate him now.”
“He has cast his dice, and so it shall be,” Josef replied mildly, he did not feel the need to get upset about such people anymore. There would be a time and a place for a reckoning. He needed all his energy for persecuting the Nazi regime and freeing his people from tyranny.
“You need to be aware of him. He is more dangerous than you realise,” Petiere persisted. “Anyway, the front way is impossible. However, there is a back door. The building the press is in consists of a cellar and two floors. There is a walled yard at the back, and this is where the rear door is too.”
“Is there a gate to the yard?”
“No,” Petiere shook his head. “The only way into the yard is the rear door.”
Josef frowned. Transporting a heavy printing press was going to be hard enough, without hauling it over a wall.
“The walls are about six foot,” Petiere continued. One side borders the road, the other a narrow alley and the rear wall borders the yard of a greengrocer’s.”
“Who is the greengrocer?”
“Madame Xavier runs it. Ever since her husband died. She is very old, but do not let that fool you. She is clever.”
“A Nazi sympathiser?”
“She does not make her politics known,” Petiere shrugged. “I think it safe to say that it depends on the situation. You could not completely trust her.”
Josef let out a groan. He had been hopeful about the whole thing at first, convinced that, whatever the odds, he could overcome them. Now he was feeling the task was impossible.
“You know what I would do,” Petiere said calmly. Josef glanced at him. “I would wait until the Communists stole that press and then I would relieve them of it.”
“Let them do the hard work?” Josef processed the idea. “Are you sure they are going after that press?”
“That is the talk, and Communists rarely talk about things they don’t intend to do.”
Josef could only agree with that.
“How do they intend to get the press?”
“Does it matter? As long as you keep track of them.”
Josef sat back in his chair.
“I’ll need someone watching,” he frowned. “Does The Perfect Pastry’s owner still like to hire pretty waitresses?”
“Always. The Germans like them.”
“Hmm,” Josef smiled to himself. “That is good to know.”
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 2pm
Pain was surprisingly tiring. Charlotte found she drifted in and out of sleep. Her leg burned. The medical orderly had given her some painkillers and they made her head hazy. She was anxious about using them, in case they compromised her. So far she had managed to keep up the façade of being a scorned French dancer married to a German. She did not want to suddenly let slip she was really a British agent.
She stretched her leg, the muscles tight and sore. The bullet wound burned. The leg would take time to heal and even longer to grow strong again. Charlotte had only hobbled from her bed twice, both times with the aid of Gruper. She had headed for the bathroom, slowly and painfully. Hardly allowing any weight to rest on her bad leg, and even so the pain had been shocking. She was going to be out of action for a while and that was troubling.
Somewhere out there the Resistance was expecting her, and she had not arrived. They would let SOE know that she had not made the rendezvous. SOE might put out feelers to see where she was, more likely they would simply close her file and move on. What could they do, after all?
Charlotte was angry. For a second time her mission had stuttered to a halt before she had even begun it. Last time it had been due to betrayal, this time it was due to an ill-timed bullet.
Charlotte tried shuffling herself in the camp bed. Every now and then she tested her leg to see if it still hurt. It was not promising. She stopped when needles raced up her calf and into her thigh. She had to grit her teeth and expel the air slowly.
Bugger!
Charlotte was also concerned about Robert. Where was the pilot? Clearly the Germans had not found him when they discovered her. Presumably he had managed to hide and, with any luck, he had buried the wireless set. Where he was now she could not say. She hoped he had the sense not to come back for her. There was no room for heroics in situations like this. Better he escape and find a way back to England to continue the fight. She could not guarantee he would be that sensible, however, and that troubled her; if he was to be captured, he might reveal her true purpose here. He would not betray her deliberately, at least she didn’t think so, but it could easily be done accidentally.
Charlotte heard footsteps in the corridor outside and stopped moving about. She listened carefully as someone came to the door, the next moment Gruper came in.
“We are transferring you to a private room,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
Gruper had been awkward around her from the start and she was not sure why. He never looked at her directly and he was always very formal. Was this due to intense shyness around women? Or did he suspect her of being something other than what she said? Charlotte didn’t like that idea at all.
“Is it far?” She asked, thinking that a long walk would be agonising.
“Just across the hall. The room next to Captain Durst’s,” Gruper continued. He was standing at the desk, tapping his fingers on the edge and keeping his eyes down. “It is usually used by visiting officers.”
“Hopefully no one intends to call and use it, then,” Charlotte said.
Gruper did not respond.
“Are we going now?” Charlotte pressed.
“Captain Durst is wishing to be present,” Gruper kept up the finger tap.
Tap-tap-tap. Charlotte was finding it irritating.
“Gruper,” Captain Durst appeared in the doorway. “Frau Juhtt.”
He bowed formally to her.
“Has it been explained that you are to be moved to more comfortable quarters?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, a mild pang of guilt coming over her as she considered the kindness being shown. Of course, if they knew she was an enemy agent the story would be different, and she had to bear that in mind, but a part of her still felt uneasy at using these men, even if they were Germans. If it was eventually learned that she was an agent (hopefully when she was a long way from here) then the repercussions would fall on Durst and his immediate subordinates. They seemed nice men, not evil Nazis, and it made her feel awkward that she was abusing their kindness.
War was war, she had to remind herself. And it was not her fault they were on the wrong side.
“May I offer you my arm?” Durst stepped towards her.
He looked better than the first time they met. Then he had looked weary and very ill. Charlotte had thought he looked sicker than she felt at the time. Now his brown eyes were alive and his dun hair was cleanly washed and swept back with oil. He looked to have taken the trouble with his uniform and gave the appearance of smartness. He smiled too, and Charlotte had the feeling that was not something he had done a lot recently.
He stretched his arm out towards her and she took his hand. He bent, leaned closer and put his hands beneath her arms to help her to her feet. Charlotte winced, even though he took most of her weight. Gruper came over to assist and Charlotte did not miss the worried look he cast at Durst. She had noticed that earlier but, befuddled by pain and shock, had not taken great heed. Now she found herself wondering what it all meant. It was almost as if everyone was worried about Durst for some reason and were being very protective over him.
Gruper tried to take over helping Charlotte to her feet, but Durst resisted him. The orderly only conceded when she was standing up, with Durst on her injured side. Gruper stepped to her other side and had Charlotte put her arm across his shoulder. The two men could therefore share the weight of Charlotte, albeit Gruper bearing the brunt as she was having to rely on her good leg and avoid putting any pressure on her injured limb.
Between them, they made shuffling progress to the prepared bedroom. Charlotte was too distracted by pain to make any more observations for the moment. She had to shut her eyes and concentrate on keeping her injured leg as still as possible. The pain was not bad enough to make her faint, but it did make her feel sick and light-headed. She was relieved when she was able to sit on the edge of the bed in her new room. She insisted they give her a moment to compose herself before she tried to lift her legs up and lay down.
“You are welcome to stay here as long as you need,” Durst said cheerfully.
Gruper cast him a wary look again. Was it the man’s words or his behaviour that had the orderly worried?
“Thank you,” Charlotte replied. “As soon as my leg heals I shall be out of your way.”
“Gruper tells me it should heal relatively quickly, not like a broken leg. But it will be sore and weak a long time.”
Charlotte nodded. She had feared as much.
“We will make your stay as pleasurable as possible,” Durst continued. “We can provide you with books and magazines to read, to keep you occupied.”
Durst seemed to be enjoying playing host. Charlotte just nodded as he started to explain where the bathroom was and that she would be provided with the same meals as him. His enthusiasm began to feel rather unsettling, like someone who was trying too hard. Charlotte was starting to gather why Gruper was worried. Durst had gone from a morose, quiet man, to this enthused individual in the space of a day, and neither persona seemed quite right. When he came to a pause in his description of the room, Charlotte interrupted.
“I think I should rest a little more, I feel so exhausted.”
“Of course!” Durst went to step forward, but Gruper was already there and helped Charlotte to pivot herself onto the bed.
She grimaced with pain. It was becoming wearisome.
“I thought I would make some calls, see if I can locate your husband,” Durst said in the background as Charlotte was made comfortable.
Charlotte almost started; it was easy to mask the movement as a reaction to the pain.
“That is most kind,” she replied. “I would not put you to such trouble. My husband is not worth the effort.”
“I disagree. You deserve to benefit from his army wages,” Durst pointed out gallantly. “And, if he is dead, you must receive a widow’s pension. I cannot allow such a scoundrel to abandon his responsibilities.”
Charlotte gave a weak smile.
“You are a better man than my husband,” she laughed, finally resting on the bed. She gave a small sigh as she laid back and tried to forget the burn in her leg. “I shouldn’t have married him. I do not need to be compensated for my own foolishness.”
“We all make mistakes,” Durst said gently.
Charlotte felt almost as if this was an opening for her to ask him what mistakes he had made, but Gruper was standing by and his agitation was growing. She bit her lip and looked away.
“I have disturbed you too long,” Durst said. “I shall let you rest. Until later.”
He bowed again, then he nodded to Gruper and left the room. Charlotte sank back on her pillow and tried to get her head around what had just occurred. Who was Durst and what was his intention? He was not what she expected from a German officer, though she had to admit she had not met many. Uneasily she looked around the room, glancing towards the window that was on the wall behind her. She felt more trapped than ever, and that scared her.
Somehow she had to keep Durst on her side until she could walk away. That might not be so hard, but she was concerned by the looks Gruper was giving her. She felt there was a secret here she was missing, something important she had not been told. Charlotte took another deep breath. She just had to hang in there and not panic. If she could keep her head, then surely she would be ok?
Gestapo Headquarters, Paris, France. 5.40pm
“I am sending you to Rouen,” Ribbonkoff said calmly as he poured Lutz a glass of port.
“Rouen?” Lutz’s face fell. That was some town out in the sticks. Clearly he had performed too badly to remain in Paris where so much important work was done.
Ribbonkoff was amused.
“You think I am sending you out of the way? Far from it,” he passed a glass to Lutz.
Lutz studied the contents uneasily. He didn’t drink, but it would be rude to ignore this gift from his superior. Ribbonkoff had already explained for half-an-hour how hard it was to get hold of good port these days. It would be impolite to refuse the drink.
“Just because Paris is a city, does not mean everything of importance happens here,” Ribbonkoff continued, sitting down in an armchair and thrusting out his feet, so only his heels touched the floor. “Many of our most challenging foes are involved in Resistance work outside of the capital. They might send people here to do their work, but they actually have their bases further afield. Rouen is where one of our biggest threats hides itself.”
Ribbonkoff took a sip of port.
“We don’t know the name of their leader, but we know he is a smart and wily man. We believe he is the same man who was responsible in Paris for the assassination of a general last year. A girl who was with him was interrogated. She revealed much, but not his real name. She claimed she never knew it,” Ribbonkoff studied the dark liquid in his glass. “I have watched you work Lutz. You are methodical and patient. They need a man like you in Rouen. Someone to wade through all the lies and falsehoods, and discover the truth.”
“I… I’m honoured,” Lutz babbled.
“You may not think so when you discover the problem I have set you. This man has evaded the Gestapo once already. In fact, he raided our headquarters in Rouen and released criminals, men who had made every effort to hurt our cause. Such a man as he, is extremely dangerous and treacherous.”
Lutz didn’t know what to think. He realised he was being set an important task, maybe one that was impossible. He felt proud that Ribbonkoff had chosen him to tackle this difficult man who hid in Rouen.
“You want me to track him down,” Lutz reiterated.
“He needs to be arrested, Lutz, and his organisation destroyed. They are a threat to us,” Ribbonkoff paused. “You have shown such potential, my friend. I would not send just anyone on this errand. Our Gestapo colleagues in Rouen have asked for an extra agent. One of their men has become chronically ill and is not suspected to live. Complications of the dysentery he contracted in the last war.”
Lutz winced. Dying by diarrhoea was not something he would choose.
“They asked for a reliable and astute man to replace him. I naturally thought of you,” Ribbonkoff smiled. “I think you could make a name for yourself.”
Lutz blinked. A name for himself? Lutz had never considered such a thing. He had always been the man in the background, the one everyone forgot about. To be looked upon as something else, to be admired, would be beyond his wildest dreams. He thought of what his parents would say, how proud his mother would be. He almost felt choked with emotion at the idea.
“Well, Lutz?” Ribbonkoff asked.
“Naturally, of course I will,” Lutz replied. “When do I go?”
“I knew I could rely on you,” Ribbonkoff relaxed further into his chair. “I shall make the arrangements and you can go by train tomorrow. Oh, there is quite a Communist contingent in the town too. Be aware of them, though they are not your priority.”
“I shall do all I can,” Lutz promised.
“Never doubted you,” Ribbonkoff grinned.
It was a wolfish smile that made Lutz a little uneasy. He was reminded at times like these that Ribbonkoff was an extremely dangerous man.
“Catch this Resistance fool and we can all rest easier. Not that he scares me, but he is an inconvenience,” Ribbonkoff drank more port. “Who knows what such wild men plan at night? Who knows where they lurk? They are wicked, Lutz, and we must be the guardians who protect others from their wickedness.”
“Yes,” Lutz nodded, following every word. “Yes.”
“Rouen is such a nice town too. Very popular with soldiers on leave. You will like it there, it will suit you. I have faith you can winkle out this fellow. You have an eye for detail and that is what is needed. I am disappointed with our colleagues stationed there at the moment, I might add,” Ribbonkoff tapped a finger on the side of his glass. “That is between you and me Lutz, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Lutz assured him, then he put the glass of port to his lips and took a sip.
The liquid was sweet, but also burned. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw that Ribbonkoff was grinning at him.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 7pm
Durst opened the door to the room. Charlotte had been reading a magazine she had been supplied with. It was a gossip and fashion magazine from two years ago. Most of the information was out-of-date, but just having something to read was good. She glanced up at Captain Durst who was smiling and bearing a tray of food. There were two plates on the tray. Charlotte endeavoured not to groan; he had decided they should dine together.
Charlotte had suspected Durst was interested in her earlier on. She was not sure if it was just because she was a pretty woman in his camp, or whether he mistrusted her intentions and was attempting to learn more from her. Possibly it was both. Either way, she had to be extremely careful.
Charlotte preferred it when the Germans left her alone. The strain of talking to any of them and keeping up a façade of being some disenchanted house-frau was exhausting, and right now she was already tired from the pain in her leg and the blood loss she had suffered. Her brain felt slow and she was afraid that she would reveal herself by accident when she talked. It was one reason she was being careful how much of the morphine Gruper offered her she took. Fortunately, he brought it in the form of a pill and she could pretend to swallow it when really she was stashing the white, chalky lozenge. The only downside was she had no relief from her leg wound.
“Captain Durst,” Charlotte said cautiously as the German entered.
He was smiling, there was a slight feverishness to his expression, a film of sweat on his forehead. Like a man high on something.
“You brought dinner,” Charlotte said politely, her voice neutral.
“Bratwurst, cooked cabbage and potatoes,” Durst explained as proudly as if he was a waiter in the finest restaurant in France. Not that any French restaurant was likely to serve Bratwurst, Charlotte thought to herself snidely. Germans and their sausages…
Durst placed the tray on a small table in the room. After a pause, when he considered the same table, he moved it closer to the bed and then dragged a chair across. Finally he removed his plate from the tray and placed it on the table, before offering the other to Charlotte. She thanked him softly.
“A guest should never eat alone,” Durst said as he sat down at the table.
“I had not thought of myself as a guest,” Charlotte replied.
Durst looked surprised.
“Why ever not?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte kept her eyes on her food, acting shy. “It just feels odd, and I am French.”
“With a German husband,” Durst reminded her.
“I say a lot of bad things about Germans because of him,” Charlotte said drily.
“He was a great fool, as far as I can see,” Durst consoled her. “I have briefly been in touch with some of my colleagues about a Private Juhtt. I am sorry, but there are a lot of men by that name.”
Charlotte hid her relief that his task had proved impossible without further details.
“It is really no matter. For all I know he never joined the army, but ran away. He didn’t want to be married to me anymore, I knew that much. War was as good an excuse as any to vanish. And he was always a coward.”
“It is hard for me to imagine a man not wishing to be married to you,” Durst said nobly.
Charlotte was a little flattered, even if she was not sure how genuine the comment was.
“I was too strong-headed for him,” she answered. “But, I am being rude talking about me. What of you Captain Durst, have you a wife?”
“Please, call me Ivor,” Durst said. “And, may I call you Betany?”
Charlotte considered the request, partly to play the role of a married woman and partly so she could contemplate the implications to herself as an SOE agent.
“I think that would be acceptable,” she said at last.
“That is good, I hate formality. A strange thing for a German officer to say, no?”
“I suppose,” Charlotte demurred. “I don’t really know that much about your army. I have been in England.”
“Of course, of course,” Durst spoke easily. “France must seem an odd place to you these days.”
His obvious empathy threw Charlotte for a moment. Perhaps it was the pain in her leg that was making her emotional, but a tear came to her eye as she took in his words. France was not her home anymore, at least not like this.
“It… I don’t know,” Charlotte quickly sidestepped the issue. “But, I asked you a question?”
“You did, and I failed to answer, which was most impolite,” Durst agreed. “Unfortunately, I have little to tell. I am not married. I never have been. The army has kept me busy and I am tied to her in a way it is hard to describe.”
Durst suddenly started to cough hard. He had not choked himself, as far as Charlotte could see, but the violence of his coughing fit was alarming. He was almost bent over the table straining to get his breath.
“Are you alright?” Charlotte asked with genuine concern.
Durst had gone a nasty purple colour and looked to be struggling to get air into his lungs. He tugged at his collar as if it was garrotting him. He had spat food and phlegm across the table and, as he recovered, he looked embarrassed.
“I am so sorry,” he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the table in broad, angry strokes.
“You are not well?” Charlotte asked.
“A bit of bratwurst went down the wrong way,” Durst’s good mood had evaporated. He had acquired a deep frown that furrowed his brow. “I apologise for my uncouth behaviour, Frau Juhtt.”
The return to formality underline the embarrassment Durst was now feeling. He moved the table back away, leaving his half-finished dinner.
“There is no reason to go,” Charlotte found herself saying, feeling sorry for him. It was not the right thing for an SOE agent to say. She should be glad he was leaving. Yet the French girl, the one who still existed in the shell of this Betany Juhtt, felt sympathy for Durst and could not hide it. “Please, do not be embarrassed.”
Her words fell on deaf ears. Durst was retreating and that was an end to it.
“I must be going,” Durst took up his plate and headed for the door. “Someone will come by later for your plate, good evening.”
He exited with haste, closing the door behind him. Charlotte toyed with her bratwurst a moment. She was hungry – she was always hungry these days – and the food was of good quality, if not extraordinary. She would eat it, but she had to think for a second.
A terrible thing was happening. She was beginning to like the gentlemanly Durst. He reminded her of another German she knew – the man she loved. Not some fictional husband, but Klaus Ribbonkoff who had first introduced her to the possibility that not all Germans were evil Nazis. Charlotte knew she had to be practical and to treat Durst as the enemy. She would need to play him to escape this camp, betray him even, she could not allow her feelings to interfere. But no one had explained that to her emotions and it was a difficult thing to completely shut them out.
She shook it off at last. Durst was a means to an end. She would recover here, then she would leave. That was an end to it. What did this Durst matter?
He did not.
Charlotte stabbed her fork into the sausage on her plate and got on with eating it. There was no place for sympathy and friendship here. She had to be hard, cold, cruel even. Durst was not important, she reminded herself, only her mission was important.
The London Cage, London, England. 10.30am
The room was comfortable, if somewhat cell-like. Klaus was relaxing on the bed when there was a knock on the door. It seemed odd, as the door was locked and only a guard outside could open it, for someone to ask him permission to come in.
“If you want to enter you will have to speak to Colonel Scotland,” Klaus called out.
A key rattled in the lock and the door slipped open.
“I merely wished to ascertain if you were fit for a visitor,” the man in the doorway was wearing military uniform. He was the lean, tall sort, with rounded spectacles and a boyish grin. If he had ever held a gun in his life Klaus would be surprised.
“Corporal Alister Donne,” the man introduced himself, holding out a hand to shake. “I have been asked by Major Reynolds to offer you legal counsel for your upcoming court martial. May I sit?”
Donne pointed to a chair in the room. Klaus extended a hand to imply he may.
“You are the barrister Reynolds spoke of?”
“Oh yes,” Donne grinned. “Don’t let the rank fool you. I am not much cop in the military, but awfully good in civilian life. When I volunteered for war service I knew I was not going to be any use in the field. I have appalling eyesight. I have these glasses for ordinary activities and another pair for reading, dreadful really!”
Donne laughed at himself.
“No, I would be no use in a traditional role, but the Ministry of War realised there was a need for a good barrister in their ranks. Amazing how many cases come up, you know. Not just British servicemen either. The military deals with any case involving prisoners of war, hence why you are here. POWs are subject to military law and are tried accordingly.”
Klaus had sat up on the edge of the bed and nodded.
“I understand.”
“Don’t look so downcast,” Donne grinned at him. “You aren’t going to be shot, and they don’t flog people these days.”
Klaus suspected that was a joke; he was not amused.
“Anyway, I have reviewed your case and I think we have a good chance of pleading that you were out of your mind when the incident occurred.”
Klaus blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We shall claim you were not of sound mind during the incident and therefore cannot be judged upon your actions in the same fashion as a man who was of sound mind,” Donne explained. “You were not thinking rationally in that moment and cannot be held accountable for your actions as a result.”
Klaus thought that was stretching the truth. Who was thinking rationally when they savagely attacked someone? Now, however, was not the time to argue with his legal defence.
“You are going to be tried before a General Court Martial. There will be three commissioned officers presiding over it. I don’t know who they are yet, when I do I shall have a better idea of which angle to push for your defence.”
“Is there a defence for my actions?” Klaus asked glumly.
“There is always a defence,” Donne looked surprised at the question. “As I said, we shall say you were of unsound mind at the time. I think that is a fair statement. What you witnessed occurring to your friend was cause enough to lose your composure.”
“Colonel Scotland keeps trying to paint me as a Nazi,” Klaus said darkly.
“Colonel Scotland will not be at the court martial. Don’t worry about him,” Donne brushed the problem aside. Now, I want you to consider your manner in court. No strong outbursts. Be polite. Be calm.”
Klaus wanted to point out this was his normal manner in a formal situation, but said nothing.
“I have every confidence that this case will be over and done with sooner rather than later and you can go back to serving the British war effort,” Corporal Donne smiled. “Have you any questions for me?”
Klaus shook his head. For the moment he could think of none.
“Alright, hang in there. I have everything in hand,” Donne stood. “Soon be over, old son.”
He left the room and locked the door behind him. Klaus gloomily sat on the edge of the bed. He found he could not share Donne’s confidence. He was pessimistic about the proceedings, anxious about their potential outcome. He sorely hoped his fears were wrong.
Rouen, France. 5pm
Lutz stepped off the train and adjusted his jacket. He looked up and down the platform. There was supposed to be someone meeting him. He took another pace away from the German reserved carriage, which he had shared with various military personnel. Lutz had stuck to a carriage containing officers, even so he had been eyed nervously by his fellow passengers. Everyone recognised a Gestapo man, and no one wanted to talk to him. Lutz did not mind their unease. It made him feel powerful.
“Herr Lutz?”
A young private ran towards him, head ducked in a subservient fashion. When Lutz acknowledged the question, the youth stood to attention and clicked his heels, giving a dramatic Hitler salute.
“Private Hartenburg,” he introduced himself. “I have been assigned to be your personal aide.”
Lutz wasn’t sure what to say. Only a few weeks ago he too had been a mere private in the German army, and he was not really used to people clicking their heels and bowing to him.
“Shall I take your bag, Sir?” Hartenburg said.
Lutz remembered the suitcase in his hand and hastily gave it to the private. Yes, that was what a man in power was supposed to do. Hand over all the mundane little tasks of life. Lutz felt his confidence returning. Whenever he was unsure, he always imagined how his mentor Herr Ribbonkoff would handle the situation.
“I could do with a drink,” he said, hoping his tone was suitably arrogant. “Is it far to the headquarters?”
“Not far, Sir, but might I suggest a detour if you are thirsty? There is a grand little café on the way, and the owner is very friendly. Many of the Gestapo prefer to eat and drink there, as our own kitchen staff, well…”
Private Hartenburg drifted off subject, looking rather sheepish.
“Is there something I should know?” Lutz asked.
“It is all resolved now,” Hartenburg shrugged. “But, there was an incident a while back. The kitchen supplies became contaminated. Some believe it was the work of the Resistance. In any case, everyone is a bit uneasy about using our own kitchen staff, unless we have to.”
“You distrust the kitchen staff?” Lutz said in astonishment.
“No!” Hartenburg said hastily. “But we are weary of our supplies. The kitchen is often left unattended. Supposing it was sabotage, we never caught the perpetrator.”
Lutz found that extraordinary and he was beginning to see why Ribbonkoff had sent him here. If the Gestapo could not even bring itself to eat food prepared in the kitchens of its headquarters, what hope was there?
“Anyway, the café serves much better food,” Hartenburg hefted Lutz’s suitcase. “This way Sir!”
The enthusiastic young private led Lutz through the station and towards a waiting car. It was a long black saloon with an open top as the weather was glorious. Lutz watched the people walking past it; Ribbonkoff had encouraged his natural inclination for people-watching. Take a good look at those passing by and the way they reacted, he had said, pay attention. What do you see? Who glances at the car or you? Who pointedly ignores it? Who seems to be desperate to avoid you? Lutz had learned all these little nuances and exploited them in his work. Now he watched the people of Rouen as Hartenburg stowed his suitcase in the boot of the car. No one was looking at them, but neither was anyone making an overt effort to avoid them. Lutz was satisfied.
When Hartenburg opened the car door, Lutz slipped into the front passenger seat. The private took up his place in the driver’s side and turned over the engine.
“Have you been in Rouen long?” Lutz asked him as they pulled away from the kerb.
Hartenburg seemed to have a lack of concern for pedestrians and drove forward expecting people to dart out of his way.
“A couple of months, Sir. I was lucky to be reassigned. The rest of my old unit has gone to Russia!” Hartenburg laughed, he apparently saw no harm in confiding in Lutz. “Those Bolsheviks are nasty bastards, more dogs than people. I’m glad to be in France.”
“How did you get reassigned?” Lutz asked.
“They needed extra men here after…” Hartenburg stopped himself; there was clearly one thing he was not prepared to talk about. “My unit was based nearby and we were asked for volunteers. Lots of the boys did not want to work with the Gestapo, they are scared of you lot. I wasn’t.”
Hartenburg beamed proudly at his lack of fear.
“Anyway, back then we were not doing anything other than drills and manoeuvres. I think if the boys had known there was a chance of going to Russia more would have volunteered.”
Hartenburg swerved to avoid a man on a bicycle.
“Watch where you are going!” He yelled at the old man in French, despite the fact that he had come up behind the cyclist. “The French!”
Lutz was silent as they carried on down the street rather faster than seemed appropriate and people darted out of their way.
“I like it here,” Hartenburg continued. “You will like it here. The girls are lovely. So friendly.”
“I am not here for the women,” Lutz said coldly, feeling it was inappropriate to be distracted from his work. “I have a mission to attend to.”
“Herr Richter said you have been sent to sort out the Resistance in Rouen,” Hartenburg had not been offended by Lutz’s tone. “Herr Richter is very angry that Herr Ribbonkoff does not think he can solve the problem.”
Lutz felt a pang of unease. He had not expected anger. He had thought he would be greeted warmly, as a helper in the good fight. Lutz was not good with people and he was definitely not good at facing situations where there was a possibility of an argument.
“Here is the café,” Hartenburg swung into a side street.
Lutz saw a café with tables set out on the pavement. A number of men in grey uniform were sitting at the tables laughing and joking. Hartenburg hopped out of the car and hurried to open the door for Lutz.
“The owner serves all sorts of German food. He gets it in specially. The Sauerkraut tastes just like my mother’s,” Hartenburg briefly became sentimental, then his natural enthusiasm returned. “Would you like a Schnapps?”
“I would prefer coffee,” Lutz said. “It has been a long journey.”
“Naturally!” Hartenburg led the way towards the outside tables. He picked one sheltered by the awning of the café and shooed away the German privates who were sitting there. He dusted the table and chair with a handkerchief and made a point of emptying the ashtray into a bin, before allowing Lutz to sit down.
Lutz felt spoilt and rather liked it.
“Would you like something to eat too?” Hartenburg asked.
Lutz was cheering up, his nerves had dissipated for the moment. It had been a long train ride and he had felt uneasy, but now he was here he was feeling much better, and Hartenburg’s fussing was reinforcing his ego.
“Oh, why not!” He said happily. “Pick me something, Hartenburg, I am not fussy.”
Hartenburg dashed off into the café, leaving Lutz alone to survey the world.
He had arrived and here was Rouen. What would the town make of him? Lutz guessed that Ribbonkoff would say that didn’t matter, as long as they feared him. He was the man they had to be wary of now, he was the power of life and death over them. Who among these passers-by, looking so casual and calm, were wolves in sheep’s clothing? Which were traitors who must be weeded out and destroyed?
Lutz had a task and he was single-minded enough to pursue it tirelessly and with no respite. He would find this Resistance leader who had so foiled his colleagues and he would bring him to justice. Then everyone could relax.
Lutz sat back in his chair and sighed. Maybe he should smoke? Yes, he should smoke.
He lit a cigarette and watched the world go by. Across the street his eyes alighted on an old building, apparently abandoned. He noted that above its door was a sign indicating it was once a newspaper office. He paid it no more heed. Instead he kept his eyes on the people, a slow smile creeping onto his face.
He was the cat among the pigeons. What joy! Which of these little fat birds would stumble into his claws? The Rouen Resistance would soon discover that Alfred Lutz was not a man to be trifled with.
Rouen, France. 5.15pm
“Josef,” Benoit appeared from the shadows of the alley and offered his friend a brown paper parcel. “I thought you might be hungry.”
Josef took the package gratefully.
“Thank you for this and for meeting me here,” he opened the parcel to see there were pressed meat sandwiches inside. “Ah, just what I needed.”
“I thought you might need this too,” Benoit offered him a small glass bottle.
Josef uncorked it and sniffed.
“White wine?”
“Sorry about decanting it into a gin bottle, but it was the only thing I had small enough. Carrying a full bottle around the streets would be noticeable these days. It is a good vintage. 1938.”
“Thank you, Benoit, I could honestly not have asked for more.”
“How did you get on with Petiere?” Benoit frowned.
“He looks better,” Josef replied, surprising himself with the comment. “I think, maybe, he has come through whatever dark journey he was on. Or maybe it is the fact he cannot get his drug and drink supplies.”
“He is clean?”
“Broadly speaking,” Josef nodded. “His drug dealer got himself shot.”
“I shan’t weep.”
Josef chuckled.
“Well, I have spent all day with him, stripping his memory of every little detail I could worm out. I made a few notes,” Josef patted his pocket, where a slight bulge hinted at a notebook. “Largely it is in my own head, however.”
“Do you think it is possible?”
“Anything is possible,” Josef shrugged. “Though, Petiere did refer to one problem. The Communists are also after this printing press. Turns out their little newspaper outfit was raided and their press destroyed.”
“For that I am sorry,” Benoit sighed. “Their rag might have been the worst political propaganda I ever read, but it was at least another voice in the dark. If they are after the same press…”
“We are faced with two enemies. Petiere suggested waiting until the Communists steal the press and then steal it off them, but I don’t know. I feel we are best to build ties with our fellow resisters.”
“You always had a soft spot for Communists,” Benoit raised an eyebrow and gave a wry grin.
“They started me off on this journey,” Josef shrugged, “and they have aided us. I would rather work with them, than against them.”
“But, if they have the press, then we will not,” Benoit stated the obvious.
“We may be able to arrange to share it,” Josef suggested. “In a way, it would be good to not have the press at our headquarters. Let the Communists take the risk of hiding it and keeping it a secret.”
“If they will share,” Benoit looked sceptical. “The Communists are not renown for being generous with those who do not share their political mantra.”
“Well, we will see. I feel we ought to try first,” Josef leaned back against the alley wall and ate his sandwich.
They were standing in the narrow passage that ran beside the old newspaper offices and the shop next door. Josef had wanted to meet here to get a feel for the place and to prove to himself that Petiere’s pessimism was not entirely overblown. Standing in the shadows, with one eye looking out towards the Nazi-friendly café, he was beginning to understand Petiere’s point. The Germans must think the offices impossible to break into unnoticed, which was why they had not rushed to dispose of the old printing press.
Josef took a swig of wine from the bottle and paused.
“Does it taste of gin?” Benoit frowned. “I did clean the bottle thoroughly.”
“No, the wine is fine,” Josef said in a low voice as he looked across the street. “Who is that new man Benoit? I do not know his face.”
Benoit casually leaned against the wall next to Josef and pretended to be looking at his feet when really he was observing the café. The usual patrons were all noticeable, mainly because they were in uniform. The handful of Germans who went to the café who were never in uniform were typically Gestapo and Josef had made a point of learning all their faces surreptitiously. There were not that many senior Gestapo in Rouen, certainly not so many that it was impossible to learn who they were and to get descriptions of them. Josef liked to know his enemy, but the man who was sitting at a table at the café was unfamiliar.
Josef watched as a private in grey uniform came out of the café and personally placed drinks on the table. A moment later he was followed by a waitress with a tray of sandwiches and cheese. She placed this down, winked at the unfamiliar man and disappeared.
“That is Beatrice,” Benoit noted. “I know her father. He is an engineer at the station.”
“Does he know how she flirts with the Germans?”
“I don’t think he cares. She brings home good money. I have thought she might be performing extra services.”
Josef narrowed his eyes. The man at the table was looking around, ignoring the private who had sat beside him and was talking feverishly. He was observing the world in a cold and calculating fashion that Josef found disturbing. At that moment, the man’s eyes drew to the alley and paused on Josef.
Instantly Josef made a play of taking a big swig from the gin bottle, then pushing off the wall and swaying uneasily down the alley. Benoit followed. Safely out of sight, Josef stopped in his tracks. He hoped his pretence at an old drunk loitering in the alley had been convincing, but there was no telling. Those eyes had been intelligent and piercing. He felt as though he had suddenly been stripped of every layer of protection he possessed, as if those eyes had dug into his very soul and revealed all his secrets.
Josef shuddered. Ice seemed to trickle down his back.
“Who is he?” He turned to Benoit.
“I have never seen him before,” Benoit looked worried.
“He has Gestapo written all over him,” Josef continued, that shudder still running along his spine. “They have sent someone new.”
“Has to be said the current lot are not getting many results,” Benoit smiled a little. “We run rings around them.”
“Don’t be too sure about that,” Josef countered his confidence with pragmatism. “This new man worries me, what if the Gestapo suspects attempts will be made to get that printing press from the newspaper office?”
“Surely it is just a coincidence he was sat at the café?” Benoit’s anxiety had returned. “That is where all the Germans go.”
“Yes, maybe,” Josef thought for a moment. “I don’t like this, I don’t like it at all. Coincidences in war are bad news.”
“Then we call off the plan?”
Josef almost said yes. He could not quite explain how jangled his nerves felt by the look of the new Gestapo man. There had been something inhuman about those eyes. They cut through you as if you were not a person. There had been no emotion in them. But, Josef also knew that in war you had to take risks. To turn away now might mean losing this opportunity forever. He knew of no other printing presses and to try and establish a free newspaper without one would be difficult. If he wanted to do this properly – and he did want to do it properly – he needed that press.
“No, we don’t call it off, but we must be cautious,” Josef paused. “I think we need to know more about this man, and about the activities at the café. Who could we send there?”
Benoit was surprised.
“To work?”
“An inside pair of eyes. Would need to be a woman, as the proprietor only employs waitresses.”
Benoit blinked, trying to grasp this twist of events.
“Monique has been wanting to do more, she feels she has a great deal to offer,” he said.
Josef shook his head.
“Monique is lovely, but she is not the sort of girl who takes a job as a waitress, especially not in a café like this one,” Josef tapped his fingers on his temple as he thought. “What of that blond girl who seems very keen? She has been doing courier work.”
“Henrietta?”
“That would be her. She seems conscientious.”
“She is young,” Benoit shook his head.
“When did age account for anything?” Josef replied solemnly. “She would turn the heads of a few Germans.”
“Are you asking her to seduce them?” Benoit was appalled.
“Of course not,” Josef laughed, though deep down he hoped the girl was prepared to use any means necessary to achieve their goals. “I am merely thinking she would fit in there, and when men are thinking about a pretty face, they are not thinking about what is coming out of their mouths.”
Benoit looked unconvinced.
“We can ask her, can we not?” Josef suggested. “We need someone to find out about this man. The more information we have, the more prepared we can be.”
“I suppose,” Benoit conceded reluctantly.
They started to walk away, heading down the quieter roads to slip out of town.
“Maybe you could have a word with Beatrice’s father about a friend looking for work?” Josef continued. “Beatrice might be able to get Henrietta a job at the café.”
“I will mention it,” Benoit agreed.
“You don’t like to involve women in our work,” Josef said understandingly.
“This is a dangerous game we play and the consequences should not be contemplated too hard, other than to be aware of them. I feel uneasy allowing a woman, a girl, to become involved.”
“Does age and gender make them more precious to lose?” Josef pondered. “We all value our lives. We all feel pain. Why does youth and beauty make it worse? I would never ask someone to do something I would not do myself, if it were feasible.”
“You would make a very bad waitress,” Benoit commented, a slight smile returning to his face.
“Is it my manner or my age?”
“I fear it is a combination of both and you look damn awful in stockings.”
Josef laughed aloud.
“How do you know?”
The tension was broken. Benoit had accepted the idea of a girl being involved intrinsically in their scheme and that was what mattered. It was, of course, dangerous. There was no denying that. But what in this world was not dangerous right there and then? Josef would speak with Henrietta and assess for himself if she was suitable and only then would he offer her the role. She would have to be aware of everything, including possible repercussions, before he would allow her to make a decision. There were to be no blinkers, no blindness to potential failure. This was not a novel, but real life.
And, whatever she decided, he would abide with that, even if she declined the role. No there was no point forcing someone to do something they did not feel up to, of that he was more than certain.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 7pm
She was learning the Germans’ names, and she knew that the man who brought her dinner through on a tray was the slightly surly Sergeant Cophen. She had noticed him on the first night she was brought in. He had helped her into the back of the military car, looking uncomfortable with the whole affair. Since then he had been in the background, never coming too close.
He appeared older than Durst and, like Gruper, he was protective of his superior. This Charlotte felt was responsible for the way he seemed to distance himself from her. He didn’t want to get too close or to speak to her. He seemed to distrust her. Maybe he was less convinced by her story than Durst, but what she could not fathom was why the men at the battery seemed so defensive of their leader and prepared to shield him from danger at all costs, and in all forms.
Cophen said nothing as he brought the tray to her and rested it on her lap.
“Danke,” Charlotte said politely.
It had been a quiet day. Apart from Gruper checking on her in the morning, and the appearance of a private with her breakfast and lunch, she had seen no one. The peace had been refreshing and her leg seemed to hurt less, or maybe she was growing used to it. Gruper said it looked to be healing nicely, though she should not attempt to put too much weight on it just yet. Charlotte was able to hobble to the bathroom and back on her own at least, which was reassuring.
The absence of Captain Durst was noticeable, and also the fact that Cophen had brought her dinner rather than another private. Unless all the men were busy, of course.
“I was not expecting such service,” Charlotte smiled sweetly at Cophen. “My other meals were brought by ordinary soldiers.”
Cophen made no reply. He went to collect her lunch tray which she had left on a nearby table.
“Is Captain Durst alright?” Charlotte decided to be daring; after all, it was the sort of question a genuine guest at the battery would ask.
Cophen seemed to wince at the query. His shoulders hunched and the tray he was picking up rattled in his hands. He did not speak.
“He seemed unwell last night,” Charlotte added, pretending not to notice his unease. “He had to depart rather quickly.”
Cophen was still not talking and keeping his back to her. Charlotte narrowed her eyes. There was a secret here that no one was prepared to mention. It was most likely not important, or even relevant to her, but she was curious nonetheless. She spent a lot of time alone with nothing much to do but think, and she had been thinking about the odd behaviour of Durst and his men.
She didn’t think Cophen was going to be informative. He was doing his best to ignore her. He gathered up the tray and left without saying a word. Charlotte almost felt like commenting on how rude he was being, but thought better of it. She turned instead to her food.
There was more sausage and potatoes. No cabbage this time, but some sort of white beans. The meal was hardly gourmet, but it was edible, and Charlotte was not complaining. She ate slowly and thoughtfully. The base seemed utterly silent.
She had finished her food and was placing the tray on the table, which required her to swing her legs to the side and reach forward, when she heard feet running along the concrete corridor outside. These barrack units were far from soundproof and certain noises seemed to carry for miles though, annoyingly, the same could not be said for voices. She had tried to listen in on a couple of conversations through the wall and failed. The footsteps, however, caught her attention.
They stopped short of her room and she calculated they were just outside Captain Durst’s quarters. Voices rang out in quick, gruff commands. Because they were in the corridor they were less muffled than before and Charlotte thought she could just make them out. Cophen appeared to be summoning the medic Gruper. A second set of footsteps hastened down the corridor and stopped.
Charlotte was more intrigued. Gritting her teeth on the pain, she slipped off her bed and limped across to the door of the room. People were talking in low voices, frustratingly the words were too dim to understand.
Charlotte carefully pulled her door open a fraction and the voices became clearer.
“I brought him his dinner and found him this way.”
That was Cophen, his tone worried and sharp.
“I only gave him a little morphine for the pain.”
The second voice Charlotte recognised as Gruper. He sounded defensive.
“Did you give him the whisky too? He has drunk the whole bottle.”
“Of course not! Let me see him.”
Footsteps indicated the men had gone into the room. Charlotte carefully opened the door a touch further and peered out into the corridor. There was no one else around, even the sentry at the main door had vanished. After all she had seen, Charlotte was not entirely surprised. Cophen and Gruper were trying to cover up some failing in their commanding officer. Cophen would send the men away to avoid them knowing what had happened.
“He is still breathing,” Gruper’s voice was quiet but audible.
“I know that!” Cophen snapped. “I checked that first.”
“This is not my fault!”
“Someone brought him the whisky,” Cophen complained.
“And you think it was me?”
Silence answered him.
“I am not a fool,” Gruper muttered. “I thought he seemed better.”
“Better?”
“Happier,” Gruper explained hastily, as if his statement needed clarification. “Since the girl appeared.”
“You think a pretty face cured him?”
“I just felt he was not so inclined to drink.”
“Clearly!” Cophen’s statement was followed by the clatter of a glass bottle. At a guess, Charlotte imagined the sergeant had dumped the offending whisky bottle into a waste basket.
“He will be alright,” Gruper continued. “I won’t give him morphine again.”
“Oh, what does it matter?” Cophen stumped towards the door of the room and Charlotte quickly pulled her head back inside.
She left the door a fraction open to still be able to listen.
“I have sent to Berlin for some other medicines,” Gruper sounded like he was trying to make amends for his failures.
“I hope you were careful with what you said.”
“Of course!” Gruper snarled. “I am trying my hardest here. If you think you can do better…”
“I never said that.”
“If you want to bring in someone superior…”
“Now you are talking nonsense.”
The two men fell silent. Charlotte could hear her own breathing and it sounded incredibly loud.
“Just… make him comfortable,” Cophen finally said, then he stalked off, his footsteps retreating.
Gruper shuffled his feet a bit, then he appeared to head back into Durst’s room.
With great caution Charlotte pushed her door closed, aiming to make no sound at all if she could help it. She had stood too long and her leg was throbbing. It was a painful process to limp back to the bed and lie down. For a few minutes all she could do was try to force the pain from her mind and pretend it was not there. Only after her leg had stopped burning could she begin to think about what she had heard.
Charlotte was convinced that there was something wrong with Durst. Whether it was a medical or psychological problem she was not sure. His appearance suggested he had an addiction to something; she had little experience in the matter, but his wild eyes, glazed skin and feverishness suggested something unnatural. And now there was this talk of morphine – could he be addicted to the drug? It would not be unheard of. And Durst was in a position to get regular supplies of the painkiller. That did not explain his coughing fit the night before.
Charlotte thought there was something else here. Something she did not yet understand. And if Cophen had his way she would never be allowed to understand. He would continue protecting Durst, for whatever reason, until she was well out of the way.
The question was, did this information aid her or not? Too early to tell.
Charlotte heard Gruper close the door to Durst’s room and his loud footsteps in the corridor. She had to resist the urge to check on Durst herself. That would be sheer foolishness, but it did not stop the desire. She liked Durst and she was concerned about him. That was ridiculous, of course, he was a German. But even so…
Charlotte shook her head. She had to be ruthless and cool-headed. Durst seemed a nice man, but he was on the wrong side and she could not change that.
All the hard talk in the world would not change her emotions. They were betraying her from the inside, making her feel sorry for the man. Charlotte shut her eyes and firmly blocked out the thoughts. The sooner she got out of this place the better. The was no place for sympathy in this war, certainly not towards a German.
Rouen, France. 11am
“I am delighted to meet you properly,” Josef held out his hand to the girl.
She was a brunette with her hair neatly arranged in the latest style, the side strands up and curled the remainder hanging loose to the nape of her neck. She wore a very small amount of make-up, enough to enhance her natural good looks without appearing gaudy. Josef thought she looked perfect for the task he had in mind.
Henrietta took his hand and shook it, ever so slightly shyly. Josef felt a pang of concern, was coyness a good or bad thing in this scenario? He could not say and hesitated. Henrietta watched him for a moment and then filled the pause.
“Monsieur Benoit said I could be of use?”
Josef collected himself.
“You may, Henrietta. How long have you been with us now?”
“Six months,” Henrietta answered promptly. “Since… since my brother was killed.”
Josef quickly filed through his memory to recall Henrietta’s story. While he and Benoit had final say on all those joining their group, and thus had at some point heard their personal woes and reasons for joining, he could not necessarily remember them all. Some of those they worked with were on the periphery – couriers, suppliers, occasional informants – and it was easy to lose touch with who they were. The same as with any group of people you might know, it was hard to remember everything about all of them.
Fortunately, Benoit had been able to provide enough reminders of Henrietta’s past to bring alive a dull, distant memory in Josef’s mind.
“Am I right in saying your brother was a former soldier in the French army?”
“Yes,” Henrietta nodded, a sparkle of emotion in her eyes. “After the Occupation, he abandoned his unit in disgust at our failure. He returned home and was very vocal about France rising up again and pushing out the Germans. He used to shout at German soldiers in the street and call them names. We said he would only get himself in further trouble, but he was defiant.
“Then the Gestapo arrived in Rouen and my brother was pointed out to them. He was arrested as a dissident and we never saw him again. Later we learned they had shot him.”
Henrietta dropped her head. Josef gave her a moment.
“The tragedy, these days, is your story is not so uncommon, and yet it brings fresh shock and grief to me each time I hear of such things,” Josef said gently. “Your brother was a brave and proud man. Worthy of his uniform, even if his uniform was not worthy of him.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” Henrietta had composed herself. “After his death, I swore I would do whatever I could to bring about the freedom of France.”
“Good,” Josef was feeling a little better about the girl. “I have a mission for you that will hopefully do just that.”
Henrietta stood taller, the light returning to her gaze.
“You have been serving us as a courier for nearly five months?” Josef clarified.
“Yes. I ferry messages back and forth. I have always been very good at avoiding detection.”
“Benoit has praised your good sense in that regard,” Josef agreed. “However, the mission I am thinking of for you is much more than just courier work and, I have to tell you, it is considerably more dangerous.”
Josef paused to see what Henrietta would make of this. She was silent, an expression of determination on her face. Josef was satisfied.
“We need someone, a young lady, to infiltrate a café which the Germans frequent.”
“The Poisoned Pastry?” Henrietta flicked her eyes up.
The café’s correct name was The Perfect Pastry, but its current associations had earned it a nickname among the younger, patriotic members of Rouen. It was not such a bad name, either. But Josef restrained a chuckle.
“For the duration, you must forget all that,” he told Henrietta firmly. “You will need to put aside all your hatred for the Germans and what they stand for. Are you able to do that?”
Henrietta looked mildly offended, as if her credentials as a Resistance member had been questioned.
“I am fully capable of being two-faced to the Germans. I shall smile at them and make them think I am an air-headed girl who does not understand what they have done to her country,” Henrietta sneered. “I can mimic all those false girls who fawn to the Germans and think it is most clever of them.”
Josef found himself smiling.
“Do you know Beatrice who works at the café?”
“No,” Henrietta shook her head.
That was good. Josef had feared that if Henrietta was known to Beatrice, and therefore her past was known, she would be no use in the venture as her hatred for the Germans would be well established.
“Do you know anyone at the café?”
“I would not associate with those girls,” Henrietta snorted.
“I do not mean, are they friends, I mean are you acquainted with any of them. Does anyone there know you or your family?”
Henrietta seemed to understand.
“No, monsieur. I live on the other side of Rouen. I only know of the café by its reputation.”
“I must press you on this, Henrietta. Once you are involved in the café, you could be at risk if someone were to recognise you and question why you are there.”
“Monsieur, no one I know goes to that part of town or that café. I heard about its reputation through the Resistance,” Henrietta answered.
“You are absolutely sure of this? I do not want to put you at unnecessary risk.”
“I am sure, monsieur,” Henrietta was adamant. “Please, send me on this mission.”
Josef contemplated her for a second longer. Despite his comments to Benoit, he had his own hesitations about sending a woman on a potentially dangerous mission. He was responsible for this girl and for anything that befell her. That was a deep burden that would make all but the coldest of men uneasy. Why was it so hard to send the young into danger? The young were always the ones that were sent, be they soldiers or rebels, and yet they were the ones that seemed the least expendable. They had so much future ahead of them and so little experience of the world, was that what made them seem so precious and vulnerable?
Josef shook off the thought.
“We will arrange for you to be employed at the café. Once you are there, we want you to gather information on its operation. What times is it busiest and, in contrast, when is it quietest? Who goes there? How certain the owner’s feelings are towards the Germans?” Josef tapped his fingers on a nearby table. “But, above all, I want you to find out all you can about a new German who has appeared at the café. I do not know his name, but he looks to be Gestapo.”
Josef watched Henrietta carefully to see if she flinched. She did not, but her eyes narrowed a fraction.
“This man is young, probably no more than twenty-five. Very young for Gestapo,” Josef paused as this thought struck him. Usually the Gestapo officers they saw were older, often ex-veterans of the first war. He had never known one so young and it made him question his own assessment.
“I shall find out who he is,” Henrietta spoke, distracting him.
“He appears to have been assigned a German we know as his batman. The fellow is called Private Hartenburg, a known fanatic and hater of the French. He is, fortunately, also quite stupid. You will know the Gestapo man when you see him being fussed over by Hartenburg.”
Henrietta was taking this all in.
“I am sure I can do this, monsieur. I shall gather all the information you need.”
Josef admired her confidence and enthusiasm, he hoped it did not blind her to the risks inherent in this task.
“Benoit is organising the arrangements. Once you are in, you will need to make regular communications back to us. This will be through Monique, who will meet with you at a set rendezvous. You will not attempt to contact us directly unless it is a dire emergency, understood?”
Henrietta nodded again, her excitement growing.
“I shall know all the secrets of the Gestapo scum! I shall make my brother proud!”
Josef coughed uneasily; fanaticism came in many forms, and it always made him nervous.
“Just be very careful,” he impressed on her. “You will be largely on your own and we will not be able to rush to your aid.”
“I do understand this,” Henrietta became solemn. “I shall not let you down.”
Josef smiled at her.
“If, at any point, you believe your cover has been blown you must flee. We shall get you away from Rouen as fast as we can. Do not hesitate, we do not want to lose you,” the sentence implied much. For a person like Henrietta, who had personal knowledge of the Gestapo’s cutthroat tactics, there was no need to be blatant. Even so, Josef wondered how seriously she took his warning, and how cautious she would really be.
He had tried, he told himself, and he now had to now detach himself from the problem. At the end of the day, they were all individuals and he could not control every thought or action his people took.
“Do not be concerned for me,” Henrietta said darkly. “I do not underestimate these men I must face.”
“Good,” Josef said softly. “That is all for now. Benoit will let you know future arrangements.”
Henrietta picked up her handbag, gave Josef a polite smile and then departed. Josef felt a shudder run down his spine as she left. There was a good chance he was sending her to her death. One slip and the Gestapo would arrest her, torture her and shoot her – if she were lucky, that is. Josef had heard rumours of camps in Germany where people were sent. Prison camps which were a living hell on earth.
Josef ran a hand over his face. If he was losing his nerve for all this he ought to get out now. He was of no use to anyone if he could not make tough decisions and be prepared to risk his comrades’ lives. Any good commander knew that he had to sometimes send men on deadly missions where the odds were stacked against them. Josef refused to send his people on suicide missions, but that was his only compromise. He could not help that his conscience niggled him, but he could choose to ignore it.
For the moment he had everything under control, he told himself. He might not sleep easy at night, but he did at least sleep. There was just one last task before he could concentrate on his plans to ‘rescue’ the printing press. He had told Benoit he would speak with the Communists and he meant it. They might not share a philosophy, but they did share a goal. It was better to be friends than enemies.
Josef contemplated the time. He had an appointment to keep – all for the sake of a newspaper.
London, England. Midday
The room was small and stuffy. Outside the July sun was shining down on war-torn London, giving its hazy gloss to skeletal buildings and rubble piles. Everything looked better, less horrific, in sunshine, Klaus reflected. He was sitting near a window and he could see outside. He was watching people, small as mice, scurrying through the streets. They darted past fallen office blocks and crumbled theatres. A handful of shops were somehow managing to operate when their upper storeys were gaping ruins, the window frames looking like jagged teeth in a cracked skull.
Klaus could not help but wonder if the major cities of Germany looked the same. Had the RAF managed to get to them and drop their own bombs? Did the German people rally round and keep up their spirits like the British? Klaus hoped so. He liked to believe that, though divided by war, the Germans and the British were not so very different deep down, and that the Germans could show just as much resolve as their counterparts across the ocean.
Klaus made a clear distinction in his head between Germans and Nazis. There was no place for Nazis in this world, but there was a place for Germans. One they would have to earn after this conflict was concluded.
“Good afternoon,” Corporal Donne dropped some papers on the table beside where Klaus sat. “Sorry I am so late, there was a bit of a moment over one of my other cases. Had to drop everything and attend to it. I did send a message so the court would know.”
Donne adjusted his glasses and looked the quintessential public schoolboy, so much so that Klaus felt his confidence ebbing. This man was too young and too scatty to surely be of any use to him? Then again, Major Reynolds seemed to believe in him.
Klaus was distracted by the arrival of Franz Herne. The SS man was in his dress uniform and looked as cocky as ever. He glanced over at Klaus and smiled. Klaus kept a stony façade. More than ever he wished he had killed the man, even if it would have meant he was facing a death sentence. Franz Herne was not worth his own life, he reminded himself.
Donne nudged him and directed his attention to the front of the room where four men were entering through another door.
“That is the Judge Advocate, and those are the three commissioned officers who will make the decision on this case. Those are the men we have to convince,” Donne paused and his face crumpled into a look of discontent.
Klaus became anxious.
“What is wrong?”
“Well, they’ve scraped the barrel a bit…” Donne sighed. “That is Major Phillips on the far right. He is known to be extremely prejudiced against Germans, ever since the last war. I thought the fellow had retired.”
Klaus looked over at an older man sat furthest from him. He had grey hair and a thick grey moustache. He looked over the court with an arrogant gaze, before blowing his large nose into a clean white handkerchief.
“We could protest, but I am not sure it is worth it, bearing in mind he will be as prejudiced against your friend Herne as against you,” Donne continued. “The others are nothing to worry about. Captain Short is in supplies and Major Bailey is in charge of the civilian defence of the City of London. I guess they had to find people who were in the country and handy for the court.”
Klaus was not comforted. He was aware that no jury was made up of specialists, but he had hoped for men of slightly more experience. Men who could understand the situation he was in. Though, probably there were no such men, as his situation was fairly unique.
“The prosecutor is a chap called Lieutenant Stebbings. Good sort, a little inexperienced. Army man through and through. Completed his legal training and went straight into the military to offer his services. This is his bread and butter. I am a bit more diverse,” Donne grinned again. “I deal with the civilian murderers, muggers and general miscreants. Makes me seem a bit eclectic to Stebbings.”
Donne chuckled. Klaus was struggling to see the humour.
Everyone was in the courtroom now and the Judge Advocate stood to open proceedings. Oaths had to be sworn and there was a lengthy process to follow before the case could start. Klaus found himself becoming restless. He tried to shut down his thoughts, to drift away – a practiced habit that had helped him on a number of occasions before, but, right at that moment, he could not manage it. No matter what he tried, his thoughts kept coming back to the courtroom and the nagging gripe in his stomach that told him how nervous he was.
Give him a gun and a bunch of Nazis to fight and he could do it without thinking, without feeling. Place him in a quiet courtroom, listening to other men tell his story and he felt sicker than at any other time in his life – and that included the times he had been at sea.
The early stages concluded, the formalities had been seen to. The Judge Advocate invited the prosecution to give their opening speech. Lieutenant Stebbings stood.
“Thank you, your Honour. Members of the jury, I am here today to present a case of grievous bodily assault on my client, Sergeant-Major Franz Herne. That Sergeant-Major Herne is capable of being sat before you in this court is itself extraordinary. His life hung in the balance after his encounter with Herr Ribbonkoff and this was very nearly a trial for murder.”
Donne twitched in his seat. Klaus suspected he was contemplating objecting, but he did not move.
“I will demonstrate to the court how Sergeant-Major Herne was brutally assaulted without provocation and how his attacker had to be dragged off him to save his life. I shall present evidence of his extensive injuries and the treatment he has had to undergo. Above all, I shall demonstrate that his assailant has been unrepentant for his actions and has gone so far as to state he would have preferred to see Herne dead. I shall prove that this man,” Stebbings pointed over to Klaus, “is a remorseless thug who deserves no mercy from this court, despite what others might say. He has powerful friends who would like to see this case quashed. I will show why that must not happen and why Klaus Ribbonkoff must be held responsible for his actions.”
Klaus closed his eyes and held his breath for a second. The prosecutor’s speech sounded so vehement and rang with such truth that it scared him a little. It made him sound like a monster, and that was even more terrifying. Because there had been no lies in Stebbings’ statements. Told in the stark courtroom, without the emotion of the moment, Klaus’ actions sounded horrific and truly like the actions of a Nazi. Klaus was beginning to feel he did not deserve sympathy.
Stebbings had sat down. The Judge Advocate looked to Donne.
“Would the defence like to make an opening statement?”
“I would, your Honour,” Donne stood, and pulled down at his dress tunic. There was still a hint of that happy-go-lucky smile on his face, even as he addressed the court seriously. “It is my purpose today to demonstrate that my client’s actions were not the actions of a man thinking rationally, but the actions of a man in deep distress. A man who had witnessed the brutalisation of his friend by the very same Sergeant-Major Herne. A man who has witnessed the worst this war can offer, and the worst displayed by his fellow countrymen and who was brought to the brink of insanity in consequence.
“This is a man who has a strong sense of honour and conscience. Who has offered his services to the British because of men such as Sergeant-Major Herne who he perceives as the destroyers of not only his own nation, but of Europe at large. He has endured great hardships to serve our country, not his Fatherland, but the land of the people he should call enemy.
“This is a man who must face prejudice at every turn, and yet who tries to maintain a strict moral compass in all matters. A man who protects the weak from injustice. And, make no mistake, it was because of injustice we find ourselves standing here. A good man, a friend of Herr Ribbonkoff was placed in a situation by administrative error that could easily have led to his death. Herr Ribbonkoff was trying to save this friend when the events that you will hear of transpired. This was not some wild act of violence, it was the culmination of months of emotional pressure and anguish. It was the act of a man who comes from a country where justice is a mockery, were you must take justice into your own hands to survive.
“Herr Ribbonkoff is not a monster, nor, as my colleague has suggested, is he unrepentant. He made a mistake in a moment of extreme stress. I shall prove this to the court and show why he should be shown mercy. He did not run away from his crimes. Rather he presented himself to the police to be arrested. He offered no resistance. He was remorseful and regretted not allowing the British legal system to take its course.
“He made a mistake, and I beg the court not to do the same. This man is a hero.
“My colleague says there are powerful people who wish him to be spared. Yes, that is true. But, they are not asking to circumvent the legal system, only that his worth to the British people be taken into account. This man is helping us win this war. He is not a criminal or a villain, he is a soldier who has been pushed too far.”
“He is a traitor to the Fatherland!” Herne barked from his seat before Stebbings could shush him.
The Judge Advocate looked at him sternly.
“I do not suffer interruptions in this court. Control your client Lieutenant Stebbings.”
Stebbings whispered something into Herne’s ear, but the man did not look cowed. He continued to glower across the room at Klaus. In return Klaus focused on the men at the front of the room and ignored him.
Corporal Donne concluded his opening speech and returned to his seat. When all was calm again the Judge Advocate asked for Stebbings to begin the case for the prosecution.
“I note that we are already well into the afternoon,” the Judge Advocate said with some annoyance. “We shall see how far you can get before this session must finish for the day and we all return to our homes. Perhaps tomorrow the defence could get here on time?”
Klaus thought Corporal Donne might have added another apology, but he did not even flinch at the criticism. He had his head down looking at his papers. Klaus glanced at the Judge Advocate, hoping this response would not antagonise the court. No one seemed to be paying attention, so he relaxed.
“Your Honour, I wish to call my first witness, Colonel John Winters.”
Klaus kept a blank face as a soldier near the courtroom doors escorted in the colonel who had been in charge of the camp where everything had taken place. Klaus knew that Winters would not be a good witness for him. Winters would be angry at being humiliated by Klaus.
The colonel walked into the courtroom dressed in full uniform, with his medals proudly pinned to his chest. The man had been serving with the army at the start of the war, until a grenade had taken off one hand and mangled the side of his face. He had been relegated to prison camp duty, about the only duty available for such a maimed man to perform, and Klaus had taken that from him too.
Klaus did not regret his actions, as there had been significant failings in the camp, but he was anxious that a man he had wronged so badly was about to testify against him.
“Please state your name and rank for the court,” Stebbings had stood again and was addressing Winters.
The colonel stood to one side of the room, behind a table. On his right were the Judge Advocate and the jurymen, on his left the prosecution and defence tables. Stebbings and Herne were nearest to him, but he looked at the jury when he spoke.
“I am Colonel John Winters, formerly of the Royal Engineers. Currently serving the War Office in the role of Prisoner of War Camp Commandant,” Winters spoke proudly and defiantly, he had had time to recover from the embarrassment of Klaus infiltrating his camp and organising a mock escape.
Klaus’ actions had been designed to aid him in rescuing his friend Hermann from the camp. He had encouraged the other prisons to attempt to breakout, arming them with deactivated guns, to create a diversion while he rescued Hermann. The fact the scheme had not been uncovered by the camp authorities was hardly his fault.
“Colonel Winters, please tell the court how you first met the defendant,” Stebbings continued.
“He came to my camp claiming he wanted to employ an orderly from among the inmates to serve the former Deputy Fuhrer Rudolf Hess, who had just been captured,” Colonel Winters stated.
“Were you aware he worked for the Secret Service?”
“He said as much. I informed him we could not assist as the men in my camp were simply too dangerous to allow even a modicum of freedom,” Winters stood up straight, proud that he had defied the request and determined to boast of his adherence to the rules of his role.
“And he left?”
“Yes.”
“Then he returned?”
“This time he stated they were concerned there was a man in my camp who had been working with Hess. This man needed to be found and I cooperated by allowing him to wander the camp and question the prisoners.”
“You believed his story?”
“I had no reason to doubt it. I assumed we were on the same side,” Winters drew his lips in a fraction as he finished that statement, a sort of pout that indicated how hurt he had been by the betrayal. “He might have mentioned to me there was another reason.”
“What was that other reason?” Stebbings asked.
“Apparently, there was a gentleman in our camp who should not have been there. He had been sent to us by mistake. He was not an ardent Nazi like the rest of the inmates, in fact, he was a deserter from the German army.”
“A problem you could have resolved had you been given the opportunity?” Stebbings asked.
Donne jumped from his seat.
“Objection, your Honour, this is speculation.”
“I withdraw the question,” Stebbings responded placidly. “Colonel Winters, when did you first become aware that the intentions of Klaus Ribbonkoff were not to root out a supporter of Hess?”
“The night of the escape attempt,” Winters explained. “I had gone home, all seemed peaceful. But, just after curfew, the prisoners attempted to escape. They had been supplied with guns by someone, and wire cutters. They assaulted the gates. I was summoned at once.”
“But you did not, at that point, know that Herr Ribbonkoff was involved?”
“No. I didn’t know that until I arrived at the camp. Everything had settled down, the sentries had repelled the escape. I entered the camp and was alerted to the fact that several men had been injured in the process. I was shown to my office where the defendant and others were awaiting me. That was when I learned that the escape had been a diversion orchestrated by Herr Ribbonkoff, so they could sneak out his friend.”
“You were aware that one of the camp inmates had been attacked by Herr Ribbonkoff?”
“I was made aware. He was being looked after in the medical hut.”
“Did you go to see him?”
“I did and I made the decision that he should be sent to the hospital. I thought his injuries were severe enough to warrant that.”
“What about Herr Ribbonkoff?”
“I told him I would report his actions,” Colonel Winters said plainly. “And so I did. I informed my superiors and the police.”
“And after that, what happened?”
“The police came to the camp and after they had interviewed those involved, it was agreed that the matter would be dealt with through the military authorities.”
“In your opinion, could this whole affair have been dealt with in another manner?”
“Objection,” Donne stood again, “calls for speculation from the witness.”
“Your Honour, I am asking the witness for his understanding of the workings of the camp system as to whether there were other ways to deal with this problem.”
“I’ll allow it,” the Judge Advocate said calmly, “but rephrase the question to make your intention plainer.”
Stebbings cleared his throat as Donne sat down.
“Colonel Winters,” he began, “are there official procedures in place for dealing with a situation such as that which arose with Herr Ribbonkoff’s friend?”
“Naturally!” Winters had been itching to speak. “We are aware that with such a large volume of men to process mistakes can occur. The standard procedure for an inmate in the wrong camp is for him to submit a request for a transfer. His complaint is assessed and a decision made as to whether the transfer should be granted.”
“This procedure was never attempted by the man in question?”
“No,” Winters said firmly. “I was given no opportunity to assist him, nor was I made aware of the issue.”
Klaus was endeavouring not to look at Winters, for fear he would reveal his own anger. He stared at his hands instead. The official options had been considered and rejected. They would take too long and expose Hermann to too great a risk of retaliation from his fellow prisoners. As it was, they only just got him out alive.
“The prosecution is finished with the witness,” Stebbings informed the court and sat down.
“Does the defence wish to cross-examine?” The Judge Advocate turned to Donne.
“I do, your Honour,” Donne rose and cleared his throat.
“Colonel Winters, for the sake of context, could you explain to the court the type of prisoners you hold in your camp.”
“They are all ardent Nazis,” Winters explained briefly.
“They are dangerous men?”
“Yes.”
“More dangerous than those housed in other camps?”
“The camp houses some of the worst individuals produced by the Nazi regime,” Winters said gruffly. “They are avid fanatics, devoted to Hitler and intent on getting back into the war any way they can.”
“What of the defendant, Sergeant-Major Herne? Is he a fanatic?”
“Objection, your Honour, calls for speculation,” Stebbings was up fast, throwing at Donne the same complaint he had had tossed at him.
“Rephrase the question, Corporal Donne,” the Judge Advocate said, looking somewhat tired with the proceeding.
“Colonel Winters,” Donne began again, “you have files concerning all these men in your camp?”
“Yes,” Winters agreed.
“What did your file indicate about Sergeant-Major Herne?”
“It informed me he had served with the SS and was considered a potential suspect in a number of war crimes,” Winters said uncomfortably.
“What sort of war crimes?” Donne persisted.
“Objection, your Honour, relevance,” Stebbings was up again.
“Your Honour, I think it is important to establish Sergeant-Major Herne’s character for the court to understand why my client chose not to use official routes to save his comrade. Which, in turn, resulted in the events of the night in question.”
The Judge Advocate gave this due thought. Finally he nodded.
“I believe it is fair, given Herr Ribbonkoff’s character will be closely examined also. Continue.”
Donne turned back to Winters.
“Were you aware of the nature of the war crimes Sergeant-Major Herne was suspected of?” Donne asked.
Winters’ arrogance faltered, his features became less hard as he recalled what he had read in the file on Herne.
“There was reason to suspect that Sergeant-Major Herne was involved in the massacre of a party of British soldiers captured during the fall of France,” Winters said. “These men were captured, then lined up and shot, against the Geneva Convention. It was emphasised to me that Sergeant-Major Herne was extremely ruthless and prepared to do anything to secure the triumph of Germany in the war.”
Klaus glanced to the side. He could just see Herne past Corporal Donne. He was surprised to see that the man was grinning, virtually revelling in the discussion of his crimes. Klaus hoped the jury had seen his utter lack of shame too.
“Sergeant-Major Herne was the leader of the escape attempt in your camp?” Donne asked.
“Yes.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Not really.”
“What about when you learned that before trying to escape he had attempted to murder another inmate, the very man Klaus was hoping to save?”
Winters hesitated, he looked worried for the first time.
“What do you mean? I don’t quite understand the question.”
“Were you surprised that Sergeant-Major Herne had attacked another inmate in a vicious fashion, and had attempted to kill the man?”
Winters was clearly foxed by this question. He was struggling to know what to say. If he said yes, then he was countering all he had just said, if he said no, then he was admitting Herne was a liability to him and a danger to any non-Nazi who crossed his path.
“You have to give an answer, Colonel,” the Judge Advocate pressed him.
Winters knew he was in a tough situation. He gave in.
“I was surprised that he had taken things so far,” he said, hedging his bets.
“You were not surprised he had attacked someone?”
“No…”
“But you found it hard to believe he would try to kill that man?”
Winters grimaced.
“I suppose,” he said under his breath.
“Despite the fact that you knew from Herne’s file that he was suspected of killing unarmed captives in the past?”
Winters seemed to be almost gulping for air. He blinked fast and then looked up.
“I guess, I was not really surprised.”
“Can you tell me the condition of Hermann Kettig when you saw him in your office?”
“He was unconscious,” Winters said quietly. “He was badly beaten and there was a red line about his throat. The medical orderly who looked at him said he had been strangled.”
“An ambulance had to be called for him?”
“Yes.”
“Was there concern for his life?”
“For a little while,” Winters admitted. “The hospital kept me informed.”
“If Hermann Kettig had asked for an official transfer from the camp, what would the process have required?” Donne flicked over some notes on the table. He almost seemed to have lost interest in his other lines of questioning.
“The prisoner files a formal request to myself and I consider it, make my own report and pass this on to my superiors who will determine the final outcome.”
“Is this process done in secrecy?” Donne asked.
Winters hesitated.
“I don’t understand?”
“How private is the request kept? Would it be impossible for others in the camp to learn about it?” Donne rephrased.
“It is dealt with discreetly,” Winters said.
“Am I correct in thinking it would be necessary for you to speak to other prisoners to assess if the inmate’s request for a transfer was based on genuine reasons?”
Winters looked uneasy.
“I may have to,” he said.
“Isn’t it fairly common for such transfer requests to end up common knowledge in a camp?”
“I can’t say,” Winters shrugged. “I have never dealt with one before.”
“Let me ask you this. Knowing what you do about Sergeant-Major Franz Herne, and in your official capacity as camp commandant, would you have concerns for the safety of a prisoner if it became public knowledge in your camp that he was not a Nazi?”
Stebbings shuffled in his seat, he seemed almost ready to object, but did not. Winters looked miserable.
“I would be very concerned for the wellbeing of that prisoner,” he admitted.
“Then, it is fair to say that when Herr Ribbonkoff made the decision to subvert your authority and the official channels of a transfer, he was doing so based, rightly or wrongly, on the fear that Hermann Kettig’s political leanings might become public knowledge in the camp and lead to him being in danger?”
Winters considered the question, then he nodded.
“I suppose that is a reasonable assessment,” he said reluctantly.
“No further questions,” Donne spoke to the court and sat down.
Colonel Winters was released from the witness stand, looking beaten. He walked away not the proud military man, but an unhappy soul with head cast down and eyes to the floor. Herne was still grinning to himself, apparently pleased to see his former commandant in such discomfort. Stebbings was looking uneasy.
The Judge Advocate glanced up at the clock on the wall.
“I am ending court for the day,” he said. “Many of us have a long journey home and do not want to be caught out if there is a raid. We will reconvene tomorrow at nine o’clock.”
The Judge and the jury started to file out. Herne stood and looked over at Klaus, giving him a nasty smile. Klaus did not look his way, though he could see what he was doing from the corner of his eye.
Corporal Donne gathered up his papers.
“I think that went well. Painted Herne pretty black and gave us an opportunity to lay the foundations for your defence. Also pulled down in flames the prosecution’s case that you are some renegade who gladly undermines the British authorities at every turn. We don’t want them tarring you with the same brush as Herne.”
Klaus hoped he was right. He had been struggling to keep calm during the proceeding, feeling the deep desire to defend himself when his honour and loyalty was called into question. Unlike Herne, however, he was capable of keeping his emotions in check.
They filed out just behind Stebbings and Herne. Herne flicked his head back to look at Klaus. He wanted to say something, that was plain. Klaus would prefer to not give him the opportunity.
“I should have cut his balls off,” Herne hissed at Klaus, Stebbings grabbed his arm and tried to push him along, they were nearly out in the corridor. “He was a squealing little pig! I should have cut his balls off, it would have served him right!”
Donne had placed himself between Klaus and Herne, but there was no need. Klaus was not going to react. He had allowed his temper to take over once, and he would not allow it again. Let Herne rant and throw insults, it was all he had left. Stebbings was trying to shuffle his client away.
“I ought to have made sure he was dead!” Herne yelled at Klaus, determined to keep up the taunts. “The screaming piggy-wiggy! When Hitler wins this war, I shall hunt him down personally and cut him into little pieces. You will see, ha!”
Stebbings was shoving Herne harder. He moved him past a man who was stood with his back to them. Herne was laughing heartily at Klaus and enjoying himself too much. As they disappeared towards a staircase, the man they had passed turned around. His face was deeply marked with a frown. Klaus recognised him as Major Bailey. The man walked passed them without acknowledging them, and Donne did not seem to notice who it was.
Klaus wondered if it was a good or bad thing that Herne’s outburst had been noticed by a member of the jury. He decided to say nothing to Donne.
They walked out of court and Klaus was placed in a car to be returned to the London Cage.
“See you tomorrow,” Donne smiled. “It was a good start!”
Klaus hoped he was right. He also hoped that Herne would continue to make his nastiness apparent in court. It might just win the day for Klaus.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 7pm
Captain Durst brought her dinner. Charlotte had been sitting up in bed, thinking about how to escape the unit and where to go afterwards when he arrived with the tray. He was smiling. Charlotte stared at him.
“What is that look for?” Durst asked her, placing the tray on the table.
“I like a man who is honest with me,” Charlotte said plainly. “You have not been honest.”
“I beg your pardon?” Durst laughed. “What have I done?”
“You disappeared,” Charlotte persisted. “No one would tell me where you had gone, but I surmised you were unwell. Why did you not tell me you were ill the other night?”
Durst removed his plate from the tray, before passing it to Charlotte in a repeat of the other night. Then he sat down.
“Frau Juhtt, I am not sure it is any of your business,” he said, though still with a smile.
“Probably not,” Charlotte replied. “But… I was worried.”
Charlotte tilted her head away, feigning shyness. She had been debating how to raise this subject with Durst, should she get the chance, since she had heard the talk of Gruper and Cophen. Charlotte was formulating a plan for her escape and, by necessity, it would need to include Durst. If she was to get away from here successfully he needed to be completely on her side. Which was why she was acting concerned for his health – and it was not all feigned. She did wonder what was wrong, and she liked him enough to feel pained for him. He might be a German, but she did not think he was a bad man.
“You do not need to worry about me,” Durst said quietly.
They had more sausage and cabbage on their plates and he toyed with his.
“I confess I eavesdropped on Gruper and Cophen, you won’t tell them?” Charlotte said.
“I won’t,” Durst promised.
“They mentioned you were in pain and needed morphine, and then there was the episode here, when you were with me,” Charlotte paused for effect. “I suppose, it is illogical to be concerned about someone you just met, but you have been so kind… It has been so long since I met a gentleman.”
Durst ducked his head. Charlotte hoped he was flattered, as that was what she had intended.
“I have been somewhat unwell,” Durst admitted carefully. “But it is nothing, really.”
“That is good,” Charlotte smiled. “I hope you are fully fit again now.”
“Hopefully,” Durst grinned.
Charlotte wasn’t convinced, but she changed the subject.
“I have spent a lot of time thinking,” she said. “I am determined that once I discover where my husband is I shall divorce him.”
“That seems wise, considering his actions,” Durst nodded. “I imagine that will be hard to do while this war is on, though.”
Durst looked away. Charlotte sensed his hesitation.
“It cannot be hard to sort out divorce papers,” Charlotte continued. “Even in times of war, such administration must carry on.”
“I think you have underestimated the political complication of your actions,” Durst said uneasily. “I don’t think the German authorities are keen on women divorcing their soldier husbands at the best of times, but you are French…”
Durst didn’t finish his sentence. Charlotte understood, of course it would be awful for morale if anyone was to learn of a woman divorcing her husband while he was in the army. It would be seen as an act of disloyalty and if the husband’s behaviour was stated as the reason for the divorce, that could be seen as impinging on the reputation of the German army. A lot of propaganda circulated in Germany, and in some of the Occupied countries, painting the soldiers of the Wehrmacht as great heroes, saviours of nations. Anyone with an ounce of sense would know that it was all nonsense and that each soldier was an individual and some would be rotten eggs – but that was not the point. The Nazis were creating a mythology and part of that involved the idolisation of their military.
Spoiling that myth by implying that one of their soldiers was less than honourable was completely unacceptable.
Charlotte had seen the German propaganda pamphlets during her training at SOE. She knew what was going on in Germany was more than just a war of might, it was a war of minds. Hitler was trying to brainwash the nation.
Charlotte understood all this, but she felt that her alter-ego Betany would not.
“What does it matter if I am French?” Betany demanded of Durst.
He gave an awkward laugh.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” he scratched at his head. “You see, you are…”
He pursed his lips together.
“Hitler does not look upon France as he does Germany. You have been conquered and you are seen as… inferior because of that. There is no easy way for me to say it. But for a Frenchwoman to want to divorce her German husband is not only unspeakable, it might imply an act of subversion, or rebellion. I think it would be very unsafe for you to attempt this.”
Charlotte, in full Betany-mode, looked cross.
“That is ridiculous! I have no politics! I don’t care if my husband serves the Nazis or whatever,” Charlotte pulled a face. “I just want to be free of him, now you say I must be patient?”
“At least until the war is over,” Durst continued.
“And what if Germany wins? What then? Will I still be deemed a traitor if I want to divorce him?”
Durst had no answer for that. Charlotte feign misery, it was not so hard to do with her leg so sore. She hunched a little, apparently defeated.
“I came all this way…”
“Please, do not take it so hard,” Durst leaned closer to her and his concern was sincere. “I understand that this is not about politics, but about a broken heart. I am ashamed of my fellow countryman, maybe, of all my countrymen.”
Durst became quiet. Charlotte had noted the inflection, she took a chance.
“You are very kind, Ivor, I wish I had met you before my husband. At least I have met you now and it has redeemed German mankind in my mind.”
“Do not redeem Germany so swiftly,” Durst said darkly. “There are too many people in my homeland who have lost their way and do not think like normal human beings anymore. Maybe your husband is one of them, or maybe he is just a fool. But I would much rather you kept a healthy distance from Germans, at least for the duration. You are too good for most of them.”
This was a radical statement for a German officer to make. He was implying that his people were making a mistake going to war and that Hitler, the god-like Fuhrer, was wrong. Of course, Charlotte was aware there were anti-Nazis within the system. Men who did not like what they saw, or perhaps had seen things that made them reconsider their loyalties. It was not usual, however, for such men to be open about their feelings.
“I… I don’t understand,” Charlotte feigned uncertainty, she wanted to draw him out and learn more about his views.
Durst gently smiled at her.
“England has taken a pounding from the Germans, but I suppose there is much that is not known over there. You have not seen what my countrymen have done to your homeland. I am ashamed, sometimes, to be German.”
Charlotte frowned.
“I thought all German military men were loyal to Hitler,” she said.
“No, that is yet more propaganda,” Durst laughed. “You know, when I joined the army I was told it was an honourable and noble career. I would be serving my people, protecting them. Instead I sit at this battery, shooting down aeroplanes carrying women.”
Durst sneered at himself.
“I never wanted to be part of some Nazi conquest campaign. I don’t even know what I stand for anymore,” Durst laughed bitterly. “None of my men know this about me. I suppose I can trust you to say nothing?”
“Who would I say it to?” Charlotte smiled at him reassuringly. “Cophen does not even speak to me and Gruper looks at me as if Frenchness is infectious.”
Durst laughed properly.
“They are cautious, that is all. I have given them a few reasons to be protective of me,” Durst gave a bashful smile. “I am not the best commander.”
“Really?” Charlotte looked disbelieving.
Durst shrugged.
“I am known for being moody,” he explained. “And I drink too much, sometimes. But I have never shirked my duty, even if I despise it.”
“Well, I like you,” Charlotte said, acting as Betany, but not entirely lying. “I hope that counts for something?”
“It does,” Durst smiled and Charlotte thought she saw a hint of relief in his eyes. “I am very glad…”
A siren started to blare loudly. Durst put down his knife and fork instantly.
“A spotter has sighted planes,” he rose solemnly. “To work I go. Excuse me.”
Durst departed hastily. There was the sound of booted feet hurrying down the concrete corridors. Charlotte sat back and sent up a silent prayer that the planes overhead avoided the bullets of the battery’s guns. She didn’t want to think about who was flying above them, or the lives that might be lost in the next few minutes.
Instead she distracted herself by thinking of Durst and her own plans. Even as the big battery guns opened fired and she could hear them booming, she thought about Durst and about what he had said. She was sure now that he was an anti-Nazi. That being the case, where did it leave her? Could she risk trusting him and ask for help to get deeper into Rouen? Her leg was a burden and she would need transport to get her to where she needed to be. She could not risk staying here longer than absolutely necessary. Every day that passed risked exposure or, at the very least, authorities senior to Durst being made aware of her whereabouts.
Trusting him might be her only option for escape, but she didn’t quite dare do that yet. If she was wrong, if Durst still had loyalties to the German army, if not Hitler, then her life could be in grave danger.
Charlotte clutched her head in her hands. This was all far too complicated. Trying to second-guess someone else was near impossible, and yet it was what she would have to do if she was going to get out of here safely.
Overhead there was a sharp whistle of a damaged engine and somewhere in the night an aeroplane hurtled to earth and exploded.
Charlotte shuddered. This was war, and maybe she was being a little too generous to Durst. He was handsome and charming, but he was still the enemy. She hardened herself. From the moment she had arrived on this base she had known it would be necessary to use him and that had not changed. There was no room for niceties, or feelings of shame that she was to betray such a pleasant and seemingly non-political German.
She relaxed.
Time to play the game she had been trained for.
Rouen, France. 7pm
Henrietta straightened her skirt for the third time. She was nervous. Much of her talk to Josef had been bravado. She wanted to do this, but she was also scared. Monique stood beside her. Monique was older than Henrietta by several years. She had dark, black hair which she pulled back tightly in a plait. She always wore trousers and had the rakish air of a confirmed tomboy. She patted Henrietta’s shoulder.
“Don’t think about it, just do it.”
They were stood in the alleyway opposite the café. Monique had accompanied Henrietta to give her support. Benoit had spoken to the father of one of the girls in the café and explained that his niece wanted a little work. Arrangements had been made for Henrietta to go to the café and be assessed by its owner, Monsieur Perrin.
“You will be fine,” Monique consoled her. “I shall meet you back here around ten o’clock, yes?”
“Yes,” Henrietta said in a small voice, her heart pounding. She had no intention of missing her rendezvous.
Bracing herself, she walked forward out of the alley and towards the café. It was a pleasant evening and German soldiers were sat at the tables outside. They were laughing and joking, just as people do at cafes, but it seemed to Henrietta somehow more disturbing coming from these men in grey. She cast her eyes about for Gestapo, but there seemed no sign of any of the sinister interrogators for the moment.
Milling about the tables was a voluptuous, pretty-faced woman. She was about Monique’s age, but that was where any similarity between the two women ended. The waitress’ hair fell in flowing, waves down her shoulders, it was a deep, mahogany brown and shone in the sunlight. She had sensuous lips that continual moved and animated her face – now she was pouting, now she was laughing, now she was puckering her lips in an air kiss to a German. There was something so alive and so dynamic about this woman that Henrietta was mesmerised.
“Ah, look!” The woman caught sight of Henrietta, who had stopped just outside the group of tables on the pavement. “It is our newest addition, come my dear, come.”
The waitress beckoned Henrietta forward and she obeyed.
“Another pretty face!” A soldier jeered.
“You be nice!” The waitress scolded him light-heartedly. “She is here to see how she likes things, so you have been warned Fritz!”
The Germans burst into laughter. Henrietta anxiously glanced about her. She had never done anything like this in her life before. Being surrounded by so many men, Germans to boot, was daunting. She smiled at the waitress uneasily.
“Are you Beatrice?”
“I am, my dearest,” Beatrice smiled and lightly kissed her on both cheeks. “You need not be nervous, I will look after you. Come on.”
She took Henrietta’s hands and led her through the tables and into the café.
“Monsieur Perrin is very nice,” she said as they entered. “And we have no real trouble. The boys might get rowdy, but they know better then to overstep the mark. Their senior officers drink here too, and they would soon deal with them. You will be quite safe.”
“I have never done anything like this before,” Henrietta confessed.
“You will get used to it. The only downside is how sore your feet get,” Beatrice escorted her through the interior, which seemed crammed with more tables. Henrietta bumped into a few, but no one seemed to mind. “Some people will make comments about serving the Germans, but someone has to, huh? If we do not take their money someone else will and they are just people, after all. Monsieur Perrin is one of the most successful café owners in Rouen at the moment. That is because he is prepared to use this war to his advantage. All very well being patriotic, but it does not put food on the table.”
“True,” Henrietta agreed, still thinking that consorting with the enemy was a dangerous game.
“Anyway, you need not worry about that. It is just a job, after all,” Beatrice paused by a long bar at the back of the café, behind it a balding, middle-aged man was wiping glasses.
Henrietta knew of Monsieur Perrin through the talk at the Resistance. He was a grumpy, sour gentleman who had few real friends in Rouen and even fewer now. He had run the café for a decade or more, having moved to the town in the twenties. No one knew much about his origins, he had never shared where he had come from and he lived alone. He seemed to have no family and he had certainly not acquired a wife during his time in Rouen. The only good word that could be said for him was that he worked hard. Before the war he had closed only for a handful of hours during the night, now, with the Germans he favoured working all hours, he never closed.
He looked at Henrietta with disinterest.
“This is the girl I told you about,” Beatrice said to him. “You agreed she could try out for a few hours?”
Perrin’s eyes narrowed a little and a frown crept onto his face. If ever there was a man who distrusted and disliked the world around him, here he was.
“Give her an apron and show her the ropes,” Perrin instructed. “Anything you break you have to pay for.”
Beatrice ushered Henrietta away.
“He sounds hard, but he is not,” she whispered in her ear, guiding her to a door which lead to a corridor and then a kitchen. “You will soon get used to him.”
There was a man working in the kitchen, preparing food for the Germans. He did not look up at them as he rushed back and forth.
“That is Sacha,” Beatrice explained. “He runs the kitchen at night, during the day Monsieur Perrin makes all the food. There is also Amelia, who makes all the pastries and cakes, but she only works during the day.”
Beatrice took a white apron off a hook and tied it around Henrietta’s waist.
“You are so skinny!” She said as she pulled the strings tight, crossed them and tied them at the front. “You will soon get your curves back here. We are allowed to eat anything that is leftover. As I said, Monsieur Perrin is kinder than he looks.”
“There!” Beatrice stood before Henrietta, placing a hand on each of her shoulders and studying her. “I think you will be a very good addition. Now, you best try your hand.”
Beatrice handed her two plates of food from a tiled counter. There was a number on a slip of paper beneath them.
“For table five, you will find all the tables have little brass numbers on their surface, but mainly I remember them by their decorations. Table five has a glass vase of Sweet Pea flowers on it this evening. It’s in the corner, right of the door,” having dished out her advice, Beatrice gave Henrietta the two plates and picked up two more. “I must get back to work too.”
Smiling, she twirled around and led the way out of the kitchen. Henrietta followed, feeling a fraction braver now she was in ‘uniform’. The café seemed hot and stuffy, crowded with tables, people wedged in everywhere. Henrietta stood at the door from the corridor and saw just a sea of grey. Every table was occupied by German soldiers, she had never seen so many crammed into one place. It occurred to her that were someone to place a bomb in the café, they could have a sizeable impact on the German forces in Rouen. Well, maybe not sizeable, but it would certainly put a number out of action and make the Germans think twice. They looked so cocky and sure of themselves at that moment, and Henrietta would like to see that change.
Enough, she told herself, she had to be nice, she had to smile, she had to pretend she liked Germans for the moment. Beatrice was already across the café and heading outside. Henrietta tried to remember her directions – the corner table, right of the door. She sighted the table and the vase of Sweet Peas. Trying not to knock into anyone, Henrietta made her way through the maze of tables, the plates of food held high, as she negotiated the tight gaps between sitters. Germans turned to look at her, their eyes assessing every inch of her body. Henrietta felt so uncomfortable she could not begin to describe it. They weren’t looking at her as a woman, but as a thing. Like she would assess a new dress or hat in a shop. Henrietta felt as if she was being considered for sale.
She was relieved when she neared the table in the corner, but the relief rapidly faded when she realised that the man sitting at it was not dressed in grey uniform. He was in shirt and trousers, looking more like a businessman than a soldier. Opposite him, fussing with glasses of iced tea, was an ordinary soldier. Henrietta did not need to ask to know that the man was Gestapo.
Henrietta could not turn away, she could not avoid the situation. She was just putting the plates on the table, trying to keep her eyes lowered, when a soldier at the table behind her pinched her bottom. Henrietta cried out sharply in surprise and the plates rattled onto the table, causing a glass of iced tea to spill.
“I am so sorry, monsieur!” Henrietta grabbed up her apron to dab up the spilled liquid. She was appalled that her first attempt at waitressing had gone so badly. She felt everyone was watching her.
The Gestapo man had gone very stiff, she feared he would yell at her. Slowly he rose. Henrietta cringed, bracing herself for whatever was to come. The man did not touch her, he stepped past her and loomed over the soldier who had pinched her bottom.
A hush had come over the café. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen next.
“You shall leave,” the Gestapo man said to the soldier. “A gentleman shows respect to ladies. Leave and never come back.”
All was said in a quiet, cold tone. Henrietta was astonished at the fear that came over the soldier’s face. He rose swiftly and left as rapidly as he could. The Gestapo man watched him go, then returned to his seat.
“Apologies, mademoiselle,” he said to Henrietta. “Not all Germans are so uncouth.”
“Monsieur,” Henrietta bobbed a curtsey, not really sure what to do and scurried away as fast as she could. In the corridor near the kitchen she stopped and tried to catch her breath. Her hands were shaking.
“Henrietta!” Beatrice burst into the corridor. “What a thing! Are you alright?”
“It took me by surprise,” Henrietta admitted.
Beatrice took her shaking hands.
“It happens, do not fret. But, I have never seen a Gestapo man react in such a way,” Beatrice laughed. “He is new to here, you know? Just arrived. His name is Lutz and he is quite the character. No one knows what to make of him, though everyone talks about him. Here, you are shaking.”
“I felt so awful when I dropped the plates,” Henrietta admitted, laughing a little now. “I thought the Gestapo man would be furious.”
“Oh, you need not fear them,” Beatrice wrinkled her nose in amusement. “They are just men in different clothes. Most of them are very nice. I hardly know this Lutz yet, so cannot comment on him. Here, best you get straight back into action. Change your apron and grab more plates.”
Henrietta started to obey, Beatrice was following her.
“It will not hurt to make friends with this Lutz,” she said as an aside. “It is best to have a good friend among the Germans. For safety.”
Henrietta did not know how to answer that, so she concentrated on picking up more plates and noting the numbers of the tables they were for.
“I think you will be a good addition to our café,” Beatrice grinned. “Do you mind if I call you Hen? It is shorter than Henrietta. Call me Bea.”
Beatrice disappeared and an answer to her question was clearly not required. Henrietta took a deep breath, then headed back out with more plates of food.
Rouen, France. 1am
Josef paused in the doorway of the building. He had only been here once before and he gave himself a moment to confirm that this was the right place. The old barber shop had been closed since the Germans occupied France. The owners had packed up and left – supposedly.
Monsieur Remini, the barber, was a vocal Communist. One of his favourite subjects as he cut the hair of his customers was the celebration of the Soviet regime and the principals of the Communist creed. His customers generally took it all with a pinch of salt. Monsieur Remini was a good barber, after all.
When the Nazis overran France, the barber had spotted the writing on the wall faster than most. In fact, a number of French Communists had been conscious that, despite Hitler and Stalin cooperating, things did not look good for them in France. Monsieur Remini very vocally declared that he would not be staying in a country dominated by Fascism and symbolically packed his bags and shut up the shop. To all intents and purposes he vanished. Only those privileged to know such information were made aware that he was merely in hiding. His barber shop now served as a rendezvous for a chosen, trustworthy few who were determined to fight the occupation.
Josef had come late to Rouen and had not known Remini before the war. However, as he began to grapple the Resistance into some sort of organised and effective fighting force, he became aware of the secret Communist element in the town. His main supplier of arms and explosives was a Communist and had one day introduced him to Monsieur Remini. Remini was one of the top men in the Rouen Communist movement – the Communists kept themselves fragmented for safety. He had been curious to meet the man. They had spoken briefly and arranged a meeting at the old barber shop one night.
Josef recalled that first meeting as being tentative and uncomfortable. Neither was sure they could trust the other, but after beating about the bush for what felt like hours they had come to an agreement. They would be allies, when the time came (for Monsieur Remini was certain the time would come when it was necessary for good Communists to fight against the Nazis). That had been nearly a year ago and Josef was not certain of what Remini had been doing in the meantime. Other than the Communist paper, of course.
Josef pulled his collar up around his chin and proceeded to knock five times in a slow, rhythmic pattern. He stepped back and waited. The windows of the shop had been boarded over and were now covered in graffiti. The usual sort boys write up – phallic symbols, comments about girls and other boys. There was nothing about the Nazis, though that might have been expected. Perhaps even the graffitists knew not to daub inflammatory comments on a Communist meeting place. There was no knowing what the Germans might do to remove it, and the place did not need revealing for such a pathetic reason.
Josef scratched his head. No one was answering and he started to wonder if the place had been abandoned. He might have come all this way, risked entering the town for nothing. Benoit had offered to go in his place, saying over and over that it was not safe for Josef to expose himself in such a way, but Josef had refused. He was the man Remini trusted and he could not delegate this critical mission. He had to know if Remini was prepared to work with him, for if he was not then the whole course of their plans would have to be altered. Josef really hoped that would not happen.
He raised his fist to knock again, thinking that perhaps he had not been heard, when the quiet click of a window being closed above him informed him he was being watched. Josef looked up, but he could see no one through the darkened, upper-storey windows. Could it have been just the wind?
From the depths of the house he heard a cough, and then a second, louder. Josef knew how to respond to this second layer of security.
“I know a good throat doctor, you should see him for that,” he said, as loud as he dared.
Josef glanced up and down the street, wondering if anyone else was looking out their windows. This road was quiet, especially at night. The properties were mainly shops and many of the shopkeepers lived in flats above them. This late, they were all in their beds trying to get enough sleep to prepare them for another day of labour.
From the inside of the barber shop Josef heard footsteps, and then the door was pulled open. An older woman confronted him. She had the scowl of a Russian bear and the build of a French wrestler Josef had once watched perform in Paris. Such a doorkeeper was enough to make anyone think twice.
“Who are you?”
“Emmanuel the muleteer,” Josef introduced himself by the codename he had agreed upon with Remini many months before. “I want to see the Bullfighter.”
The woman snorted. She was probably in her fifties, the dark night made it hard to tell.
“I don’t think he needs any mules,” she said.
This was not a code Josef knew of and he hesitated, contemplating the reply.
“I really need to speak to him,” he said at last.
The woman looked him up and down, a smile creeping onto her fierce lips.
“I’ll see if he is in.”
She disappeared and closed the door behind her. Josef pulled at his collar again. It was no good, he felt exposed in the street. He was convinced that at any moment a German patrol would come around the corner, though such patrols were minimal in Rouen. He wanted to be inside, away from prying eyes.
He was relieved when the woman returned.
“The old Bullfighter will see you, he is feeling a little weary tonight, however.”
Josef was led into the interior of the shop. When the door behind him closed, there was no light through the boarded windows and he was cast into pitch black. The woman did not appear to care about this and walked on, expecting him to follow. Josef took a step in what he thought was the right direction and collided with one of the old chairs customers had once sat in.
“You are going the wrong way,” the woman told him.
“Madame, I was aware of that,” Josef said humourlessly. “Could we not have a light?”
“No,” he was told bluntly.
Josef found that his eyes were adjusting a fraction. Moonlight was trickling in from some gap and he could start to make out the shapes of chairs. He stepped forward again, this time into the aisle of the shop, between the backs of the old chairs. He headed to a darker shape in the wall ahead, where he thought the woman had gone. It proved to be a doorway draped with a dark heavy curtain. He pushed through it into a corridor that ran the width of the building and ended on his right in a staircase and to his left in another doorway.
“Madame?”
“This way.”
He turned to the voice and had a vague idea that she was stood near the door on his left. This corridor was truly pitch black, with no windows or even a little chink of light to guide him. He fumbled his way down the corridor, his hand on the wall to guide his step. He stopped when he bumped into a solid, warm figure.
“Monsieur!” The bear-woman cried out.
Her affront made Josef want to remind her that it was she who was luring him around in the dark, but he stayed his tongue.
“Is that you madame?”
“Your hand touched my chest!”
“I apologise, I was feeling for the wall. I must have misjudged and brushed into you.”
Josef would have liked to add that he had not touched her on purpose. He might be a bachelor, but he had his limits. The woman grumbled under her breath, then opened the door nearest them. Josef felt a hand on his shoulder push him into a room. He cracked his shoulder on the doorframe as he went forward and wanted to swear, but somehow managed to maintain his composure.
The room was arranged with an armchair and a sofa. The walls contained bookshelves and display cases. An old rug on the floor softened the stark floorboards. Josef remembered this room.
The windows had been boarded up from the inside and then covered with thick curtains. Not even the slimmest, slice of light could escape or, for that matter, get in. The sole illumination was a candle in a brass holder, burning on a small table next to the armchair. In the armchair sat a man.
Monsieur Remini – nicknamed the Bullfighter because he had fought in the Spanish Civil War – was a tall man of strong bearing. He was in his forties, a little younger than Josef, but a great deal bigger in all ways. He was made of solid muscle, with arms that were as thick as tree trunks and a demeanour to match. If you had met him in a prize fighting ring you would not have been surprised.
Remini even had the features of a circus strongman, with a black moustache that curled up at the tips and dark hair, parted at the middle and slicked down the sides of his head. He had the most dazzling eyes, that cut into a man and seemed to read his soul. Only, in the candlelight, they could not be seen. Josef was glad to see the man seemed fit and well, despite his doorkeeper’s statement.
“Monsieur,” Josef stepped further into the room.
Behind him the door was sharply closed. Remini smiled.
“Do you like my mastiff? She is scary, no?”
“Does she eat Germans every day or just on special occasions?” Josef joked.
Remini snorted in amusement.
“I think she would kill them all with her bare hands if she could, please sit down,” Remini waved to the sofa.
Josef sank onto its sagging springs and heard it creak in protest.
“What brings you here?” Remini asked at once.
Josef was used to the man’s quick manner. He did not blame him for wanting to get to the point immediately. Who knew how long they had to chat before something disturbed them?
“I need to discuss a matter that concerns us both,” Josef explained. “I hope we can work together on the affair.”
“Depends what it is,” Remini said, though his tone was neither defensive or angry.
“It is about something we both desire,” Josef explained. “The printing press at the old newspaper offices.”
“Ah,” Remini became solemn. “Then you know what became of our newspaper project?”
“Smashed by the Germans, along with your press,” Josef nodded. “I am sorry for that.”
Remini shrugged.
“Bad timing, that was what it came down to,” he sighed. “I think someone talked, I can’t be sure, of course. We started the newspaper to promote our politics, but this I am sure you know. I felt uneasy about the alliance between Stalin and Hitler, I saw that this union was making no difference to the treatment of Communists in France. We were still persecuted and made scapegoats for any little offence committed against the Germans.”
“Is that not always the way?” Josef replied bitterly. “Jews suffer it too, not that any great Jewish nation has allied with Hitler. We are just the enemy all the way along.”
“We all have our burdens,” Remini shrugged off the comment. Josef understood that to Remini suffering could only be deemed noble and criminal when it was against men and women of the Communist creed. People whose political choices had place them in the firing line. No one else could suffer as badly as they.
Josef had often wanted to remind Remini that Jews had no choice. Birth had placed them in the firing line, not any decision they had made. But he was not here to argue about who was the more noble sufferer.
“I know you need a new printing press, but I also desire a press so that my organisation can begin their own publication.”
Remini frowned.
“What would you write about?”
The insult was plain, what could anyone who was not a politically active Communist have to write about?
“We wish to tell the truth about the Nazis, that is all. So many lies are spread by the German-run papers, we need to counter them.”
“We do that with our paper,” Remini observed. “Why would there be a need for another?”
Josef had to be careful what he said. Trying to explain to Remini that not everyone was prepared to read a paper that was published by Communists, and that such a paper might also lie a little to get its political agenda across, was hardly going to help.
“The more voices, the better,” Josef replied. “Besides, we might have information you do not.”
“You could print it our newspaper then,” Remini answered quickly.
“We need our own,” Josef said politely. “Maybe we can appeal to those who will not read a paper they consider political? Some people are scared to even look at such papers in case they are accused of being anarchists or dissidents.”
Remini tilted back his head, looking at Josef down his nose.
“Such people are fools.”
“They are just scared,” Josef countered. “Anyway, another voice might reach out to them and there will be no harm in more than one paper circulating. It will be good, after all, to spread the message of resistance as widely as we can.”
Remini still looked sceptical.
“Your articles would fill our pages nicely, we always need material.”
“We must have our own voice,” Josef told him firmly. “We have different views and agendas than your organisation. We cannot share your paper, but we could share a printing press.”
“So, now I see where this leads. You wish to tag along.”
Remini glowered at some spot at the back of the room. The candle flickered as if caught in a breeze.
“The press is almost impossible to get.”
“Almost,” Josef agreed. “Which is why we must work together and share the reward.”
“You will insist on printing your own paper on the press?”
“Absolutely,” Josef replied. “We shall arrange a time when we can use it. Surely that is fair?”
Remini was silent a while, contemplating the offer.
“I have enough men to take the press by myself,” he said.
“You have already been betrayed once, do you trust all of them?” Josef knew the question would hit a nerve, but Remini needed reminding that this war was not all about the Communists and that he could work with other groups outside his own.
“I don’t think I was betrayed by one of my men,” Remini responded. “I think someone was careless when they talked, someone at the fringes of our group and that began a rot that spiralled all the way back nearly to me.”
Remini paused.
“Who would think that printing a paper could be so dangerous?”
“Me,” Josef replied. “I know this is dangerous, which is why I want to offer my help. I have men who can help with the raid and I have someone in the café opposite the newspaper office. In return I just ask that we can use the press when we wish.”
“You have someone in the café?”
“A woman, observing everything and gathering information to assist our efforts.”
“Does she know about the new German?”
“The Gestapo man,” Josef nodded. “She is keeping her eye out for him.”
Remini fell quiet again.
“I lost twelve men when they raided my safehouse after the printing press. Twelve good men. Do you know how that feels?”
“How can I not?” Josef told him plainly. “I have witnessed men captured because of the failure of a mission, that is why I act so cautiously.”
Remini grimaced.
“I have sat in this room for days, trying to see where it all went wrong and asking myself what I could have done differently. I have never been so humiliated. I pride myself on my ability to keep my operation underground and secret. Now this…”
“From this you must learn,” Josef said.
“We have never worked with other Resistance groups before.”
“Now might be the perfect time to start,” Josef leaned forward. “We are allies, not enemies. Together we must bring a new voice, a rational voice that speaks the truth and counters all the lies the Germans spread.”
“You must not criticise Communism in your paper,” Remini was warming to the idea slowly. “If we are allies, you cannot condemn us. I know some might be tempted to.”
Josef smiled softly.
“I shall proof all material before it is allowed to be printed. I have no reason to insult your organisation, or Stalin for that matter. We are all on the same side, the Russians are fighting Hitler hard.”
“He is a backstabbing worm,” Remini scowled. “But I am not surprised. Look how Communists have been rounded up in France ever since the fall? My comrades have been imprisoned and shot with no concern for a supposed alliance with our masters in Russia. I have been silent on this, because it was hard to speak without condemning my own leaders and Stalin, but over and over I have thought them dancing with a rattlesnake.”
“The Nazis hate Communists, but take that as a complement. They see you as one of their biggest threats.”
Remini gave a disbelieving laugh, but he also turned away his head as if he was considering the statement. After a moment he looked back at Josef.
“Supposing we help each other, who keeps the press?”
“I am prepared to allow it to remain in your hands,” Josef said calmly. The offer was not only a good way of feeding Remini’s sense of importance, it also kept the press at a safe distance from Josef’s organisation. The Nazis would be hunting for that press soon enough and he would rather it was not under his roof when they found it.
“You would have to provide your own paper and ink.”
“Naturally, we cannot expect to take advantage of you,” Josef said placidly.
Remini paused again.
“I want this press more than you know. It is a matter of pride now.”
“With our help you will have it.”
“I could do this alone,” Remini hastened to add. “There is no question of that.”
“We are arguing over nothing, I know the strength of your organisation. I merely wish to offer my services, so that you do not feel we have used you. If we are to use the press, it is only right that we also offer to assist in fetching it.”
Remini seemed very torn. Josef suspected he wanted to accept the offer. He had been rattled by recent events and having other, fresh men to assist in this endeavour might restore his confidence. Despite his words, there was a possibility someone had betrayed him, and Josef was sure that Remini was trying to discover if that was true. He would be ruthless if he found the person who had told the Germans were to find the press.
“I have good men at my disposal, loyal men.”
“Mine are loyal,” Remini said quickly, a nerve touched.
“Then we are singing from the same hymn sheet,” Josef said sweetly. “Together we can resolve this problem and begin anew. I want to print news about German atrocities and you want to print about Communism, and how we must fight fascism. Our goals are not exclusive of each other.”
Remini was not speaking. Josef made his last push.
“We are in a time of crisis and we must hold firm together if there is any hope of overcoming our enemies. We must not let them divide us.”
“I need to think on this,” Remini replied.
“I do not have the time to let you do so,” Josef shook his head. “I need to know now, are we together or are we apart?”
Remini lifted up his eyes from the candle. His lips were tight together as if he would never say another word. There was something bleak in his expression. Josef held his breath, awaiting an answer.
Remini finally spoke.
London, England. 9.45am
There had been a bad raid in the night. Klaus had heard the explosions from the London Cage. The Cage was in an old embassy building in a very well-heeled part of the city. That would not protect it from the Luftwaffe, of course.
The building next to where the court martial was being held had taken a hit and was now a smouldering mass of ruined brickwork and tiles. There were rumours several people had been inside when it was struck and had died, but no one was really sure. In any case, proceedings had been delayed until it could be determined that the surviving buildings were safe for use.
Donne did not seem bothered by this. In fact, he was humming to himself as he entered the courtroom beside Klaus. Stebbings glanced up at them both, an uneasy look in his eyes. Donne had rattled Colonel Winters and damaged his testimony. Herne was a challenging client to defend in the first place, without the prosecution witnesses being wrong-footed.
“Morning,” Donne said cheerily to his rival.
Behind him Klaus briefly met eyes with Herne. The look that went between them was like two dogs sizing each other up for a fight. They were both out for the other’s blood. Despite all Donne’s talk of remorse, Klaus was still filled with hatred for Herne and he knew the feeling was mutual. Given the chance, they would fight to the death.
The court martial resumed and Stebbings called in his next witness. The man was the only sentry who had actually seen the skirmish between Klaus and Herne. The other sentries had been too busy trying to prevent the prisoners from escaping. This man had been instructed to remain in the tall guard tower next to the gate and had therefore been able to watch events down below which the other sentries could not see.
“Stebbings has been reluctant to call this man,” Donne whispered to Klaus as the witness was brought in. “He is Polish, formerly in the Polish army and has seen the suffering of friends and family at the hands of the Nazis. Trouble is, he is the only non-prisoner who saw what happened. Stebbings could not really ignore his testimony. In any case, he knew if he did not use the witness, I certainly would.”
Klaus was curious at that statement.
“Why?”
“You will see,” Donne grinned. “Stebbings will be controlling his testimony as much as he can, for good reason.”
Stebbings had risen.
“You are Captain Ivan Szorfensky?”
The man in the witness stand was not overly tall. He had light brown hair and an angular face. He looked rather like a schoolboy who had been dressed in uniform, but his rank suggested he had been serving his country for some time. He clasped his hands behind his back as he turned to Stebbings and answered.
“Yes.”
“You are a sentry at No.42 Camp?”
“Yes.”
Szorfensky’s accent was strong, even on a simple word; the jurymen were leaning forward to hear him clearly.
“Please explain where you were positioned on the night of the escape attempt.”
“I was in sentry tower 2,” Szorfensky said, his accent even stronger now he was speaking in full sentences.
“You remained there throughout the escape attempt?”
“Yes.”
“From your post, how much of the camp could you see?”
“All of it,” Szorfensky said, treating the question with a certain degree of contempt.
“Specifically, you could see the area in front of the gate clearly?”
“Yes.”
“You were therefore able to see when the defendant, Herr Ribbonkoff, appeared at the gate?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe the interaction Herr Ribbonkoff had with Sergeant-Major Herne?”
Szorfensky’s eyes wandered to Klaus. Klaus could not help wondering what was going through the man’s mind. What would someone so victimised by Nazis care if two Germans started attacking each other? Surely it was irrelevant to him?
“Sergeant-Major Herne confronted the other man,” Szorfensky said.
This was not what Stebbings wanted to hear and he quickly tried to redirect him.
“He verbally confronted him?”
“Yes.”
“You could not overhear what was said, though?”
“No.”
“Then, my client may have merely been speaking to him? His actions looking heated in the drama of the moment?”
“No, he was angry,” Szorfensky stuck to his guns. “He pointed a finger at him. Like this.”
Szorfensky waved his finger, pointing it at an imaginary man before him. Stebbings was growing agitated.
“Who struck the first physical blow?” He asked, trying to bring the witness back on track.
Szorfensky looked him straight in the eyes.
“I don’t know.”
Stebbings clearly was not expecting such an answer and was forced into silence for a moment. Donne was restless, wanting to get on his feet and present his own questions to the witness. Klaus now understood why Stebbings had been so reluctant to call this man to the stand.
“You were watching the men though,” Stebbings pushed. “You would have seen who struck first.”
“I was looking all over the crowd,” Szorfensky answered calmly. “I was more concerned about the men at the gate.”
Stebbings looked fit to explode at his witness, but he kept his temper.
“What did you see of the assault on my client?”
“The two men fought,” Szorfensky said, refusing to use the word ‘assault’. “Herne fell to the ground.”
“You considered it a fight? Other witnesses have stated that Sergeant-Major Herne did not have a chance to defend himself,” Stebbings had lost his cool.
Donne jumped to his feet.
“Objection, leading the witness!”
“Sustained,” the Judge Advocate said firmly. “You cannot attempt to change the witness’ opinion Lieutenant Stebbings, you know that.”
“Your Honour,” Stebbings hastily retracted his words.
“Do you have any more questions for this witness?”
Stebbings looked at Szorfensky, he was breathing hard as if he had been running, when really it was his temper that was making him breathless. In that moment he was torn. There was no more he could ask the witness, and he could not guarantee any of the answers he would receive in any case, but he was reluctant to release his hold on Szorfensky. The moment he did, Donne would take over and then things could go very wrong.
“Lieutenant Stebbings?” The Judge Advocate asked impatiently.
“No more questions,” Stebbings said, though it clearly pained him. He sat down.
Donne bounced up in an instant, looking almost too keen.
“Captain Szorfensky,” he said, smiling at the man in the witness stand. “How long have you been at No.42 Camp?”
“Thirteen months,” Szorfensky said.
“Is this the first escape you have had to deal with?”
“No.”
“There have been other attempts?”
“Yes.”
“How many attempts?”
“Four that I have been personally involved in,” Szorfensky said.
“Tell me, do these events get violent at times?”
“Often,” Szorfensky said. “The men we hold are very violent. They resist the guards.”
“Things can get out of hand quickly?”
“Yes,” Szorfensky said.
“Just between the prisoners and the guards?”
Szorfensky looked puzzled by the question.
“Let me rephrase. Do the prisoners sometimes turn on each other during these events?”
“Yes,” Szorfensky said. “And at other times too, we have very dangerous men in the camp.”
“Are there particular individuals you know to be more prone to violence than the others?”
“Yes,” Szorfensky said.
“Was Sergeant-Major Herne one of these men?”
“Objection!” Stebbings jumped from his seat. “Relevance!”
“I am endeavouring to establish the background of this situation for the court,” Donne explained to the Judge Advocate placidly. “An understanding of the tensions within the camp is necessary for my client’s defence. These are not ordinary Englishmen operating under English law. They have a different mindset, a different way of reacting. I need to explain this to the court.”
The Judge Advocate listened carefully.
“I’ll allow it, but don’t labour the point.”
Donne turned back to Szorfensky.
“Let’s begin again. The individuals in your camp have strong political opinions?”
“They are Nazis,” Szorfensky sneered the word. “They would die for Hitler, and they would gladly kill anyone who defies him.”
“What would happen to a prisoner in the camp who was not a Nazi?”
“I would not want to be him,” Szorfensky shrugged.
“What does that mean?” Donne pressed him.
“Any German who is not a devoted Nazi is considered a traitor to the Fatherland and would be punished accordingly.”
“What sort of punishment?”
“Usually, death.”
Szorfensky’s words hung in the courtroom. Donne allowed silence to fall afterwards to emphasise what he had said.
“And if the person was not just a non-Nazi, but had deserted the German army, what would happen then?”
“He would suffer a great deal, then he would be killed,” Szorfensky said bluntly.
“How do you know this?” Donne asked.
“I have seen it before.”
“In Poland?”
“Yes, and in No.42 Camp.”
This brought more silence to the court. Klaus pricked his ears. He had not heard of anyone being killed at the camp before.
“A man was killed at the camp by other inmates?”
“Yes,” Szorfensky said. “He was accidentally placed in the camp. He was a non-Nazi and he asked to be transferred. When the other inmates heard, they orchestrated a private trial, beat him with metal bars and then hung him.”
“Who did this?”
Szorfensky shook his head.
“We had our suspicions, but no one would come forward to testify. They were either scared or too loyal,” Szorfensky snorted. “I tell you this, we suspected Franz Herne of being the ringleader.”
“Objection, hearsay!” Stebbings jumped up, but the words had been spoken.
“It is not hearsay,” Szorfensky growled. “We were confident he was involved, but we had not the proof to bring to a court.”
“That is enough,” the Judge Advocate said sternly to the Polish captain. “You will stick to addressing the questions you are asked.
Szorfensky grumbled something under his breath, but made no further protest.
Donne continued.
“Would it be fair to say that asking for a transfer was a dangerous thing to do in No.42 Camp?”
“Yes,” Szorfensky did not elaborate.
“My client was justified, then, in being concerned that such an action, though the official way of doing things, could place his friend in further danger?”
“Yes,” Szorfensky answered.
“Captain Szorfensky, what did you see of the incident between my client and Sergeant-Major Herne?”
“They scuffled,” Szorfensky answered. “They were angry with each other. Sergeant-Major Herne fell down.”
“What did you think was happening?”
“I thought they were arguing over the escape attempt,” Szorfensky replied. “It was going badly for them. I thought they were angry about the failure.”
“When Sergeant-Major Herne was on the ground, what happened?”
“Other men went to assist him.”
“What was my client doing?”
“Standing back, watching.”
Klaus was stunned by this bald lie. In that heated moment he had been intent on killing Franz Herne. He had certainly not stepped back when the man had fallen to the ground. Donne was not calling his witness a liar, however. That was not his purpose, in fact, he was setting things up for it to seem that any other witnesses (who would, naturally, be German prisoners) were lying when they said Klaus had continued to beat Herne on the ground. There would be a conflict, a question of who to believe – the sentry who served the British, or the Nazi inmates who served Hitler? Discerning the truth would be about who you trusted more to tell the truth.
“Captain Szorfensky, you have witnessed the Nazi war machine in action, yes?”
“I was in Poland when we were invaded. I was lucky to be part of the army that was ordered to escape the country and head to England,” Szorfensky explained.
“You understand, probably better than most of us in this court, how the Nazi infrastructure works?”
“Yes,” Szorfensky nodded.
“How does justice work in the Nazi system?”
“I don’t really understand,” Szorfensky frowned.
“In Germany, or any of the occupied countries, if a man is attacked, beaten and nearly killed, what would the reaction be from the Nazi officials?”
“It would very much depend on who the man was,” Szorfensky said plainly. “If the man was a Nazi supporter, or a high-ranking Nazi officer or politician, his attackers would be hunted down. They would be executed, and their families executed, and anyone who had ever spoken to them executed. I have seen this happen in Poland.”
“What if they were not a Nazi supporter, officer or politician? What if they were a non-Nazi?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing would happen. It would be said they deserved what occurred to them. It would be said it was justified. There is no justice for anyone who is not a Nazi in these countries, at least, no official justice. You must take these things into your own hands.”
Donne stood a little taller, Szorfensky’s statement was perfect.
“In a country like that, especially in one where Nazism has been prevalent for so long, a man might have forgotten what a real justice system is?” Donne suggested.
“Easily,” Szorfensky shrugged. “I forget sometimes. I forget that the English will not allow anyone to be above justice. I like this, I like it a lot. But it is not usual in many parts of Europe where the Nazis reign.”
“In Occupied Europe, you have to make your own justice?”
“The only justice in Europe these days is that which you make yourself.”
“Thank you, Captain Szorfensky. No further questions.”
Donne sat down, satisfied.
Stebbings rose, though he looked in two minds about asking to redirect the witness. The Judge Advocate told him to be brief.
“Captain Szorfensky, you work for the British military and you understand all the regulations that imposes on you?”
“Yes.”
“Then how can you say you forget sometimes that the British justice system is behind you at all times?”
Szorfensky smiled at Stebbings, it was a sad smile, rather as if he thought the man incredibly naïve.
“When I was in Poland, the Nazis kept saying there was justice, there was a system. Trust in the system, they said. Look what happened. Regulations are just words. I follow them because I swore I would, but I do not always trust them. I have learned that there is one sort of justice for one sort of man, and another for everyone else. You cannot understand this unless you have lived under oppression. My mother was raped by a Nazi. She obeyed the system and went to the police, who were then under German control. They told her that next time a Nazi came to her door she should not resist him. They implied she deserved to be raped. That is what justice is in my country now. Such things make a man distrustful,” Szorfensky sighed. “You cannot know what it is to feel there is no one who will protect you from the Nazis. To feel abandoned. You are safe here in Britain, encapsulated in your rules and ethics. There is nothing left of that in Europe. Nothing.”
Stebbings gave in. His attempts to draw something useful from Szorfensky’s testimony were clearly failing. He stated he was done with the witness and Szorfensky was excused. As he walked away from the stand, Herne twisted his head to the side.
“Polish dog!” He hissed easily loud enough for the court to hear.
Before the Judge Advocate could rebuke Stebbings, the lieutenant was angrily telling Herne to control himself. Herne sneered at him.
Donne raised an eyebrow to Klaus.
“Not a nice man, at all.”
“That is an understatement,” Klaus replied.
Stebbings and Herne were now arguing in hushed whispers. Klaus watched them discreetly. Herne was a bigger fool than he had first imagined. He was damaging his own case with every outburst and apparently could not see that. Klaus was glad for the man’s stupidity. It did not justify what he had done, but it might make the court more lenient towards him.
Right at that moment, that was all he could hope for.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 11am
Durst noticed that his hand was trembling again. He placed it in his pocket so no one else would see. His problems were getting worse and Gruper was beginning to despair, but, despite it all, he was feeling a good deal better. The arrival of the fair Betany had cheered him up no end. Her company at dinner was most welcome and he had left off the drink for the time being, as he did not want her thinking he was a drunk. She seemed to like him. He certainly liked her. Wherever this errant husband of hers was, he hoped he would die soon in the fighting. He clearly did not deserve a woman like Betany.
Durst took a stroll around the battery. Their duties were largely nocturnal, but they had to keep their wits about them during the day as well. Recently there had been a handful of attempts to sabotage the guns, minor things really, nothing Durst was overly concerned with. Just some of the local lads rebelling against them. Nothing serious had occurred and Durst was not willing to cause trouble among the French citizens by making heavy-handed reprisals, though those were his orders. Instead, he tried to befriend the locals, offer them goods from the battery they could not easily come by and send his men to assist them in tasks when he could. Just the other day he had sent some lads out to fix the leaking roof of an elderly lady. He had heard about her predicament through Cophen, who walked past her house when he went into town.
The old woman had been extremely grateful to the Germans and had cried when she could offer them nothing for their work. Durst had explained they had done it out of kindness, not for reward and then had some soup and bread sent to her. Durst thought you got a lot more in life with a carrot than a stick. Maybe he was the enemy to these people, but he was not going to act it.
Cophen met him at the base of a large gun. A group of soldiers were ensuring that it was properly greased, so it could move smoothly on its bearings. Such little acts of maintenance could make the difference between success or failure when the Allied planes flew over. Though Durst always felt miserable when they shot one down. He knew they were flying over to bomb his homeland, and that upset him too. But he understood that Hitler had started this, and he didn’t much like Hitler either.
“The men we sent out to search the area near the crashed plane have returned,” Cophen said quietly to Durst. “They found no trace of the pilot.”
“He is long gone,” Durst shrugged, not really caring.
“Let us hope so, because the Gestapo were out there too.”
Durst was surprised.
“The Gestapo? What do they want?”
“Must have heard that we shot down a British Lysander. We both know the British use those airplanes in their clandestine operations.”
Durst did know that. A few months back a notice had been sent to all the batteries that they should be especially vigilant for such planes because they were being used, in the words of the Nazi propagandist who had written the thing, for ‘spreading dissension, rebellion and revolution. All such planes must be reported at once and every effort made to track down their occupants.’
Durst had merely been following orders when he sent out men to scour the area for the missing pilot.
“The Gestapo must have learned of my report,” Durst grumbled. “The men were sure they were Gestapo?”
“They spoke to some of the soldiers, asked them who they were. They said they worked for the Gestapo.”
“Damn,” Durst cursed. “I hope they don’t want to interfere here. Everything has been running very smoothly. I like keeping things simple. The Gestapo stir up trouble.”
“They would probably like to know about the girl,” Cophen said quietly.
“Frau Juhtt? She is of no relevance to them,” Durst shrugged and changed the subject. “I thought gun 4 looked like it was not turning fully on its axis last night. Have an engineer check it.”
“Yes sir,” Cophen saluted. “Anything else, sir?”
“Not for the moment,” Durst smiled. “Though I would like to take a look at the shift rotations later. There are a couple of men I would like to switch around.”
Cophen saluted again, then went to deal with gun 4. Durst went back to surveying his small portion of the world, walking around the battery and observing his men at their tasks. His hand twitched in his pocket and he clenched his fingers into a fist.
Gestapo.
He hated just the name. He knew the trouble they caused and the misery they inflicted. He did not want them at his battery, questioning his men and stirring up anxieties. But if they were looking for the pilot…?
Durst shook his head. Hopefully the man had had the sense to run a long way away.
London, England. 1.01pm
Stebbings recommenced his case against Klaus after dinner. He asked that a man named Muller be summoned, along with a translator. Muller had been one of the men who had pulled Klaus off Herne.
Muller was thickset and surly. He scowled at everyone and his German accent was incredibly thick. When Stebbings asked him questions, he seemed to begrudge answering them.
“You were present when the incident between Herr Ribbonkoff and Sergeant-Major Herne occurred?”
Muller grunted what was, presumably, an affirmative answer. Stebbings gave a small sigh, clearly losing his patience with his troublesome witness.
“Can you describe what you witnessed?” Stebbings asked.
“A fight,” Muller answered.
“Between who?” Stebbings pressed with some degree of irritation.
“These two,” Muller looked at him as if he was stupid and pointed to Klaus and then Herne. “Why do you ask such foolish questions? You know all this, everyone knows all this.”
Stebbings did not react.
“Do you know which man started the fight?”
“Him,” Muller pointed at Klaus, then he turned his dark eyes on Herne and sniffed haughtily. “I thought Herne could handle himself better. How disappointing.”
“You want to see how I can handle myself, Muller?” Herne rose from his seat, leaning over the table with his hands on the top as he glowered at Muller’s insults.
“You do not scare me,” Muller responded coldly.
“Enough!” The Judge Advocate interceded. “For the last time Lieutenant Stebbings, control your client.”
“My apologies, your Honour,” Stebbings ducked his head, then he yanked Herne back into his seat.
Klaus thought that a foolhardy thing to do with a man who had no real respect for the British legal system. Herne looked fit to attack Stebbings, but he did not move. Stebbings hissed in his ear for several moments and Herne looked, if not happy, at least placated for the time being.
“Herr Muller,” Stebbings resumed talking to his witness, though he did not appear to relish the task, “can you describe, in detail, the assault on Sergeant-Major Herne and your reaction.”
Muller shrugged his shoulders.
“He took a good pounding. Never thought I would see Herne on the wrong end of a beating. He is always the one meting them out normally.”
Stebbings winced at the statement. It was impossible to retract it, now it was out there. Even if he asked for it to be stricken from the court record, the jury had already heard it. Muller continued, not noticing the discomfort he had caused the lieutenant.
“I didn’t know who the other man was, so I stepped in and pulled him away. I don’t much like Herne, but he is SS, like me, and we stick together,” Muller sat a little higher in his seat, proud of his unit. “I thought he could have fought back harder.”
“No further questions,” Stebbings said miserably, extracting anything of use from Muller looked impossible.
Klaus wondered how many more prisoners Stebbings was intending to call. There had been a number present at the time of the assault, though few probably saw anything of use. In the heat of the moment, everything had happened in glimpses. Attention was focused on the gates and the men who had been shot during the escape attempt. The skirmish at the back of the group had been secondary and almost unimportant.
Donne rose and winked at Klaus. He stepped towards Muller.
“Herr Muller, you were part of the escape attempt on the night in question?”
“Yes,” Muller said stiffly, wary of this new interrogator.
“You were armed with a gun, I believe?”
“I was,” Muller snorted. “Damn thing jammed and would not fire.”
“Was it your intention to shoot someone?”
“Objection!” Stebbings jumped up. “Relevance!”
“I am endeavouring to establish the character of the witness and the frame of mind he was in when he witnessed the assault,” Donne said patiently.
The Judge Advocate indicated that he would allow it, though only for so long.
“Do I get to answer now?” Muller asked, casting a nasty look at Stebbings as if he was interfering with things he didn’t understand.
“You may answer the question,” the Judge Advocate agreed.
Muller took on a nasty grin.
“I was going to shoot a sentry or two,” he told Donne with some pleasure. “One of the Polish rats, and maybe a British one too.”
Stebbings could be heard to make a slight groan of misery at the answer.
“Who gave you the gun?”
“Herne,” Muller answered smoothly. “He was behind the plot.”
“What of Hermann Kettig, who was attacked on the same night? Did you know him?”
Muller spat on the courtroom floor.
“The witness will show respect for the court!” The Judge Advocate declared fiercely.
Muller glanced at the judge as this was translated to him. He sneered again.
“Hermann was nothing to me. A man who was a failure and a disgrace. He had no love for Hitler or his country,” he spoke to Donne. “When Herne said we would hang him as a traitor, I said that was a good thing.”
Stebbings opened his mouth and a thin wheeze came out, but no more. Herne was nodding along with Muller, which only made matters worse.
“I believe, Herr Muller, that both you and Sergeant-Major Herne are facing charges over the assault on Herr Kettig?” Donne said patiently.
“Yes, I find it sickening!” Muller snapped. “I was only serving my country and eradicating a traitor. I was doing my duty and you people think you can condemn me for it? If this was Germany I would be applauded as a hero for attempting to eliminate a weak link, a man who was not fit to call himself a German!”
Muller was getting into his stride and his reliability as a witness was rapidly diminishing. Donne only needed to add the finishing touches.
“I take it, Herr Muller, you are dismissive of this court proceeding too?”
“It is unnecessary!” Muller laughed. “We all know what happened! In Germany we would not waste time like this. We would have shot him by now.”
Muller pointed at Klaus.
“All this stupidity is tiresome. We have a better system in Germany, more efficient.”
“Because there would be no trial in Germany?”
“Exactly!” Muller slapped his open hand on the witness table. “They would both be dead by now. Herr Ribbonkoff for assaulting an SS officer and Sergeant-Major Herne for letting it happen!”
Herne snarled but did not jump up. Donne had a slight smile on his face, pleased at the way things had gone.
“I have no more questions,” he said.
Stebbings concurred and Muller was escorted from the courtroom.
Donne sat back down next to Klaus and winked at him.
“Hardly a great witness. I see now why Stebbings has avoided summoning many German prisoners to the stand. They are all proving too helpful to us,” Donne then paused. “The next man might be a challenge, however.”
Klaus did not get to ask him what he meant as Stebbings was calling his next witness. The man who entered was in black SS uniform, but an armband indicated he was a medic. One of the orderlies who had helped Herne, Klaus surmised, and from the look on Donne’s face, a man who would have powerful testimony against Klaus.
“Lieutenant Hagan,” Stebbings addressed the witness. “Please could you tell the court your role within the No.42 Camp?”
Lieutenant Hagan did not need a translator. He spoke good English. He was obviously highly educated and spoke with authority. Klaus could see why Donne felt he had the potential to be a dangerous witness.
“I serve the camp as a medical orderly,” Hagan explained. “I was a medic in the army, however, I am not a qualified doctor. My training was incomplete when war broke out and I was recruited into the SS.”
“You attended Sergeant-Major Herne on the night of the escape attempt?”
“Yes. Two men brought him into the hut which serves as the camp’s infirmary. I was in bed at the time.”
“Were you aware that an escape attempt was in progress?” Stebbings asked.
“I heard the commotion,” Hagan hefted his shoulders to indicate he had not thought much of the trouble. “I knew something was afoot, but I was not interested in becoming involved. These matters never go well.”
“What happened when Herne arrived in the infirmary?”
“I sleep in a room off the medical area. I am always on duty. When Herne was brought in I heard men shouting for me and I appeared. I saw that he was battered and bruised.”
“You assessed his condition?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe it?”
Hagan took a deep breath, as if about to give a speech.
“I began by checking his pulse and heart rate, both were slightly slow. He was breathing shallowly, and I was concerned his oesophagus had been crushed. That did not prove to be the case. He had a number of cuts and bruises. His face was swollen and I suspected broken ribs. I thought his lungs might have been punctured, if that was the case.”
“How did you treat him?”
“I placed him on a bed and cleaned and dressed his injuries. Then I informed Colonel Winters that I would need to transfer Herne to hospital where he could receive more specialised care.”
“Were you aware of how the injuries were sustained?”
Donne jumped up.
“Objection, requires witness to speculate.”
“The witness may answer, but only what he knows to be fact from his own observations. He cannot repeat hearsay,” the Judge Advocate countered. “Is that understood, Lieutenant Hagan?”
“Yes,” Hagan said quietly.
“You may answer.”
Hagan briefly considered his response, then he looked directly at Stebbings.
“From my examination of Herne’s injuries, I could see that he had been beaten. I assumed he had been in a fight.”
“Was his condition life-threatening, in your opinion?” Stebbings asked.
Hagan once again took a moment before replying.
“I did not think I had the facilities to treat his injuries successfully,” he said. “I was concerned that without proper medical treatment they could prove hazardous to life. Particularly if my concerns about the lungs being punctured was accurate. Also, Herne had taken several blows to the head and it was impossible for me to say what damage that had caused.”
“Very serious then?” Stebbings persisted.
“Potentially, yes,” Hagan replied carefully.
His clinical assessment of Herne’s injuries had painted a picture for the court of just how savage Klaus’ attack had been. Klaus clenched and unclenched his fists in anxiety. The emotionless description of his actions was unsettling. He was not a cruel man and, even though his hatred still burned, he was sickened at how close he had come to becoming just like his uncles who would think nothing of beating a man to death. Klaus almost felt he deserved the condemnation of the court.
Stebbings had finished questioning Hagan and Donne now rose. There was not a great deal he could do to counter the testimony the court had just heard, but he could attempt to place it into context.
“As the camp medic, you must treat a range of conditions?” Donne began.
“Yes,” Hagan replied.
“Do you often see cases such as that of Sergeant-Major Herne?”
“Men injured from beatings?” Hagan asked to clarify, then he nodded. “I see such things relatively frequently. The men get into arguments.”
“What about instances where men have been attacked and beaten as an act of punishment? Say, because they were deemed to have betrayed the Fatherland?”
“That happens,” Hagan admitted. “More often I treat both participants in a fight, however.”
“Have you treated Sergeant-Major Herne before?”
Hagan glanced briefly at Herne, something in his gaze that made Klaus pay closer attention.
“Not Herne, no.”
“Have any of the men you have treated for being beaten stated who was their assailant?”
“Objection, requires the witness to repeat hearsay!” Stebbings jumped up.
Donne hastily retracted his question.
“Lieutenant Hagan, you were concerned enough about Sergeant-Major Herne’s injuries to recommend he went to hospital, have you ever had cause to do something similar in the past with other patients?”
“A couple of times,” Hagan agreed.
“What was the nature of their illness?”
“One had suspected Meningitis,” Hagan answered. “The other had been beaten badly.”
“Who was that man?”
“He was called Johan Ritter.”
“Was?”
“He died,” Hagan said bluntly.
“Can you recall the circumstances surrounding Ritter being brought to you?”
“Objection, relevance.” Stebbings stood fast, his enthusiasm for the case had returned with Hagan’s calm demeanour and reliability as a witness.
“I have a point, your Honour,” Donne quickly added.
“You better make it quick,” the Judge Advocate replied.
Donne looked back to Hagan.
“Should I repeat the question?”
“No,” Hagan answered. “I was called to one of the latrine blocks. Ritter was inside. He was battered and bruised, and an attempt had been made to hang him from a pipe. But the pipe had snapped and water was pouring all over the floor.”
“Ritter was badly injured?”
“Yes. I felt his life hung in the balance.”
“But you had no idea what had happened to him?”
“Nothing other than I could see he had been attacked and beaten,” Hagan was looking a little uncertain now.
“Lieutenant Hagan, I have looked at the records you keep in the infirmary and, I have to call you out on one thing. You have treated Sergeant-Major Herne in the past.”
Hagan’s eyes flicked to Herne again, there seemed to be some attempt at silent communication. The man looked uneasy.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“On the ninth of January 1941, the same day you treated Ritter for life-threatening injuries, Sergeant-Major Herne came to the infirmary complaining of a pain in his hand,” Donne went to the table where Klaus was sitting and took up a piece of paper. “Do you recall now?”
Hagan looked more uncomfortable.
“I must apologise, I must have forgotten.”
“Can you recall the nature of his complaint?” Donne pressed.
Hagan pursed his lips, reluctant to speak.
“I think he had fallen over and wrenched his thumb.”
“Shall I read the report you made on that day?” Donne did not give Hagan time to answer. “You state in your records, ‘Sergeant-Major Franz Herne presented with a broken thumb and lacerations on both hands. There was bruising on the knuckles and the skin had split in places.’ That was what you wrote. I may be no doctor, but I know such injuries are consistent with repeatedly punching something, such as a person.”
Hagan shrugged.
“Isn’t it also true, Lieutenant Hagan, that when the police called at the camp to investigate the murder of Ritter, who had sadly died in hospital, that you indicated that Franz Herne might have been responsible?”
“Bastard!” Herne hissed.
Hagan was looking down at the floor, trying to not make eye contact with anyone.
“Your conscience got the better of you that day, I imagine,” Donne continued softly. “Later on, you realised it was safer to say nothing. You might end up like Ritter, otherwise.”
“Objection, speculation!” Stebbings pounced, but he looked uneasy.
“I’ll retract that,” Donne said pleasantly, knowing his point had been made and Hagan was rapidly being discredited as a witness. “One last question, Lieutenant Hagan. Am I correct in saying you knew Franz Herne before you were made a prisoner of the British?”
“Yes,” Hagan seemed to choke on the words.
“In fact, he recruited you into the SS?”
“Yes.”
“Could you tell us how that came about?”
Hagan closed his eyes, his tension palpable. When he finally opened them he looked miserable.
“We came from the same town.”
“Is it not true you were at school together and were friends as boys?” Donne said louder.
Hagan seemed to have lost all his confidence. He forced out his reply.
“Yes.”
“You owe Herne a lot, don’t you Lieutenant Hagan? You would do anything for him,” Donne left the statement hanging. “No further questions.”
Hagan was defeated. Stebbings stood and he seemed to debate asking further questions, then he reconsidered. Lieutenant Hagan was dismissed from the witness stand and left looking a miserable and unhappy man. Herne glared at his back as he left the courtroom.
“I am calling an end to today’s proceedings, so that everyone can get to their homes before we are visited by the Luftwaffe,” the Judge Advocate said solemnly. “We will begin again in the morning.”
They all rose. Donne turned to Klaus.
“That went better than I had hoped,” he said. “Only a couple more witnesses for the prosecution and then it is our turn. So far, Herne is not looking quite like the innocent victim Stebbings would hope for.”
“But, the truth is, I attacked him,” Klaus was not feeling so optimistic. The words of Hagan had struck home. The realisation of what he had done was making him feel as if he did not deserve any sort of sympathy or mercy.
“Truth is relative. I told you, I intend to demonstrate that you were out of your mind with distress over the sight of Hermann at the time. It’s not an excuse, but a mitigation.”
Klaus shook his head, he did not think the court would buy such a defence.
“Have faith,” Donne patted his shoulder. “All to play for as yet.”
Gestapo Headquarters, Rouen, France. 5pm
Lutz had been summoned just as he was about to leave for the day. He had been settling into his office and adjusting to the new faces and habits of the place. There were all sorts of little, personal quirks he had to get used to. Like how his colleague, Braun, always held a meeting at four o’clock and insisted everyone take tea while they were going over the day’s events. You had to tolerate these little habits to fit in. Lutz was learning, but not fast enough for his own liking.
As it happened, he was the only Gestapo officer left in the building by five. All the others had gone for dinner. That meant he was the only one who could be summoned when a prisoner was brought into the building.
Lutz was aware that men had been out looking for someone under the orders of the Gestapo, but no one had explained precisely what was going on to him. He was still the outsider, the intruder and everyone was cagey about what they said to him. That was annoying, but it was the sort of thing Lutz was used to. He had experienced it throughout his life.
When he was found by a guard who was looking for an officer to report to, Lutz was rather glad that he had stayed behind when the others went. He now had an opportunity to be ahead of the game, instead of behind.
Lutz was escorted to the basement where prisoners were held in small cells, once used to store food and wine. The cells had been divided up, where necessary, and supplied with stout doors that could be bolted shut. Lutz was used to the groaning that always came from those kept in these rooms. He blocked it out with the conviction that they were bad people who were attempting to subvert the Fuhrer’s power and control of Europe. Such people could groan all they wanted, they would get no sympathy from him.
The soldier who had fetched him, showed him to one of the cells. Lutz peered through the small window to see a man sitting inside.
“Who is he?”
“The British pilot we were searching for,” the soldier said, looking a little surprised by the question.
Lutz was wrong-footed; he knew nothing about a British pilot or a search for him. But admitting that would look extremely bad in front of an ordinary soldier.
“Where did you find him?” He asked instead, hoping to get the answers he needed in a roundabout fashion.
“He was hiding in the woods. A farmer reported that his wife had had some bread stolen from the kitchen. We found him not far away. He didn’t seem to know what to do.”
“And the plane?”
“The wreckage is where it crashed. There is an anti-aircraft battery nearby, if we wanted they could secure the wreckage there.”
Lutz did not answer. He was not interested in the plane.
“Has he said anything?”
“Not to us,” the soldier shrugged.
“Bring him up to one of the interrogation rooms,” Lutz said. “Let’s see what he says.”
Lutz prepared himself for speaking to the pilot. He liked to take a moment to compose his thoughts and consider the questions he would ask. It also never hurt to allow the person in question to ‘sweat’ a little before he arrived. That was something he had learned from Ribbonkoff – the power of silent waiting. Still, he did not want to waste too much time, in case his colleagues returned and ousted him from the interrogation.
Lutz was a little excited. This would be his first interrogation in Rouen and clearly of a significant person who his colleagues were eager to trace. He wished he could have learned more details from the soldier he had spoken to, but he had feared showing his ignorance. He would have to learn all he could from the suspect.
Lutz made his way along the second floor corridor of the chateau. This was where rooms were set aside for the interviewing of dissidents and those who supported them. Once, before the war, these rooms had been reception rooms and private sitting rooms. One had been a library and the Gestapo had taken pleasure in perusing the books and removing any they perceived as subversive or anti-fascist and using them as fuel for the fireplaces. The room that Lutz could see the soldier standing outside was a smaller chamber that was once used as a retiring room for ladies. He was glad this room had been picked as he found the bigger rooms uncomfortably ornate for his purposes. Rather as if the weight of French history was bearing down on him as soon as he entered. Not the sort of pressure you wanted when interviewing a man.
“Thank you, private,” Lutz nodded to the soldier, then wondered if it was a breach of etiquette. Probably a nod would have been sufficient, thanking the man was too extreme. He cringed inwardly. He had to be more careful. He could not have the soldiers thinking he was weak. He had to remember he was not one of them anymore and did not need to try and win them over.
The soldier made no response, except for a polite ‘sir’ and then stepped aside so Lutz could enter the room. The captured pilot was sitting before a table that had been brought into the room with his hands bound behind his back by metal cuffs. He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened. Lutz walked in and the private stepped in behind him.
Lutz had wanted to conduct the interrogation alone; he did not want the soldier to realise that he knew nothing about what was going on. He started to turn to order the private to leave and then second-guessed himself. The private had walked in so confidently that it seemed it was the norm here for a soldier to be present when a suspect was interrogated. Lutz recalled the recent security breach that had caused so much trouble for the Gestapo in Rouen. Perhaps it had been decided it was wisest to always have an armed man in the room, for the private was armed with a pistol. Lutz opted to say nothing.
“I think I should introduce myself,” Lutz took his place in the empty chair opposite the prisoner. “I am Herr Lutz and you are?”
The prisoner looked uneasy. He was young and dazed. The last few days had left him reeling. He found it hard to meet Lutz’s eyes.
“Er…”
“Ah, my friend, excuse my poor manners!” Lutz continued in a conversational tone. He had learned from Ribbonkoff that many men responded to a friendly approach better than a hostile one. They had prepared themselves for the worst, expecting violence and torture, certainly aggressive questioning. When confronted instead by politeness and pleasantry it could throw them enough to drop their guard. “I meant to offer you a cigarette and we shall have those handcuffs off.”
Lutz pointed at the guard who came forward silently and removed the cuffs. He showed no sign of whether he was concerned about the move or not.
“That is better. We can have a nice chat now,” Lutz pulled cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to the pilot. “They are German, naturally, but I have been told they are as good as a British cigarette.”
The pilot took one with trembling fingers. His terror at what was to come had not been mollified by Lutz’s gentle tone, but he was now confused. Lutz pulled out a lighter and lit the cigarette for him.
“You have missed smoking, I imagine!” Lutz remarked blithely.
“It’s been a few days…” the pilot admitted before he realised who he was talking to and shut down again.
Lutz was not concerned. He had made the first crack and now he just needed to work on hammering it wide open.
“I understand you were in the woods?” Lutz continued. “Your plane crashed.”
“I… I was shot down,” the pilot’s eyes flickered with the memory.
“An awful thing, this war causes such wickedness,” Lutz tutted to himself, as if he was an observer and not part of the German war machine. “By the way, I did not catch your name?”
“Erm…”
“Name, rank and number. You can tell me that,” Lutz smiled and turned to take an ashtray off the windowsill behind him. He set it before the pilot. “We are friends here. This is just the formality we have to go through before you are sent off to a prisoner of war camp.”
Lutz waved a hand in the air.
“I just have to get the paperwork done and then you can go. What you do after that is your own business, I hear you RAF boys like to plot escapes,” Lutz chuckled. “As it should be, I expect every German officer imprisoned in England is plotting to get out too. Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Lutz’s soft laughter and polite ribbing was infectious. The pilot grinned sheepishly at the inference.
“Yeah, we are supposed to escape, if we can,” he mumbled.
“Naturally! Our men are told the same! Do not feel ashamed about it,” Lutz laughed louder. “Would you like a drink? We don’t have tea, but the coffee is reasonable. Or I could offer you something stronger.”
The pilot rubbed a hand over his face. His amusement was gone and he was looking anxious again. Lutz guessed he was uncertain what to say, so he made the decision for him by rising to a nearby cabinet and making a show of going through the bottles within. Each room was equipped with such a cabinet – coffee was never really an option. Alcohol was a good lubricant for the tongue. Lutz poured out a large whisky and placed it before the pilot.
“That is from Scotland, not a German imitation,” he said, faking pride at the statement. “You look like you could use it.”
“Thanks,” the pilot mumbled, looking at the glass like it was water in the desert.
Lutz was not sure when the man had last had anything to eat or drink. Thirst would make the whisky attractive, as much as the fact it was alcohol.
“I saw the cell you were in. It was… alarming,” Lutz became serious. “I am new here, you see. I was sent over to shake things up and make sure everything was being done as it should be. Those cells are improper, against everything I was trained to uphold. I am very disappointed. I had heard rumours that this unit had gone somewhat rogue. I must apologise for the conditions you have been faced with.”
Lutz found it easy to put on sincerity, because in a way he had been alarmed by the crude cells in the basement. They were nothing like the smart, clean cells that had been maintained in Paris by Ribbonkoff. Those had not been crude, ramshackle constructions, but specially built facilities. Lutz liked things to be ordered and proper, even prison cells.
The pilot hesitated. Lutz could tell that he was beginning to believe him. He had been traumatised by the crash, half-starved in the woods and had spent the last several hours dreading his interrogation in a grim cellar. His nerves were stripped bare and he was jumpy, the perfect time to offer a sympathetic glass of whisky and to make murmurings about how awfully he had been treated.
“I really must emphasise that this is not a true representation of the Gestapo,” Lutz continued. “We are not thugs. Sadly, the attention of my superiors has been distracted from this part of the world by the rush of war. Now I am here to resolve our failings. So, let’s get cracking with this paperwork, then you can be on your way.”
Lutz produced some paper from a drawer in the table and spent a few seconds organising himself, or at least pretending to. It was long enough for the pilot to work up the courage to take a sip of whisky. Once the first sip was down, the second sip was a lot easier, and the third went the quickest. Lutz uncapped his pen.
“Your name, please?” He asked.
So far this question had not elicited a response, even though it was the simplest of all those he was to ask. Why the pilot held back his name was unclear. He could give a fake name, after all, lots did. Being hazy about his identity served no purpose.
The pilot gave a cough, the whisky had hit the spot.
“I… I am…” he took a deep breath. “Flying Officer Robert Crombie.”
“Nice to meet you Flying Officer Crombie,” Lutz smiled and wrote on the head of the paper. “Why were you flying over the French coast?”
Crombie hesitated again, blinking hard.
“Reconnaissance,” he said weakly.
“Oh, you were taking photographs?”
“Just… just scouting.”
Lutz made a note.
“There was no one else in your plane?”
“No.”
“Ah, that is a relief,” Lutz gave a sigh. “I feared someone else was in the plane and might have fallen into the hands of the anti-aircraft battery.”
Lutz looked down at his paper and made a note, letting the time drag out. He knew there was an anti-aircraft battery on the coast, he had actually visited it once when he was working as an engineer for the German air force. It had been a training exercise, an opportunity to see the German defences in action. He was going to use that knowledge to his advantage.
Crombie cleared his throat.
“Why… why would you fear someone falling into the hands of the battery?”
Lutz managed not to smile at his ploy working.
“Because of their commanding officer,” Lutz lied, he was finding it easier and easier to spin wild stories. “He is a very unpleasant man, I don’t know if I would go so far as to say evil, but…”
Lutz fell quiet. He was fishing, seeing if Crombie would react. Crombie was beginning to look worried, and he took a big sip of whisky.
“It was one reason we were making such an effort to find you,” Lutz explained, glancing up from his work. “I mean, I haven’t see the results of this man’s handiwork myself, but I have certainly heard of it. We are building a case against him. So far it has been… well…”
Lutz turned to the soldier at the back of the room.
“What was the name of that other fellow who crashed here? I remember reading the file. He was captured by men from the battery and orders had to be given for him to be handed over. I know there was a huge fuss when he was finally released. What with the missing eyes.”
“Missing eyes?” Crombie asked anxiously.
“We were told he had been blinded in the crash. The fellow, himself, was too shocked to say much. Our doctors suspected the injuries had been inflicted afterwards. It’s just the sort of thing the battery commander would do. He’s a sadist,” Lutz clicked his tongue. “Another reason I am here. You see, a lot of the people he has hurt have disappeared and we are left with no real evidence. Just the stories. Oh, and that body we found.”
“Body?” Crombie was beginning to tremble.
“Yes, another downed British pilot. Looked like he had been thrown into the sea, but a lucky tide had washed ashore his corpse. The whole thing was nasty,” Lutz pulled a face. “Fingers broken, beaten to a pulp, burns, whip marks. Poor fellow had been brutalised. We can’t prove it was the battery commander, but we damn well suspect it. Which is why we were extremely glad we found you first. Hate to think what would have happened to you if the battery soldiers had found you.”
Crombie had to put his glass down as his fingers were trembling so badly.
“What… what would he do to a woman?” He asked breathlessly.
“I wouldn’t like to think,” Lutz frowned. “I am sure he would enjoy himself, however. Luckily, women don’t fly in the RAF.”
Lutz gave a light-hearted laugh, pretending he had not noticed Crombie’s agitation.
“I think I have everything I need. You were flying over on reconnaissance and were shot down. There isn’t much else to it,” Lutz shuffled his papers together. “We will have you in a prison camp in no time and you can start planning your escape.”
Lutz began to rise. He didn’t rush, he was hoping he had placed just enough anxiety into the man to make him talkative. Lutz had no idea if there had been another person in the plane or why Crombie had been flying into France, but if there was something else he hoped his little performance would elicit the information.
“This battery commander, he is really a sadist?” Crombie asked.
Lutz made an appearance of pausing.
“He is a horrible man. I can’t even say he does these things because he feels he is serving Hitler’s best interests. He does them because he can.”
“I saw the battery soldiers searching the woods,” Crombie said slowly. “They looked frantic, as if they were trying to find me before you did.”
Lutz nodded.
“You are safe now, my friend. He cannot touch you. His men will pay the price for their failure, however. He keeps a bull whip for the purpose. Really, the sooner we remove this man the better,” Lutz became firm. “It is one of my duties and I shall attend to it vigorously.”
Lutz began to walk away from the table.
“Wait!” Crombie looked up at him urgently. “If someone had been taken by him, could you get them back?”
Lutz spun around.
“Of course,” he replied. “As Gestapo, I can request any prisoner I want to be brought here. The battery commander knows this and so keeps very quiet when he captures anyone. At least you don’t have to worry about that. You were lucky, my friend.”
Lutz busied himself with the papers, pretending to sort them, even though only one sheet had been written on, and then he casually walked towards the door. The soldier looked at him impassively. Lutz wondered what the man had thought of his little performance. He could not be questioned, as he was the senior officer, but soldiers still talked when they were alone together. And you never knew if a soldier was acting as a spy for another colleague.
“Herr Lutz!” Crombie had swivelled in his seat. “I need to tell you something.”
Lutz turned, his warm smile still on his face.
“What is wrong?” He asked.
“There was someone else,” Crombie said breathlessly. “And if she has fallen into the hands of this madman you speak of, I will never forgive myself. You must save her!”
Lutz was suddenly interested. He raised his eyebrows.
“She?”
Rouen, France. 6.01pm
Monsieur Remini had allowed Josef to sit in on the meeting. His tolerance for the Frenchman was limited, but he had agreed to share the press with him. In exchange, Josef could offer what information Henrietta discovered and the assistance of his men. The Communists were still shaken by the recent raid on one of their safehouses when a number of their best members had disappeared into Nazi clutches. There was also the ever-present fear that betrayal had been at the root cause of the disaster. Working with reliable outsiders might just help restore confidence to the fractured group.
Josef had been introduced to a handful of men. Remini had explained that these were the fellows tasked with retrieving the printing press. The meeting was to determine a plan of action. However, as Josef sat and listened, he felt a wave of despair come over him. It seemed that no one had a better idea than climbing the back wall and breaking into the offices. How they were going to get a heavy printing press over that same wall, no one had yet decided.
“We must plan every move!” Remini informed his men, as yet again the discussion dissolved into a ramshackle argument.
There seemed to be antagonism between the men, with some more determined on a bold course of action than others. Josef had to put a hand to his temple and resist the urge to scream. Throwing in his lot with the Communists had seemed wise the day before, now it looked likely to be a disaster. He would be better off leaving them to it and going back to Benoit’s plan of stealing the press from them later on. Only, having indicated his interest in the press, any operation to steal it would be quickly traced back to him and would divide the various resistance groups completely and possibly permanently.
But he couldn’t risk his men for this nonsense!
Josef walked to a window. They were high up in the narrow attic of a medieval merchant’s house. The homeowners were Communists and allowed the space to be used for informal meetings. They were four floors up and it was unlikely anyone could see Josef through the uneven glass of the window from the ground below, let alone recognise him.
He stared down on the heads of people milling about their business. This was an old road, still covered in the cobblestones the merchant who built the house would have known. Josef absentmindedly watched as a horse-drawn carriage pulled up before a house. The name on the side indicated the man driving the carriage was a scrap metal merchant. He dropped from his seat and knocked on the door of the house. He was allowed in and, a few moments later, appeared at the door with a battered knife-sharpening box. He deposited the item in his cart and then went back inside. This time he came out with a dismantled iron bedstead.
Josef watched the man with some envy. There he was living a simple life. Far removed from the politics of Resistance work. Josef missed the days when his biggest concern was paying the bills at his office and whether his first client for the day would be on time. He had never desired to be a man of adventure and heroics, a man who thrust himself into danger for the sake of a free France. He was not an idealist, he never had been. Yet here he was, trying to keep one step ahead of the Nazis. Trying to stay alive.
The scrap metal man had finished his work and paid a few francs to the lady of the house for the metal, before he climbed back on his seat and clicked his tongue to the horse. The horse moved off and he disappeared up the road. Josef turned his back to the window and saw the Communists’ argument was descending into petty insults.
“We have to be bold, brave! You are cowards!”
“I am not a coward! I merely wish to survive this affair!”
“Is there no way we can do this without drawing attention to ourselves?”
“No! There is no way!”
Josef closed his eyes and groaned to himself. He was just debating on leaving when his tired brain made a connection. No, there was no way they could do this daring robbery without drawing attention to themselves, but maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe it was the type of attention they drew to themselves that was the key.
Josef flicked his eyes back to the window. He had just spied the solution to their problem. He had seen how it could be done and he felt stupid for not recognising that sooner. Perhaps it had been luck that had made him glance outside at that moment, some would say it was a guiding hand from above. Josef didn’t care what it was, because he had glimpsed a way forward and that excited him.
“Who was the fellow who said we must be bold?” Josef stepped towards the arguing Communists.
They fell silent, several turning to glare at the interloper who had disturbed their argument. After a moment, a man stepped towards Josef.
“I said we had to be bold,” he answered, daring Josef with his eyes to defy him.
“And you are right my friend, we must be bold, bolder than even you have imagined,” Josef grinned at him.
The man looked surprised.
“We cannot get the press without the Germans seeing us, so, we let them,” Josef continued.
“The man is mad,” a Communist shook his head beside him.
“Maybe a little,” Josef grinned at him. “But hear me out. The Germans are outside the building around the clock. They will most certainly hear you attempting to drag the press over the back wall and will realise you are attempting to steal it. This cannot be done stealthily, so we must be brazen.”
Several of the Communists in the room began to argue and complain, pointing out that Josef knew nothing and was talking nonsense. Monsieur Remini allowed them to speak for a couple of moments, then he raised his arm and called them to be quiet.
“Enough! I want to hear what our friend has to say. He might be a mad Jew, but everything we do is madness,” Remini looked at Josef. “What is this brazen scheme of yours?”
Josef was enjoying stringing them along. He was pleased with himself for thinking of a plan and was savouring the moment, but he could not wait around anymore.
“What if we roll right up to the door and take the press?” He said.
Again people started to swear and Remini hushed them.
“How?”
“In a scrap metal merchant’s cart,” Josef explained. “What would make better sense than the unfortunate owner of the newspaper office selling off what he could to survive now his business is out of action?”
“Selling the old press for scrap,” Remini mused. “That would make sense.”
“And, it would be good news for the Germans too, who would no longer have to worry about that press being used by the likes of us,” Josef motioned to them all, and a couple of men chuckled at the joke.
“It is audacious,” Remini was smiling to himself. “And yet, perfectly reasonable. We would need the keys for the offices however, to make things look correct. If we have to break in it will be clear we do not have permission to take the press.”
“Monsieur Dubois ran the newspaper,” Josef said. “I believe he is still in Rouen.”
“He lives with his daughter,” one of the Communists piped up. “She has an apartment near the square. He has been quite depressed since his newspaper was shut down. I hear he never goes out.”
“Does anyone know him?” Remini asked.
There was silence. None of the men in the room had reason to know a newspaper publisher. Remini frowned. Here was the hole in Josef’s plan.
“I think I know someone who can help,” Josef volunteered. “Let me worry about getting the key. You can make the arrangements for the cart and planning the operation. I shall let you know how I get on.”
Remini was quiet, clearly wondering whether to trust Josef with this part of the scheme. He finally exhaled a long breath through his nose and nodded.
“You do that, but we will not wait for more than three days. If you cannot get the key by then, we shall have to think of something else.”
Josef would have liked more time, but he could not really argue. Had he been in charge of the operation, he would have wanted it done sooner rather than later too.
“That is all for tonight, I shall look into getting us a cart and will supply you with further orders nearer the time,” Remini continued.
The meeting broke up and they departed individually, in dribs and drabs. They attempted to make it appear as if they had not been meeting at all. Some went out the back door, others used a secret door into the next building and left that way. Josef left by the front door, adjusting his hat as he stepped into the warm evening.
He was already regretting volunteering to get the key. It had been a spur of the moment decision and one he knew was going to bring a lot of sleepless nights. His idea was sensible enough, but it involved relying on someone who was largely unreliable. Josef sighed to himself. Sometimes, he was too keen for his own good.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 6.59pm
The two trays of food had been delivered to Durst’s room and he was preparing to take them through to Betany. His growing fascination with the girl had been remarked upon by Cophen only a short time earlier. Cophen had served with Durst a number of years and they were as much friends as it was possible for a commander and his subordinate to be. They had been in some tight spots together in the past, before Durst was given this post. They owed each other a lot. Cophen was loyal and that was why Durst was still at his post and had not been court martialled for dereliction of duty. Durst felt he was a burden on Cophen, but when he raised the subject with his sergeant it was dismissed. Cophen knew as well as Durst that his sickness was not something he could help. The excessive drinking was a symptom, not the cause.
Cophen had remarked about Durst’s interest in Betany casually, but it was plain the comment was meant as a gentle reprimand. Durst had been hurt, more than anything he had not realised he had been so obvious in his interest. He had tried to explain to Cophen that Betany was a distraction, nothing more. When Cophen had smiled at him, he had relaxed. Understanding passed between them. Cophen would make no more bones about Durst’s interest in the mystery woman, as long as his captain made the effort to keep his fascination out of sight of the men.
Durst could live with that.
He lifted up the tray, just as the jarring trill of the phone in his office rang out. He ignored it. Cophen was nearby and would answer it. Durst wondered what random orders he was being sent this week. Last time, it had been an announcement concerning the type of buttons the men should be wearing on their tunics – buttons! In the middle of a war there was some office busybody who still had the time to concern themselves with changing the button supplier for the Wehrmacht! They were to be sent the new issue in a box and all the men were to replace their buttons before the next inspection. Durst had been having one of his bad days when that call came through and he was close to saying some extremely rude things to the man on the other end of the phoneline. Luckily, Cophen was near to hand and ready to intercede.
Humming to himself, and imagining that they were going to get orders to change their bootlaces next, Durst was heading to the guest room with the tray when Cophen appeared.
“You are needed on the phone, sir.”
Durst almost complained, then he saw Cophen’s expression. The man looked very worried. Durst pivoted towards his office without hesitation. No sooner were they inside then Cophen whispered in his ear;
“Gestapo.”
Durst nearly dropped the tray. He cast Cophen a startled look, that quickly changed to one of unease. Placing down the tray, he picked up the phone. Cophen made a tactful retreat and left him alone.
“Captain Durst.”
“Good evening Captain Durst,” a smooth voice came over the line. “I am Herr Lutz of the Gestapo.”
Durst clenched his free hand into a fist.
“How can I help you, Herr Lutz?” He asked with infinite politeness.
“It has come to my attention that you shot down a small plane the other night?”
“Yes,” Durst said. “I filed a report on the matter.”
“You did not mention, however, whether you found anyone within the plane?”
Durst felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up.
“Because I did not,” he replied. “The pilot had vanished.”
“Ah, but what of the passenger?”
“Passenger?” Durst feigned ignorance. “I was not aware there was one.”
There was a brief silence. Durst wondered if Herr Lutz disbelieved him.
“You have been searching the area?” Lutz asked.
“Yes. As have your men. My intention was to trace the pilot. I didn’t think he had gone far.”
“He had not, he is in my custody,” Lutz announced.
Durst felt his heart beating faster. There was a trickle of sweat running down his back.
“That is good. It means I can call off my men,” he said.
“The pilot has informed me that there was a passenger in the plane and she was injured,” Lutz explained.
“Wait Herr Lutz, did you say ‘she’?” Durst acted in surprise. “A woman?”
“You have not come across her?”
“No, that would most certainly have caught my attention,” Durst managed a laugh. “I never would have thought… What was a woman doing in this plane?”
“I have no doubt she is an agent for the British,” Lutz said. “The pilot has been vague on the subject, but I am confident she is working for British Intelligence. She will be very dangerous and cunning, be advised on this Captain Durst.”
“I am relieved she is not in my clutches then,” Durst snorted. “I do not need that sort of trouble.”
“You did attend the crash site?”
“Yes, naturally I did. I personally went with the intention of taking prisoner the pilot,” Durst put on a good act of sounding offended that Lutz would think he did anything less.
“You saw no one?”
Durst almost hesitated, but he could not risk a pause on the line, it might sound suspicious.
“The pilot had crash landed the craft with much skill. He had climbed out, apparently uninjured and fled. I had no reason to imagine there had been anyone else present. It was only a small plane. In any case, there would have been plenty of time for someone to hide. It crashed quite some distance from the battery and, of course, we had to find it.”
“Yes, I do appreciate the problems of locating a downed plane,” Lutz said. Durst was not sure if his voice sounded impatient or merely annoyed. “I suppose the woman slipped away.”
“I shall be honest, Herr Lutz. Once we saw that the pilot had safely exited the plane, and that there was no reason to suppose him hurt, we did not spend a great deal of time around the immediate crash site. I assumed, logically, that the pilot had put as much distance between himself and the plane as possible, and I organised my men to search accordingly.”
“But they did not start searching until the morning?” Lutz noted.
“My orders are to maintain the battery at full strength at all times. I could not spare the men. That is why I went personally to inspect the crashed plane. I had search parties formed as soon as daylight arrived. We are very busy here, you know,” Durst put on a tone of affront. “I have had bombers going over almost nightly. We are on constant alert. My orders are to defend the coast. I am only to inspect crash sites if I have the opportunity, it is not my primary mission.”
“Yes, yes, Captain Durst, do not take offence,” Lutz sounded slightly apologetic. “I appreciate you have a lot to do.”
“And I never expected a woman to be in the plane.”
“No, of course not. Why would you?” Lutz sounded tired with the conversation. “Well, I shall continue to have my men looking for her, and if you learn anything, let me know.”
“I will,” Durst replied.
The phoneline went dead and Durst put down the receiver. His hands were trembling violently and he felt sick to his stomach.
“Cophen!” He shouted.
His sergeant had been just outside the door and appeared quickly. Durst had sunk into his seat behind the desk. He was white as a sheet.
“How many men saw us arrive with the girl?” He asked his sergeant.
Cophen shook his head.
“A few.”
“The Gestapo are sniffing around,” Durst grimaced. “I don’t want them anywhere near the men or my battery. We captured the girl, she is our prisoner.”
Cophen nodded. Durst tried to read his expression, but the man seemed to have put up a wall.
“I know you think I am a fool,” Durst said quietly. “But, even if this girl is some sort of enemy agent, I cannot in good conscience hand her over to those bastards.”
“No,” Cophen replied soothingly. “I would expect no less from you. Those men have no honour. They are fiends.”
“What of our men? If the Gestapo were to question them, would they say something?”
Cophen hesitated.
“They are loyal to you. I would like to think they are reliable.”
“But we cannot be sure,” Durst understood. “Spread the word that the Gestapo is trying to make the battery look negligent in its duty, and that if they try to talk to any of the men it should be automatically reported to you or me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know what those Gestapo will try, but I prefer to keep them at arms’ length,” Durst suddenly began to cough. His chest had tightened during the talk with Lutz and now he felt breathless. It took him several moments to recover enough to speak.
“I should fetch Gruper,” Cophen started to move towards the door.
“No…” Durst winced. “Just… one of my… moments…”
Durst was trying to catch his breath, but the tightness did not ease and he was finding it hard to take more than gasps of air. He pressed a hand to his chest. He was starting to feel lightheaded.
“You should go and lie down,” Cophen said, the concern plain on his face.
“Damn… Gestapo…” Durst gasped.
“Ivor, you should rest,” Cophen lowered his voice. “Do not concern yourself with this girl.”
“But… I want to… concern myself…” Durst turned his eyes up to Cophen, pleading with him to understand. “This may be… the last thing…”
“Do not keep speaking,” Cophen stopped him before he could say more. The sergeant was noticeably upset. “You should rest and then you will feel better.”
He helped Durst up from his chair. Durst felt as if the floor was no longer beneath his feet. He still could not draw in air beyond a rasping wheeze. He clutched at Cophen, feeling as if he might float away if he did not. Unsteadily, he was guided to his room and helped to lay down on his bed.
“I… won’t… be… defeated…” he wheezed.
Cophen looked at him sadly.
“No, sir, you will never be defeated. Please rest.”
Durst rolled onto his back and kept trying to take deeper breaths. It was painful to try, and he coughed and then began to retch.
“I am going to fetch Gruper,” Cophen told him, this time barring no argument.
Durst did not have the strength to say anything. He just lay still and stared at the ceiling, each breath a work of agony. How could such a simple thing as breathing be so hard? Durst shut his eyes, finding it a challenge to remain conscience. He never even noticed when Cophen left the room. His final thoughts were still on that phone call.
Damn the Gestapo! Damn them!
London, England. 8.45am
For once the bombs had not struck at the heart of the city and it was possible to get to the court martial at a reasonable time. Klaus was escorted into the foyer of the building by soldiers and met Donne just before the staircase that led up to the courtroom. Donne was jubilant as usual.
“Well rested?” He asked. “I slept like a log. The blackout curtains seem to help enormously. I am going to keep them when the war is over.”
Donne turned before Klaus could answer and escorted him up the stairs. Behind them, Herne was being escorted into the building to meet Lieutenant Stebbings. Klaus glanced over his shoulder at the pair.
Herne looked tetchy and on edge. He was growing tired of the trial and the confinement of the Cage. He was under much closer watch than when he was at the prison camp and he was unable to leave his room. Klaus was feeling the claustrophobia too, but was better able to mask it.
“Stebbings has one more witness to call and then it is our turn,” Donne was saying. “The doctor from the hospital.”
“He is not going to let Herne come to the stand?” Klaus asked.
“He would be a fool to do so,” Donne replied. “That man is his own worst enemy. The court already has little sympathy for him. Anyway, hopefully by this afternoon we shall be on to our defence witnesses.”
As they reached the corridor outside the room where the court martial was taking place, Klaus noted that Major Phillips was talking to a soldier. Phillips glanced over as they arrived, took a long look at Klaus, then headed for the courtroom. Klaus was not sure what to make of his look. The man had frowned slightly and had studied Klaus rather like a puzzling specimen under the microscope. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
“So far I feel things have gone well for us,” Donne was saying as they entered the courtroom and headed for their places at the table near the window. “None of the witnesses have been particularly hostile against you and most have painted Herne in a grim light. I think we have also emphasised that the way justice works in Germany is not how it works over here, and that was an influence on your actions.”
“Is that good?”
“Mitigating circumstances,” Donne explained. “You still broke our laws, of course, and ignorance is no defence, but I am aiming for sympathy and understanding. A light sentence, in short.”
Klaus sat down, trying to mask the unhappy look on his face. There was no defence for his actions. He was guilty and had never questioned that. He just had to hope that Donne knew what he was doing.
Stebbings and Herne entered. Stebbings looked sour, as if he would much rather be somewhere else. Herne’s expression was not much better. Klaus had to remember that after this trial, Herne was facing his own court martial for the attempted murder of Hermann. If Klaus was worried about the court having sympathy for him, Herne should be paralysed with dread at the thought.
The Judge Advocate and jury appeared. With everyone present, proceedings could get underway.
“I would like to call Dr Harvey Smith,” Lieutenant Stebbings rose and announced.
A man in a grey suit was ushered in. He was older, probably late fifties, and wearing a thick pair of glasses. He was not overly tall, but held himself proudly and looked authoritative. He approached the witness stand looking calm and composed.
“Dr Smith, you were the doctor on duty when Franz Herne was brought into hospital?” Stebbings asked.
“I was,” Smith nodded.
“Do you recall the patient’s condition on arrival?”
“Extremely serious,” Smith said, rolling his Rs a little. He had a pleasant Scottish brogue that reminded one of good Scotch drunk before a warm fire.
“Could you elaborate?” Stebbings asked.
“The patient was suffering from a number of abrasions and bruises consistent with being beaten. Some were superficial, my main concern were the blows taken to his torso and head,” Smith explained. “I feared he had broken ribs, which would put him in danger of a punctured lung. His shallow breathing was an indication this might have already occurred. The blows to his head were multiple and had the potential to have caused damage to the brain.”
“You ordered tests to be carried out?”
“I did. I wanted x-rays of the chest and skull. I considered these a priority despite the patient’s serious condition. As it happened, the ribs were fractured, but not broken. The serious injuries to the skull were around the nose and eye sockets. The skull there had been fractured in several places. There was a loose piece of bone shattered from one of these fractures which was in danger of travelling into the brain. There was also obvious swelling on the brain which needed to be brought down at once.”
“Was the patient at risk of dying?” Stebbings continued.
“It was a possibility,” Smith agreed. “The injuries were extensive and more than one was of a serious nature. There was equally a possibility of the patient surviving but suffering from permanent impairment.”
“Could you explain what you mean?” Stebbings asked.
Smith folded his hands before him. His calm tone belied the horror of what had happened to Herne. The horror Klaus had caused. Having it spelled out so plainly was making Klaus feel sick to his stomach. He was not a bad man, at least he hoped not. But he had done something truly terrible.
“The ribs would probably heal completely. However, the head wounds were of a nature that they might not. The swelling on the brain could cause brain damage. Depending on where this occurred the patient would suffer different effects from the damage. It might be a physical disability, or a mental one. For instance, the patient might lose the ability to speak, or suffer ongoing memory loss. If the loose bone travelled into the brain further damage could result, leaving the patient mentally altered. The worst case scenario would be that he was left in a permanent vegetative state. There was a strong possibility that he might require long term care, as he would be unable to look after himself. The damage to the eye socket could easily have led to blindness in that eye.”
“What treatments did you perform on Sergeant-Major Herne?”
“The fluid on the brain was the immediate concern,” Smith answered. “I had drains placed into the skull. That required the careful drilling of small holes in the bone. These did work to alleviate the pressure, but there was also the risk of introducing an infection. Keeping everything sterile was a priority and also the patient still. I had him strapped to his bed to prevent the drains being knocked out, also the fractured ribs, if placed under stress, might crack and pierce the lung.”
Smith paused; Klaus felt it was a dramatic device, the man’s eyes going to the jurymen as if assessing their response so far. Stebbings cleared his throat to remind him what he was doing.
“The next cause for concern was the loose bone fragment. To remove it would involve a great deal of skill,” Smith continued, his attention still on the jury. “I knew of a surgeon capable of just such a procedure, but he was then in Bristol. I sent word to him and he agreed to travel to Scotland. In the meantime, there was every chance the bone fragment would move and cause the damage we feared. If it continued on its expected route to the brain, Sergeant-Major Herne would be effectively lobotomised.”
Dr Smith appeared to be expecting a reaction from the jurymen. He had been appalled at the state of his patient and wanted the court to share his horror. However, he was dealing with military men, not the sort of civilian jurymen you would get in an ordinary court. The jury members showed no response to the information, it would be unprofessional to do so. Perhaps, Klaus mused, they also were thinking like him that a lobotomised Franz Herne would not be such a bad thing. Whatever the case, Smith looked annoyed that his dramatic description was received with such calm disinterest.
“This surgeon, he arrived from Bristol?” Stebbings was trying to draw Smith’s attention back to him.
“Yes,” Smith looked uneasy now, as if he was sharing the room with strange, unemotional demons rather than men. “He took a look at our x-rays and felt there was a good chance of removing the fragment. He had performed similar operations in the past. He operated within hours of arrival and all seemed to have gone well, but then Sergeant-Major Herne became feverish and started to fit.”
“An infection?” Stebbings asked.
“We were not certain what had caused it, but feared inflammation on the brain or possibly that some damage had been done during surgery. All we could do was try to bring down the fever and keep Herne sedated to prevent fitting.”
“This worked?”
“Ultimately, yes,” Smith nodded, his confidence had left him. “We had debated on operating on the eye socket, to remove fragments that might damage the eye or optic nerve, but we eventually agreed that this was not advisable and the body should be given a chance to heal itself. Blindness in one eye was a small price to pay for living to tell the tale.”
Smith folded his hands before him, now seeming a little defensive, as if he felt guilt over his decision, or at least imagined that others would judge him for it.
“Can you tell me about Sergeant-Major Herne’s current condition, has he had lasting effects from his injuries?” Stebbings jogged the doctor along, he was aware that the jury were started to get a little impatient with Smith’s overegging of his time in the witness stand. Smith would have been good on a stage, but in court his deep, dramatic tone and doom-laden speech was tiresome and having the opposite effect that he intended.
It probably wasn’t helped by the fact that Herne was sitting at the prosecution’s table looking right as rain and with a smug smile on his lips as he heard Smith telling of his saga. He was enjoying the moment as Klaus’ crimes were brandished before the courtroom, and that was plain.
Dr Smith cleared his throat again.
“The fever settled after a few days, quite remarkably Sergeant-Major Herne emerged from his sickness with no obvious signs of lasting damage. He may have a very slight loss of visual acuity in the left eye, but as we have no records of what his vision was like before the assault, we cannot say for certain that is the case,” the doctor explained. “Herne is clearly a very strong and healthy young man, and we can thank that for his survival.”
“Thank you, Dr Smith, no further questions.”
Lieutenant Stebbings sat down and Donne stood up. Klaus wondered what he could ask the doctor to change the impact of what he had already said. Donne clearly had something in mind.
“Dr Smith,” Donne smiled at the witness, “you have made a very eloquent and descriptive speech concerning Sergeant-Major Herne’s condition. Might you be able to give us a similarly clear description of the injuries sustained by his fellow prisoner of war, Hermann Kettig?”
Smith had been looking sternly at Donne, certain that whatever he was asked he could answer with impunity. Now he looked a fraction unsure.
“I had very few dealings with that gentleman,” he said, avoiding the question.
“How odd!” Donne feigned surprise. “Why, the medical records I have to hand clearly state that you were the doctor in attendance on Hermann Kettig. Are they incorrect?”
Smith winced.
“No, that is true,” he agreed.
“Then, you would have examined Herr Kettig as thoroughly as you examined Sergeant-Major Herne? You will be able to give us a full account of his injuries and the potential consequences of them, just as you did for Sergeant-Major Herne?”
Klaus wondered where Donne was going with this, and also why Smith was so reluctant to talk about Hermann.
“Herr Kettig was brought in suffering from cuts and contusions, and neck injuries,” Smith said softly.
“Surely that is understating the case, Dr Smith? You were much more eloquent on Sergeant-Major Herne’s injuries.”
Smith gave that awkward cough to clear his throat again, which appeared to be a nervous habit. He was in a hole.
“Herr Kettig had sustained a beating. He had fractured ribs along with a cracked vertebra. He had a fractured jaw, broken nose and a compression to the skull. He was also suffering from fluid on the brain,” Smith licked his lips. “It appeared, on examination, that he had been partially strangled by a thin rope or cord. The throat was badly bruised and had swelled as a result, making breathing difficult.”
“Thank you, Dr Smith. Would you, in your medical capacity, say that Herr Kettig’s injuries were more extensive than those of Sergeant-Major Herne?”
Smith was very reluctant to answer. His eyes darted about, but without point-blank refusing to speak he could not avoid the question.
“Yes, you could say that.”
“What treatments did Hermann Kettig require?”
“The fluid on the brain had to be drained as with Herne,” Smith spoke quickly and without the drama of his statements about Franz. “We had to put a tube down his throat to aid breathing. It was then we discovered blood was in the oesophagus, though we were not clear where it had come from. That had to be regularly cleared by the nurses to prevent Herr Kettig choking to death. The jaw had to be wired shut to enable it to heal. There was nothing we could do for his broken nose except keep everything clean.”
Klaus felt his fingers twitch. That old fury was returning, burning its way up from his belly and making him want to get up and finish what he had started on Herne. Every time he thought about what that man had done to Hermann, he nearly lost his mind. His friend had been brutalised by the cocky sod sitting just a few feet away, and no one seemed to care. Herne sat there amused at the rendition of his crimes against Hermann, there was no remorse or regret. Klaus had to turn away and stare out the window, else he might have not been able to control himself.
“Are you aware, Dr Smith, that Sergeant-Major Herne is the man accused of causing the injuries you describe to Hermann Kettig?”
“I heard there was a court case pending, but nothing had been proved,” Smith said, his tone sharp.
Donne smiled at him.
“Was Herr Kettig’s condition life-threatening?”
“Yes,” Smith answered sullenly.
“Am I correct in stating that Herr Kettig came close to dying on no less than two occasions?”
Smith still did not want to answer, but he had no choice.
“Yes.”
“Your Honour, might there be a point to this line of questioning?” Stebbings rose and addressed the Judge Advocate.
“I was hoping to save the court time, rather than having to recall the witness later on,” Donne replied, with a mischievous grin on his face. “But I am nearly done.”
“Wrap it up, counsel,” the Judge Advocate said.
“Might I be right in saying, Dr Smith, that you were more interested in the condition of your patient Sergeant-Major Herne, than you were in the condition of Herr Kettig?”
“That would be irresponsible of me,” Dr Smith countered fiercely. “A doctor must divide his time appropriately and without bias.”
“In which case, considering that Hermann Kettig was the more critically ill of your two patients, and requiring more extensive treatment, it would be logical that you would spend more time with him?”
“It is all relative,” Smith quickly added. “It depends on the treatments and the nature of the condition. Patients seriously ill might appear to need more of a doctor’s time, but really there is little I can do for them, and it is the care that the nurses give that is more important.”
“Does that explain why, according to the hospital records of your attendance on the patients – bearing in mind, as prisoners of war, a log was maintained of who visited these men and how long they were there – you spent almost triple the amount of time with Herne that you did with Kettig?”
Dr Smith hesitated.
“I cannot say.”
“You are not sure, or you disagree with the records?”
“Neither. I wasn’t keeping track of the time,” Smith shrugged. “If the records indicate I spent that amount of time with Sergeant-Major Herne, I suppose it must be true.”
“I also note, that you spent considerable time with Sergeant-Major Herne after he was out of danger,” Donne added.
Smith shrugged again.
“Perhaps.”
“If your patient no longer required medical treatment from you, I wonder what you were doing when you spent such large amounts of time with him, including, I have noted, visiting Sergeant-Major Herne during your lunch hour?”
“You Honour, where is this going?” Stebbings rose again.
“I honestly do have an important point,” Donne said, slightly apologetically to the Judge Advocate. “And it is relevant, but I wished to give the witness the opportunity to explain himself.”
“Make your point, counsel,” the Judge Advocate frowned.
Donne’s smile had not faded, in fact he seemed pleased to have his hand forced.
“Of course, your Honour,” Donne turned to the doctor. “Dr Smith, I believe you stated that it was because Sergeant-Major Herne was a strong and healthy young man that he recovered so well?”
“I did,” Dr Smith replied with more confidence.
“Might it be equally accurate of me to say that this belief was based on the fact that Sergeant-Major Herne was a strong and healthy young Aryan?”
“I don’t understand the question,” Smith said hastily.
“I did not think I was being obtuse,” Donne said lightly. “My question is, do you not believe in the Nazi programme of selective breeding to produce a superior human being, Dr Smith?”
Stebbings gave a slight groan and had been clearly hoping to avoid such a discussion. The jurymen now had their full attention on Dr Smith.
“I have made no secret of my feelings on breeding for improved health and fitness,” Dr Smith hedged.
“The question required a yes or no,” Donne pressed him.
Dr Smith shuffled in his chair.
“Then… yes.”
“And is it not true that before the war you spent considerable time in Germany learning about the Nazi programme of eugenics and the sterilisation of those deemed unfit to breed?”
“There is sound science behind the improvement of species by selectively weeding out examples that are not sound in form or mind,” Dr Smith snapped. “We do it all the time in animal husbandry, why then, do we not show the same concern for our own species? We are the highest form of life on our planet and yet we continue to sully our gene pool by allowing sick or feeble individuals to breed. I do not hide the fact that I see great potential in Hitler’s plans for producing the perfect human being. It is something we should all aspire to.”
Herne was now nodding along enthusiastically. Stebbings looked sick to his stomach, but there was little he could do to stop the torment. Klaus had lost his anger and was now merely fascinated by the performance underway.
“It is safe to say then, Dr Smith, that you sympathise with some of the Nazi policies?”
“If you want to put it that way, yes,” Dr Smith spat the words at him. “I saw the science, I saw the goals and the experiments. I saw the future! I treat so many people who are ill because of conditions inherited from their parents. If those two people had never been allowed to breed, imagine the suffering that would end!”
“Better that person never existed, than to exist with a health complaint?”
“Yes!” Dr Smith sounded exasperated. “It is only logical!”
“The time you spent with Sergeant-Major Herne was not all about medical examinations, was it? You were talking with him at length on Nazi ideals.”
“We talked, why should we not?” Dr Smith shook his head. “I had questions.”
“Over the course of time you became quite friendly with Herne?”
“We are like-minded, that is all. A man is entitled to discuss ideas with another, isn’t he?”
“And that is why you had no interest in Hermann Kettig,” Donne stuck in the knife. “Herr Kettig was not a Nazi, he did not share the ideals of you and Herne, equally, he was older and unfit. A man you perceived as of little worth to the future of a great race. Unlike Herne, who you would do everything to protect.”
“Am I wrong to want only the best to reproduce? Sergeant-Major Herne has both strength and vigour! He is young and could father many healthy offspring. Isn’t such an example of vital genetics worth protecting?”
“And Herr Kettig had none of those qualities. He only had decency, kindness and honesty on his side. Things not worth reproducing.”
Donne’s tone had become low and solemn. Dr Smith seemed to be trying to take in what was being said and failing.
“Survival of the species depends on the strongest being allow to breed. Darwin…”
“No further questions,” Donne cut off the doctor.
He had made his point. Dr Smith’s testimony now was tainted by his bias not only towards Herne, but to the Nazi regime in general. He had been made to look unreliable and blinded by his enthusiasm for Fascism.
Stebbings rose with some reluctance to try to redirect his witness and salvage something from the ashes of Smith’s testimony.
“Dr Smith, whatever your political views, you would never allow them to interfere with your work as a doctor, yes?”
“I have never mistreated a patient, if that is what you mean,” Smith grumbled. “All my patients receive the best of treatment. Herr Kettig lived, didn’t he? I didn’t let him die though he was a virtually worthless creature to save.”
Stebbings closed his eyes and tried not to scream at the doctor. Smith was in a temper and was running off his mouth without thinking.
“You would never lie to a court, would you?” Stebbings asked.
“No, never!” Smith barked.
“Then, everything you have said here today has been the truth?”
“Yes, for certain!” Dr Smith answered.
“Thank you, Dr Smith.”
Stebbings had tried his best. The Judge Advocate asked Smith to leave the courtroom and then glanced at the clock. The time was rapidly ticking down to midday, and the Judge Advocate was particular about his mealtimes.
“Lieutenant Stebbings, if you have no further witnesses to call, the defence shall proceed with their case after lunch.”
“I have no further witnesses,” Stebbings rose and stated.
Beside him Herne slammed his palm on the table.
“Wait!” He declared. “I want to speak!”
Stebbings’ face took on the tired and agitated look he had worn a lot the last few days. The Judge Advocate placidly spoke to him.
“Do you or do you not have any further witnesses to call?”
“I want to speak!” Herne quickly interrupted. “This is my trial, it is my right under your laws to be able to give testimony, yes?”
Stebbings ducked his head towards Herne and in a less than quiet whisper he could be heard telling Herne to be quiet, that they had already had this discussion.
“No!” Herne declared. “I must be heard. Your Honour, I want to speak to the court, to defend myself. I cannot be denied that under your laws, can I?”
The Judge Advocate looked at Herne with a thoughtful expression, then he turned to Stebbings.
“Counsel, your client is entitled to give evidence if he so wishes and if you have made it plain to him the complications that could result from his testimony, bearing in mind he has his own court case pending.”
“Yes, your Honour,” Stebbings looked miserable.
“Whatever your feelings on the matter, Counsel, you cannot deny him his rights.”
“Exactly!” Herne persisted, he slapped down his palm again. “I shall speak!”
Stebbings took a deep breath, a man facing the collapse of his prosecution case because of his own client, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Your Honour, I have one final witness to call. Herr Franz Herne.”
“Then we shall adjourn for lunch and when we resume at one o’clock, you will present your final witness.”
Stebbings accepted the decision and the court was temporarily placed on hold as everyone went for lunch. Donne glanced at Klaus.
“That saves me the task of having to call Herne as a witness later. This could be quite entertaining.”
“Herne is a fool,” Klaus said calmly. “But do not underestimate him.”
“Have I ever done that?” Donne grinned.
Klaus had no reply. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but he had a feeling that whatever happened that afternoon could prove pivotal in his trial.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 9.30am
They were late bringing Charlotte her breakfast, and when it arrived it was being carried by Sergeant Cophen.
“Where is Captain Durst?” Charlotte asked him.
Cophen remained stony silent as he brought over her tray. He left the room shortly after. Charlotte sat and contemplated the strange porridge-like dish and black coffee before her. She had no appetite.
Something had happened to Durst and that was making her uneasy. He was supposed to have brought her dinner last night, but he had never appeared and her dinner was late and cold when it arrived in the hands of Cophen.
Charlotte told herself she was not worried because she liked Captain Durst, rather, she was concerned because he seemed her best chance of getting out of the battery safely. She did not think she could trust Cophen, he was too surly towards her, as if he felt she was a bad influence on them all. No, she needed to find Durst and make sure he was alright. She also needed to know what was going on in case it became imperative that she escape the battery sooner rather than later.
Charlotte placed her tray of uneaten food at the end of her bed and then twisted herself around until she was sitting on the edge. She had been tentatively trying to bear weight on her injured leg. When the bullet had sliced through her calf it had cut into the muscle and the damage would take time to repair fully. Using the leg had initially caused a lot of pain, now the ache was duller, but there was no strength in the limb and Charlotte felt as if she would fall when she tried to stand.
The solution was to use a crutch, but tentatively asking for one from Gruper had produced no results. For the last couple of days Charlotte had been looking about her room and trying to find something she could adapt as a support. In the end she had realised that one of the chairs at the table would be her best bet. Though not ideal, she could use the light-weight chair as a support to enable her to walk forward; by carefully putting down her bad foot, she could lift the chair just enough to move it to a new position. In this clumsy fashion, she could progress across the room by herself – she had tried it when she wanted to use the bathroom without alerting Cophen or Gruper.
The process was tedious, yet it was better than nothing.
Charlotte wanted to see Captain Durst, she wanted to know what was wrong – for she was certain that there was something wrong, some physical sickness that affected the man. She could wrap up the reasoning behind her decision with all sorts of excuses about Durst being her ticket out of the battery and into hiding. The truth was, she was worried about him.
Charlotte leaned forward and reached for the chair. She was able to just touch the back with her fingertips and pull it towards her. The wooden feet squeaked across the concrete floor painfully and she cringed, pausing for a moment to see if anyone came. As far as she could tell there was no one in the building. From the perspective of security it was very poor. There should have been a guard outside Charlotte’s room at the very least. Still, it all worked in her favour.
Charlotte eased the chair to her side and used it to raise herself to her feet. She experimented to see if she could push it across the floor rather than lifting it, but it squeaked too much. Better to lift it and progress at a snail’s pace across the room to the door.
Step by step she crawled to the corner of the room. The frustration was tremendous, it also reminded Charlotte of how vulnerable a wounded person could be. She was virtually helpless and it was very frightening. With no friends about to aid her, she was on her own, reliant on whatever physical resources she could muster. There was no denying that it made one feel isolated and scared.
Charlotte reached the door and carefully opened it. It had never been locked from the day she arrived – well, she was hardly going anywhere. Even with her chair she was not in a fit state to escape. There was no one in the corridor, the door of the office was closed and Charlotte wondered if Cophen was inside, taking care of the paperwork and phone calls that were the responsibility of Durst. Why was everyone so resolved to hide the man’s sickness? The loyalty the captain commanded was quite remarkable.
Charlotte clutched at the door frame as she moved the chair out into the hall. It was a precarious balancing act and she tipped forward once or twice, almost crashing to the floor. That would have been a disaster, as she doubted she could get up again. Luckily, she was able to keep upright and managed to shuffle into the hallway without falling.
Durst’s room was just next to the guest room. She did not have to go far to reach his door, though she took her time and endeavoured to make no sound with the chair. Durst’s room was not locked when she depressed the door handle and she was able to slip in quietly.
Captain Durst was lying in bed. The sole window in the room had its curtains pulled and everything was dim. Durst seemed to be very quiet and there was a smell of sickness in the air. Charlotte’s stomach went over; she recalled the same smell in her mother’s bedroom when she was dying. It pained her to have the memory suddenly forced upon her. She blinked back tears. It was a long time since she had thought of her mother and the sudden recollection had taken her by surprise. Charlotte pulled herself together. Her mother was long dead and mourning for her would achieve nothing. Charlotte was determined to make herself hard to such emotion.
Closing the door, Charlotte worked her way to Durst’s bedside and then sat down in the chair, an unconscious sigh of relief escaping her lips as she was able to rest her leg. She looked at Durst, who appeared pale and gaunt. He breathed harshly through his open mouth, his head almost tipping back with each rasping intake. Charlotte picked up his hand and felt for his pulse in his wrist. It was beating slowly, too slowly. Charlotte frowned. What was wrong with the man?
She glanced at the side table, thinking that a pill box or a medicine bottle would offer a clue. The first thing she saw was a half-empty bottle of Schnapps. Hardly medicine. She recalled there had been a strong aroma of alcohol around Captain Durst on the night she was captured. She had not noticed it since. Next to the Schnapps was a box that identified itself as aspirin and did not seem to directly relate to Durst’s current condition. More likely it was there to alleviate the pain of the hangover he would suffer after consuming the Schnapps.
Another pill box had a complicated name in German printed on it. Charlotte’s German had improved greatly since her lessons with SOE, but the word on the box eluded her. It could be a manufacturer’s name for the product. She turned the box over and saw there was further text on a label on the back. It gave directions for use and indicated that the product was used as a decongestant. Another box contained menthol capsules which could be dissolved in boiling water to create a medicinal steam for the patient to inhale. Another indicated that it was a powder to be inhaled to open up the airways. Everything seemed to be associated with the ability to breathe, except for the aspirin, and considering the sound Durst was making as he tried to take in air, Charlotte was beginning to see what the problem was.
He had coughed up blood that evening they had dined together and then vanished for a while. Charlotte could not help but think it was a case of Tuberculosis; the end stages. TB was a nasty disease that ate away at a person, reducing them to a weak shell of their former selves. Charlotte frowned. Durst did not appear weak or to be suffering the other debilitating symptoms of TB, yet everything pointed to the condition.
She was just putting down a box of pills when Cophen burst into the room. He looked frantic, but he relaxed when he saw her sitting beside Durst.
“Did you think I had tried to escape?” Charlotte asked him coldly.
Cophen resumed his usual composure and glowered at her.
“What are you doing here?” He hissed.
“I was concerned about Captain Durst.”
“It is not your place to be concerned.”
Charlotte frowned at him.
“Only you and Gruper have the right to worry about him? Or is it just that you do not want me knowing he is ill? I’m afraid that was a very badly kept secret.”
Durst groaned softly in his sleep.
“You will wake him, he must rest!” Cophen said urgently.
Charlotte ignored him and turned back to the sleeping captain. She still had his hand in hers.
“I have no intention of waking him,” she said, almost to herself. “I just wanted to see how he was.”
“Well, now you know,” Cophen marched up to her and took her arm.
Charlotte pulled it away.
“What would it hurt for me to sit here and watch over him?” She demanded. “I can do nothing else and I will cause him no harm. I shall be here if he needs a drink of water or if you or Gruper need to be summoned urgently.”
“What do you care about him?” Cophen snarled.
“He has been kind to me,” Charlotte retorted. “I wish to return that kindness. Is that so bad?”
Charlotte wasn’t going to leave, not without Cophen physically carrying her out of the room. She was going to take charge of Durst and repay a little of the compassion he had been generous enough to show her. And it was not just because she needed him fit and well, and willing to help her in the future. It was also because she felt a pang of understanding for him. Was that so awful?
Cophen did not grab her arm again. He seemed to have fallen into uncertainty, looking between Charlotte and his commander.
“He is very unwell, isn’t he?” Charlotte filled the silence. “And you and Gruper are protecting him.”
“He still performs his duties when he can, he is a good commander,” Cophen said loyally.
“And removing him from his post, that would be the end, yes?” Charlotte was making an educated guess. “He would become depressed without this role and would drink himself to death. He would have nothing else to live for and would die sooner than otherwise would have been the case.”
“More than that. Durst would feel he had failed in his duty. He would be ashamed, broken. He does not deserve that. He deserves to die with honour and with his men respecting his name,” Cophen paused, just a hint of emotion in his voice. “He must die at his post, serving to the very last. It is the only way he can face this sickness without utter despair overwhelming him and…”
“You think he would kill himself otherwise?”
Cophen shut his eyes for a moment. Then the words crept out.
“Yes. I think he would. And the shame that would bring to his name and to his family would be awful. But if he dies here, at his post, a hero to the last…”
“His name will live on with honour,” Charlotte nodded. “A selfless man who served his country to the very end, even when illness was taking its toll. Yes, I see that.”
Charlotte paused, then she smiled at Cophen.
“You are good friends.”
Cophen huffed, embarrassed by the familiarity he had inspired by talking so freely. He shuffled his feet.
“He is a good commander,” he said.
Charlotte tilted her head and looked at Durst who had not woken. He was almost corpse-like in appearance and she doubted he had many more months to live. That he could finish his time on earth in a way that was useful, at least to the Germans, was surely not too much to ask? Was it wrong to feel sympathy for him?
“What is he suffering from?” Charlotte asked. “TB?”
Cophen shook his head. He was no longer trying to pull her away or fight her. If anything, he seemed glad to have someone else to talk to about what was happening with Durst.
“He has not been officially diagnosed because that would mean informing our superiors and going through a military doctor who would make a formal report.”
“And that would end up with Durst being removed from his position due to his condition?” Charlotte guessed.
“More than likely,” Cophen agreed. “Gruper has his suspicions, however. He took Durst to a public hospital and was able to convince them to let him use their x-ray machine. Told them some lie about Durst having suffered an injury that he wanted to check on.
“Gruper believes the x-rays show the lungs to be cancerous.”
“Oh,” Charlotte did not know what else to say.
“He suspects the cancer has spread. There are lumps…” Cophen could say no more. “You learn to accept a lot in war, that your comrades may be killed by bombs or bullet, but to think of someone being stricken by cancer, someone young… it knocks you back.”
“My mother died of cancer,” Charlotte said softly. She instantly regretted the words. Revealing personal details about your real self was strictly taboo when working for SOE. The information had just slipped out.
Cophen was sympathetic.
“You know how it is then? We do what we can for him. Keep him comfortable. Gruper had supplied him with drink in the past, which we have had words about,” Cophen motioned to the Schnapps bottle with a sneer of distaste. “The men know no more than necessary.”
“How long do you think you can keep up the pretence?” Charlotte asked him. It was not an accusation, but a genuine question.
Cophen had no real answer.
“The aim is for as long as needs be, until…”
Cophen shrugged.
“It won’t be many more months.”
Charlotte’s frown deepened at this terrible prediction. It seemed so unfair, with all those wicked men going about – like Hitler – who were healthy and hardy, that a kind, reasonable German like Durst should fall foul of cancer. Surely he was just the sort of man Germany needed, the sort of man who should survive this war to rebuild his country afterwards? It was times like these that Charlotte questioned the existence of God or any order to the universe. She could not understand, if there was a higher authority, how such injustices could be allowed.
“Let me stay with him,” Charlotte said quietly. “You have your work to do and he needs a nurse. I won’t cause any mischief.”
Cophen had returned to his stony-silence. After a moment he turned on his heel and left the room. Charlotte assumed that meant she could stay. She turned her gaze back to Durst and clutched his hand a little tighter. What drew her to this man? Was it that he reminded her of Klaus, just a little? Or was it some pang of goodness within her that even the war could not diminish? She had no answer, she just knew she had to sit here and watch over Durst. She had to do what she could for him. And then she would betray him, wouldn’t she? By escaping.
Charlotte closed her eyes and felt sick. Yes, she would betray him, and it made her feel awful, but there was no choice. This war made you so horribly wicked. A tear rolled down Charlotte’s cheek. Yet there was nothing she could do – she had to survive.
Rouen, France. 10.30am
“Rene, you have to do this…”
“No!” Petiere yelled at Josef. “I have to do nothing!”
He was huddled on his bed, kneeling at the top with his head facing the wall. He had pulled his arms over his head and was rolled forward until his forehead touched the plaster. He had taken this defensive position when Josef had raised the suggestion that Petiere go to the old owner of the newspaper offices and get the key.
“You are the only person who can do this, you know the owner,” Josef said patiently, not shouting as he knew that would only defeat his purpose. He spoke calmly.
This was a long-shot, but he had promised the Communists and if they did not get that key then his entire plan would be in jeopardy.
“It would only take an hour or so…”
“I do not leave this house, I told you that!” Petiere snapped. “I cannot leave. There are… people out there.”
Petiere cringed and pressed himself further into the wall. The combination of persecution, drugs and drink had resulted in a nervous breakdown in the former journalist. Once upon a time, the world and all its people was Petiere’s bread and butter, it was what he fed on and what he used to write his thought provoking and often controversial articles. Now it terrified him.
Josef tried to understand. Truth was, the world as it currently existed terrified him a little too. However, he kept operating despite that terror. Petiere had shut down, retreated into this small space and hidden himself away. Pretending that nothing existed outside this tiny room.
The Nazis had taken everything from Petiere. His beautiful apartment, his money, even his reputation which they slandered in their propaganda. Petiere was no longer able to write his controversial articles, they had even taken the outlet for his talents from him. It was easy to see why he had given up.
“Rene, I would not ask you to do this if it was not urgent and also if there was anyone else I could ask,” Josef said.
“You should not ask me at all, have I not been through enough already?” Petiere almost spat the words at him.
“Others have been through worse and continue to fight,” Josef hardened a little bit, gentle persuasion was not working. “It would be bliss if we could all hide away in garrets and pretend the war was not happening, but it is not possible. We have to keep fighting, you have to keep fighting.”
Petiere let out a strange moan, but he did not uncurl from his position by the wall.
“What am I going to do, Rene? I need the key from the owner of the newspaper office and you are the only person I know who I can ask to speak with him. I cannot go myself, he does not know me and would not just give me the key.”
“Then you will have to make do without it,” Petiere snorted.
“That is not possible either. I explained all this. To enable us to counter the lies the Nazis are spreading we must print our own paper, you understand how such things work,” Josef sighed. “To print a paper we need a press, and the only press is at that newspaper office. And the only way to get into the office is through the front door. With a key.”
“There has to be another way,” Petiere insisted.
“We have run through all other options. Removing the press by stealth will not work. The Germans sit at the café opposite and eat and drink all day and night. They will see what is happening, arrest the men involved and destroy the press. Do you not see how important this all is?”
“Of course I do!” Petiere snapped. “But you ask too much of me, far too much.”
Petiere gave another moan and rocked on his knees.
“I just want to be left here in peace. I have been so ill.”
“There will be no peace for any of us until the Nazis are defeated,” Josef told him bluntly. “How long before they come to this, the Jewish quarter, and begin one of their roundups? What then Petiere? You will not be safe here forever.”
“Do not say that!” Petiere pushed out the words through his clenched teeth.
“It is only the truth. Day by day, the Nazis move on with their plans to exterminate those they hate. Eventually they will come here. Maybe not this month, or the next, but they will come. It has happened in Paris. The rot will spread. Then you will be dragged from your hole like a rat.”
“You lie!”
“I do not, and you know it,” Josef snorted. “Your neighbours, just across the road, the Jewish surgeon and his young family, they have disappeared, had you not heard? He was still working at the infirmary, but the Nazis would not tolerate that. And what of the tenant two floors down from this room? He vanished the other night, some say he was suspected by the Nazis as being a subversive. Whatever the case, he is gone.”
“Be quiet!” Petiere clamped his arms over his ears, his hands still clasped over the top of his head.
“The old Petiere that I used to know would have been brave. He would have written about these stories and found a way to publish them. In a secret newspaper, a voice of reason in the darkness of Fascist lies. He would have never cowered away!”
“Shut up! That Petiere no longer exists!”
“I think he does,” Josef countered. “I think he is still there, stuck in a shell of cowardice and inactivity.”
Petiere sucked air in through his clenched teeth and it sounded like the hiss of a goose or swan. Josef wanted to sigh, he wanted to shake Petiere and scream at him. That was not an option. He sank back into the chair he was sitting on and shut his eyes for a moment. There had to be a way to persuade Petiere.
“What would it take to convince you to do this?” He asked.
Petiere said nothing, he was breathing into the plaster of the wall.
“Money?” Josef looked around the squalid room. “You must need to pay your rent?”
Petiere was silent.
“I will get you anything, at least anything that is feasible, if you will help me. What will it take to get you to do this?”
Petiere had tilted his head a fraction towards Josef. He was no longer rocking and he almost seemed calm. He was listening, Josef was certain of that, and he was thinking.
“There has to be something…”
“Cocaine,” Petiere said sharply, his hands dropped from where they were clutched over his head and he pressed the palms against the wall instead. He pushed himself back a little. “I want cocaine.”
Josef said nothing, but the look on his face was enough to describe his hesitation at the request.
“You asked,” Petiere pointed out to him coldly. “I… I haven’t the courage to leave this room without something to take off the edge.”
“If you mean a tranquiliser, something to calm your nerves…”
“Don’t fob me off with a doctor’s pill,” Petiere snapped. “I know what works for me, far better than you do. I need cocaine to give me the strength to leave this place.”
Petiere licked his lips and there was sudden greediness in his expression. Josef was uneasy about his request for a couple of reasons, not least that once Petiere had his hands on the drug he could renege on their arrangement.
“I might be prepared to supply you with cocaine after you have secured the key,” Josef said cautiously, quickly thinking in his head how he might be able to produce a dummy substance and pretend it was the drug.
“No! You are not listening Josef! I need it before, to give me the courage to do what you ask,” Petiere had now moved away from the wall. “If you want the old Petiere, then you have to get me the stuff that used to fuel that former version of me. I always had cocaine before I went investigating a story.”
Josef was still reluctant. Petiere’s sudden change of demeanour was troubling, as it did not make sense. Not unless you took into account how desperate the man was for drugs, for a high. In that case, Petiere was lying when he said he just wanted the drug to give him courage, he was really only a junkie using Josef.
“You’ve been clean for so long,” Josef protested.
“This is not about becoming an addict again,” Petiere snorted. “It is about a single high. One hit. Surely I am allowed that?”
Josef was not convinced. His conscience was yelling at him that he should not agree, that to do so was to betray a friend and send him back down a very slippery slope. In another place and time, Josef would have listened to his conscience – but right now he needed that key, and if that meant supplying Petiere with cocaine, so be it. Josef knew that his conscience was not going to be enough to stay his hand. He had bigger things in mind and a lot of lives could be at risk if Petiere refused to help.
“Supposing I get you cocaine,” Josef said cautiously. “What is to stop you from taking it and not helping me?”
“You offend me, Josef, do you think me so pathetic?” Petiere scowled.
Josef shook his head.
“My friend, I know how these drugs can change a man and make him break his promises.”
“I will not break mine,” Petiere hastened to add. “The cocaine is just to give me strength. I am weak without it.”
Josef was still uncertain, there was too great a possibility of Petiere getting high and forgetting all his promises. Drug addicts had no honour, it was a selfish addiction and one that could see them betraying their own mothers for a hit.
“I don’t believe you,” Josef said. “I think the cocaine will make you forget and refuse to leave this room.”
Petiere’s eyes widened as he saw his chance for a hit drifting away. He was desperate, Josef was aware of that. He might be clean, but it was not really by choice and he was still after something to help him escape reality. He was prepared to compromise for it.
“Alright, look, give me the cocaine when I leave the house, yes? Then I cannot just lay down on this bed and give in,” Petiere’s eyes were fixed on Josef. “I am many things, Josef, but I do not let my friends down once I have made an agreement. If I am already out of the house, then you can stop me going back in, which you won’t need to, but if it makes you feel better…”
“I would bring a friend too, so there are two of us to keep you on track,” Josef added swiftly.
“I can agree to that,” Petiere was too eager to care how many people Josef brought. “Anything, anything you wish.”
Josef let out a long sigh. As much as Petiere was desperate for the drugs, so Josef was desperate for his help. He knew he was going to agree to the deal, even as he drew out the moment before he had to speak.
“Just one hit,” he said carefully.
“Yes, just one.”
“And you must get that key, Petiere, do you understand?”
“I do, I won’t betray you.”
Josef felt like adding a threat if Petiere reneged on their arrangement, but he bit his tongue. He doubted any threat would have meaning once Petiere had snorted his cocaine. He had to rely on the man’s honour, for what little that was worth.
“We have a deal, then.”
Petiere grinned.
“When… when will you come?”
“As soon as I can. I do not have long to get that key,” Josef was recalling Remini’s ultimatum. “I just have to find someone who supplies cocaine.”
“I can give you a name and address,” Petiere said eagerly. “If I could leave the house myself, I would go to this man. The irony is that I need my drugs to be able to go outside and fetch more.”
That was worrying Josef. What if Petiere decided that he could not actually step outside until he had the cocaine? Would they end up in a stalemate? Petiere was promising anything right now in anticipation of a hit. He was not really thinking about what he was saying. He would promise to cut a finger off if it meant getting a fix – well, maybe not quite that, but certainly he was making offers he would struggle to keep.
Josef gave up questioning the possibilities. He had one option, and one alone. He nodded to Petiere.
“Give me the address and I will return as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, Josef! And I shall get that key for you!” Petiere’s demeanour had completely lifted. Now he was friendly and amenable, not the cowering, arguing, ball of outrage that had confronted Josef half-an-hour ago.
Josef took the address that Petiere swiftly scribbled on a scrap of paper.
“You will come back?” Petiere asked with sudden anxiety.
“I will,” Josef promised.
“You are a good friend, Josef, I will not let you down!”
Josef gave a sort of grunt that came from the back of his throat, then he headed for the door of the room. He was certain he was making a mistake, he just didn’t have a choice. As he fled down the narrow stairs he could hear Petiere calling after him.
“Thank you so much, Josef! You are truly my dearest friend!”
London, England. 1.02pm
The court had reconvened for what promised to be an interesting afternoon. Klaus had lunched with Donne, as he always did, and his lawyer had been fascinated by the prospect of Franz Herne taking the stand.
“Stebbings has every right to be worried,” he noted to Klaus. “Herne has no sense when it comes to what he should or shouldn’t say. I think he will run his mouth off and, naturally, I will encourage him.”
Klaus was less certain. He was a pessimist by nature and he didn’t like to think about what might occur that afternoon. Herne could say a lot of things, especially against Klaus. But Donne was enthusiastic.
“We have to look at things from an emotional perspective now. There is no real defence for what you did, aside from the great burden of stress you were under, and even that does not really excuse your actions. However, the court is not just about the laws of the land. The jury consists of people who have their own minds and who can be swayed in favour of a person,” Donne bit into a cold meat sandwich as he spoke. “We can’t change your guilt, but we can make the jury feel sympathy for you, more importantly, we may be able to convince the court to be lenient in its sentencing. That is what we have to aim for.”
Klaus found this all too confusing. He was also troubled about this talk of ‘swaying’ the jury. It sounded sinister and not like justice at all, even if it was for his benefit. He felt rather unhappy about everything.
Then lunch had ended, and they were back in the courtroom, all set to see just what Franz Herne had to say.
Lieutenant Stebbings looked like he was suffering from acute indigestion as he rose from his seat. His pallor was grey and he had a strained expression on his face.
“I would like to call my final witness for the prosecution,” he addressed the court. “Sergeant-Major Franz Herne.”
Herne jumped from his seat and headed to the witness stand. He looked altogether too eager for what was to come. Klaus felt a little better. Herne did not seem to realise the seriousness of the situation.
“Sergeant-Major Franz Herne, you have been residing in No.42 Prisoner of War Camp since January of 1941?” Stebbings began reluctantly.
“Yes. I was captured because of the cowardice of the Wehrmacht troops my unit was supporting,” Herne spoke quickly, clearly intent on not allowing Stebbings to stop him. He wanted to tell his story and paint himself as a glorious Nazi hero. “I should never have been there otherwise. The SS is far too competent to normally be overrun by British troops. Not that British troops are incompetent.”
Herne’s eyes had switched to the jury, remembering who he was addressing and still talking fast to avoid being interrupted.
“But they cannot compare to the SS. That is nothing to be ashamed of, naturally. Just a statement of fact…”
“Sergeant-Major Herne,” Stebbings finally caught up with him. “Perhaps you can describe how you came to first meet the defendant, Klaus Ribbonkoff.”
Herne’s face darkened and he scowled at Klaus.
“He came into the camp pretending that he was working for a group of British Nazis. He said he would help us to escape.”
“How would he do that?” Stebbings asked, sounding bored.
“By supplying us with guns and wire cutters,” Herne said. “He also promised us that there would be a car waiting for us when we escaped. These were all lies!”
Herne slammed his fist down on the table.
“However, you believed him,” Stebbings stated rather than asked.
“No.” Herne said with a grin.
Stebbings hesitated. This was not the answer he had been expecting.
“No? But you attempted the escape?”
“Only as a diversion,” Herne shrugged. “To lure him out and prove him a traitor to the Fuhrer, to the Fatherland. He is a vile worm, who had to be shown up. And I had my revenge too.”
Herne was grinning wickedly at Klaus. It was meant to be intimidating and to demonstrate that he had had the upper hand all along. Klaus was not frightened or angered by his attitude, rather he felt that Herne was being extremely foolish and walking into his own noose. He found this amusing, but he kept his face neutral.
“Sergeant-Major Herne, you did make an escape attempt?”
“As I say, a diversion and it worked,” Herne chuckled. “I suspected our friend here was lying, there was something wrong with his demeanour. A Nazis always knows a Nazi, and I knew he was not one of us. I knew there was something else afoot and I was curious what it was. That is when I became interested in Hermann Kettig. I didn’t like him either, he was clearly not a Nazi. He was a weak-willed, stupid man…”
“Sergeant-Major Herne,” the Judge Advocate interrupted. “I must warn you about saying information that is relevant to a pending case, namely the charges against you of the assault on this Hermann Kettig.”
Herne snorted through his nose at the Judge Advocate. Donne almost sniggered, Stebbings was visibly wincing.
“That case should not be brought against me!” Herne declared to the Judge Advocate. “I was only doing what a good Nazi should and eliminating a man who was unworthy to call himself a German. That was not a crime, it was a process of improvement. Weeding out the weak and useless to produce a nation of stronger, worthier individuals.”
“Under British law you committed a heinous crime,” the Judge Advocate had been angered by the outburst and sternly addressed Herne. “You will behave yourself, Sergeant-Major, and abide by the laws of this land. And I must once again warn you about speaking of events that relate to a case pending against you.”
“And I say, what do I care for your laws?” Herne sneered; the Judge Advocate and Stebbings were growing red with horror. “You cannot try me, not really. This is all a sham. Soon Hitler will invade and I shall be vindicated. Klaus Ribbonkoff will be hung for his treachery and I shall be rewarded with medals!”
“Sergeant-Major Herne, control yourself or shall I have to hold you in contempt of court?”
“May I speak with my client a moment, your Honour?” Stebbings interjected hastily.
“Bring him back to his senses, if you can,” the Judge Advocate turned his scowl on the lieutenant.
Stebbings hastened over to Herne and held a whispered conversation with him. The tone was heated. Donne looked at Klaus and winked.
“When I said about gaining sympathy for you, this was rather what I meant,” he smiled.
Klaus was just amazed at how foolish Herne was being. But then the man had never demonstrated a great deal of common sense. Stebbings returned to his place in the courtroom and things proceeded again.
“Sergeant-Major Herne, can you tell the court what happened on the night of the escape.”
“Certainly,” Herne looked annoyed at having been told to simmer down. His eyes drifted to Klaus again. “The plan was to escape through a hole in the wire, that was what Klaus had instructed us to do, but I persuaded the men it would be better to go for the main gate. We could kill a few Polish dogs along the way.”
Stebbings shut his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his anxiety.
“I doubt you mean that, Sergeant-Major. You are saying these things to stir up the court and to increase the fierce reputation of the SS,” he said, his patience exhausted.
“I mean every word. If the guns had only worked we would have shot several sentries,” Herne cast a haughty glare at Stebbings. “For the same reason, I completely meant to kill that man Hermann Kettig, it was my revenge against Ribbonkoff.”
“Sergeant-Major Herne, I have already warned you,” the Judge Advocate reminded him again.
“I do not care,” Herne declared. “My intention was to kill that dog and what should I deny it for? He was a traitor. He knew about the escape, but we had not told him. His attitude changed. He was happier, yet also more nervous. I guessed he was working with Ribbonkoff and so I dealt with him.”
“He didn’t know that,” Klaus whispered to Donne. “But he may have suspected Hermann was planning to betray them.”
Donne nodded.
“Whatever the case, he is helping us enormously.”
“Can we get back to the escape attempt?” Stebbings demanded of his client, but Herne was in his own world, revelling in being centre stage.
“I accused Kettig of being a traitor, I had him beaten within an inch of his life, and then I personally placed the noose around his nec…”
“Sergeant-Major Herne! You will not discuss these matters, are we clear!” The Judge Advocate was furious.
Herne seemed to jerk from his thoughts and then look over. Stebbings hastily changed direction.
“You saw Klaus coming towards you that night, at the main gates?” He asked quickly.
Herne was briefly wrong-footed.
“Yes, I saw him among us. He attacked me! I gave as good as I got!”
“You were knocked down?”
“By chance, the ground was slippery,” Herne hastened to say. “It was not because of him. He did not get the better of me.”
“But he did cause your injuries? He beat you on the ground?”
“As I say, I fell because the ground was awful,” Herne shrugged. “I could have defended myself, I did defend myself. He is not stronger than me.”
Herne turned his glare on Klaus.
“Oh dear, his pride has the better of him,” Donne said softly.
“Everyone started to panic too. I slipped and fell, hit my head and then people started to run and I might have been crushed a little.”
“But you were beaten by Klaus Ribbonkoff?” Stebbings was insistent, panic coming over him as he saw his client suddenly changing his tone.
“He laid a few blows on me,” Herne said with a sniff. “I shrugged them off, I punched him back even. He is not a better fighter than me. It was just that it was dark and the sentries were firing guns. People started to run, and I had slipped.”
Stebbings looked fit to throw his hands up in despair. He had given up trying to get the correct answer from Herne.
“No further questions,” he told the court and before he had barely sat down, Donne had bounced up.
“Sergeant-Major Herne, I have been listening to your testimony intently and it seems to me that you are saying your main injuries were not the result of Herr Ribbonkoff assaulting you?”
“I am tough, I am SS,” Herne told the court proudly. “A man like him, who is not even a Fascist, would never get the better of me. He surprised me at first, yes, and that was how he got in the first blow. But I gave him a good punch back.”
“Are you saying your injuries were not sustained in a fight, but as a result of the other prisoners retreating from the gate?”
“Some of them,” Herne was hedging again. “What I am saying is that I do not believe Klaus Ribbonkoff is capable of getting the better of me. He must either have had help, or I was crushed in a stampede by accident. I won’t have it being made official knowledge that a non-Nazi got the better of me in a fight. He is not worthy of such a statement.”
“What of the other witness, your fellow inmate who declared he saw you being beaten?” Donne pushed.
“He is always trying to ruin my reputation,” Herne snarled. “He is jealous of me, I would pay him no heed.”
Donne was so amazed by this statement that he took a pace back and paused for a second. Then he glanced to the Judge Advocate.
“Your Honour, may I approach?”
“You may, I think Lieutenant Stebbings ought to approach as well.”
Both lawyers came to stand before the Judge Advocate.
“Well gentlemen?” He asked.
“Your Honour, the witness’ statements seem to indicate that there is no real case against my client and I ask that the proceedings be dismissed,” Donne said.
Despite Donne lowering his voice, Klaus was in a place where he could hear what was being said and knew what was happening. He listened as Donne spelt out why the trial should be finished there and then, while Stebbings countered with his own arguments.
“Your Honour, the victim’s memories of the events are hazy at best. We have other witnesses who clearly implicate Klaus Ribbonkoff in this attack and state he was the man responsible for Herne’s severe injuries.”
“This is true,” the Judge Advocate replied. “The victim’s own thoughts need not exclude your client, Corporal Donne, from being considered the culprit. I believe there is still a case for your client to answer, Donne.”
Herne, sitting at the witness table and further away than Klaus, tapped his fingers impatiently. He probably could not hear what was happening and he was bored with it all. His belligerence for the whole affair was remarkable, as was his complete disregard for the British legal system.
Donne and Stebbings moved back from the front of the court and returned to their places.
“Sergeant-Major Herne,” Donne began again. “We have been over your thoughts on Herr Ribbonkoff and your opinion that he was incapable of causing you such harm. If that is the case, why would so many people come forward claiming he attacked you?”
“Because they will say what they are told to say,” Herne snorted. “And they wish to shame me.”
“You are suggesting the Polish sentry is lying?”
“Yes. He must find it amusing to suggest I was knocked down by this pathetic man. He says this to shame me.”
“However, your recollection of the night in question is understandably hazy,” Donne said in a very slightly patronising fashion.
Herne took offence, as was expected.
“My recollection is perfectly clear!” Herne insisted. “Whatever these other men have said, I am the one who was there.”
He pounded into his chest with a finger, emphasising his words.
“I know what happened to me, and this whole thing is a farce! And you are all idiots!”
“Sergeant-Major Herne…”
“I know,” Herne sneered at the Judge Advocate. “Contempt of court.”
The Judge Advocate flushed red with anger. Herne’s disrespect was making the whole court case seem a waste of time and effort. If it was not for the fact that the military wanted to see justice done, in spite of Herne’s obnoxious behaviour, the whole thing would probably have been dismissed.
“No further questions,” Donne hastily added, deciding it was best not to drag things out under the current climate.
In any case, Herne had played into his hands better than he could ever have imagined. He turned back to Klaus and could not resist a smile.
“Sergeant-Major Herne, you are dismissed from the witness box,” The Judge Advocate said with surprising ferocity.
Herne rose, his arrogance all too plain as he gazed at the court. He considered this something absurd and utterly beneath him. Klaus could only shake his head at the man’s misguided fanaticism. Herne walked back to his place next to Stebbings.
“The court will end for the day,” the Judge Advocate continued. “Tomorrow, we shall hear the case for the defence.”
He dismissed the court as quickly as he could. Everyone was unsettled and needed the night ahead to recompose. Stebbings looked sick to his stomach as he led Herne out of the courtroom.
“He is ashamed to represent this man,” Donne whispered to Klaus. “Probably concerned about his reputation too. Herne doesn’t make life easy for himself.”
“His arrogance blinds him,” Klaus was solemn, he did not think the case was over, though Donne was clearly pleased with the day’s antics.
“At least I can push for reasonable doubt that you are the culprit in these crimes now,” Donne grinned. “Herne’s outburst puts a shadow over the other witnesses’ testimony.”
Klaus was uneasy.
“I cannot lie and say I did not attack him,” he told Donne. “I won’t lie.”
“Exactly what I would expect from a man of honour such as yourself. Fortunately, I don’t intend to call you to the stand and thus you do not have to lie.”
Klaus was not appeased. He was somewhat fatalistic and felt he ought to be punished for what he had done. He might not regret his actions, but he did not want to be excused them either. It was a complicated mash of emotions running inside him. Donne placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Cheer up,” he smiled. “What good would a prison sentence do anyway? You have far more value as a free man serving this country. Punishing you for attacking Herne is not worth our time.”
“But, I am not above the law of this land,” Klaus reminded him. “I am not Herne, who believes the only law is the one he metes out.”
“I know, but nothing is ever black and white,” Donne explained patiently. “Justice is… well, it is a system, it is a way of showing the nation that the authorities will not stand for a certain crime. In some instances, it is a good way of preventing an individual from committing the same crimes again and again. But it is also extremely flawed. We are punishing actions already committed, without exploring deeper into why they happened in the first place and how we can prevent them from occurring again. Justice is a form of vengeance, a polite, approved form, but vengeance nonetheless. And sometimes that vengeance falls in the wrong direction.
“Don’t look so downhearted Klaus. This is about the British military showing that they are a fair force when it comes to their prisoners of war. They want to demonstrate, mainly to Hitler, that if a crime is committed against a prisoner in their charge they will ensure it is investigated fully and the culprit brought to justice. This is a game of tit-for-tat. We do right by our prisoners of war, and hopefully Hitler will do right by captured British servicemen.
“Don’t imagine this is all for a noble cause. That we are rising above the petty rages of a nation at war with another. This is really about our own men. By treating our prisoners correctly and decently, we hope the same will occur to men captured by the Nazis. If we were to treat German prisoners badly, then our men in captivity in Germany would suffer in retribution. And we know the Nazis would take things a lot further than we would. So, we are playing nice for purely selfish reasons. Do not imagine that we are somehow more honourable, more high-minded than anyone else.”
Donne chuckled.
“You look appalled!” He said.
“I thought… I had hoped the British were different,” Klaus muttered.
“Oh, but we are,” Donne grinned. “For a start, we care about our captured troops in Nazi hands, which is more than can be said about some of your German comrades. They are happy to commit atrocities against our men, and don’t care if there are consequences for German POWs. That is how we differ.”
“I suppose… I understand.”
Donne squeezed Klaus’ shoulder.
“The world is complicated,” he said. “Let me do my job. Sending you to prison for beating on that fellow, Herne, will achieve nothing. Come on, let’s get to our homes.”
Donne led Klaus out of the courtroom. Klaus felt confused and that made him anxious. He had grown up in a system of rules and regulations that was very different to the one he was now in. He could not get his head around British justice, or why Donne smiled at it as if it was just a game.
Klaus thought that true justice, of the sort he had imagined the British to endorse, was a glorious thing. True justice was equal, everyone had the right to it, or so he assumed. But now he was less sure. The British system was flawed too. Maybe there was a sort of equality, but it was not as pure as he had imagined.
Klaus felt like his head was going to pop with all these conflicting ideas. He had to stop thinking, he had to step back and let things take their course. When this was all done, maybe then he would understand.
Maybe.
Rouen, France. 5.45pm
Josef was spending too much time in town. He knew he was placing himself in danger every extra minute he loitered in Rouen, yet he did not leave. Perhaps it was pride that made him feel that there were certain things only he could do. Or maybe it was his anxiety and need to control the things around him. Whatever it was, it meant he was performing tasks that he should have assigned to a subordinate.
He found the drug dealer Petiere had told him about. The man was a low-life who hung out in one of the slum areas of the town. He liked women and drink, and he also sampled his products a little more than was sensible. The reason he remained in operation was mainly that some of the higher-level Nazis (notably a couple of Gestapo officers) were regular consumers of his wares. It also helped that he had avoided overdosing, though the ravishes of the drugs he took made Josef doubt he had a long life ahead of him.
The man called himself Zac, but what his mother called him was another question entirely. Josef discovered him sandwiched between two nubile young ladies, who already showed the marked signs of long-term addiction. One could not have been more than twenty-five, but when she smiled her teeth were brown and her eyeballs had a tendency to roll up into her head as if she was about to pass out.
Josef did not understand why people were attracted to drugs when the physical results were so obvious. He supposed it was a case of people believing such destruction would not happen to them, or that the appeal of a high was greater than the fears of becoming such walking, talking corpses. Josef thought of Petiere. The man was clearly a bag of nerves and had been for most of his life. To conquer his own inclinations, he had turned to drugs. Probably the first time it had been a ‘one-off’, but then he had liked the change it brought in him so much, it had turned into a regular thing. Before he knew it, he was addicted and could not function without a substance of some description inside him.
And here Josef was buying him that substance.
Josef knew his actions made him neither a noble nor a good friend. He also knew that sacrifices had to be made in this war and, the truth was, he was prepared to sacrifice Petiere if it meant securing the printing press and the means for fighting the Nazis. He was not proud of himself. His distaste for his own actions was simply not great enough to stop him.
After the war was over, Josef was going to have to spend a lot of time living with a guilty conscience.
The cocaine was simple to purchase. He was not asked any questions and it was handed over in a twist of paper, like a packet of medicine from a pharmacist. It was one dose. Just one. Josef consoled himself with that fact.
Earlier he had sent a message to Benoit asking him to meet him in the Jewish quarter just before six. Benoit finished work at half five and Josef hoped he would be able to have the affair with Petiere over and done with quickly, so Benoit could get home to his family. Josef had never met the loved ones of his comrade. He had made a point of not doing so. Being one stepped removed was best for their safety as much as his. But he knew Benoit was a family man, who was fighting this war for the sake of his wife and child. Josef didn’t like to keep him from them if it was unnecessary.
When he returned to the house where Petiere lived, he spotted Benoit stood outside, smoking, He looked a part of the scenery, no more out-of-place than anyone else. Benoit had a knack for blending in. Josef walked up to him.
“Well?” Benoit asked.
“The man inside, his name is Petiere, and he is going to help us to get the key for the newspaper office. In exchange I have brought him… cocaine,” Josef shrugged his shoulders a little defensively.
Benoit did not judge.
“Why do you need me?”
“I don’t trust him not to renege on the arrangement the second he snorts this powder.”
“So, give him the drugs after he gets the key?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Josef answered sadly. “He is too terrified to leave the house without a dose of cocaine inside him. I don’t know if this is going to go well Benoit, that is why I need you.”
Benoit frowned, clearly still uncertain of what was going on. But he was prepared to accept the arrangement for what it was.
“I’ll follow your lead,” he said.
Relieved, Josef went inside the house, nodded to Petiere’s landlady and headed upstairs to the attic garret. He could hear Petiere pacing inside before he was on the top landing. He was stomping back and forth, speaking to himself. Josef licked his lips in agitation.
“Petiere?” He called at the doorway.
Petiere stopped pacing.
“Josef?” He quickly glanced out the door. “Oh, you came back, I didn’t think…”
Petiere was shaking and it was obvious that he had been thinking about his fix ever since Josef had left, working himself into a dither about whether Josef would return or not, and growing more and more agitated in the process.
“I have it,” Josef told him. “I shall wait for you downstairs.”
Josef turned around.
“Josef, wait!” Petiere was trembling. “It would not hurt for me to have some here, now? Would it?”
Josef narrowed his eyes at him.
“I shall wait downstairs,” he said firmly and departed before Petiere could protest further.
Stepping back outside, into a summer evening that was threatening rain, he felt horrible. But he knew the lure of the drugs would have Petiere pounding down the stairs at any moment.
The landlady of the house popped outside briefly to shake a small hearth-rug, smiling at Josef, before going back in. He smiled back, even though he felt sick knowing how he was betraying her as much as the man upstairs. She had valued Josef’s influence on Petiere, believing it helped to keep him on the straight and narrow. How little she really knew.
“Someone is coming,” Benoit, from where he stood, could see through the open doorway of the house to the staircase.
Josef braced himself. The next moment Petiere was stood outside, jittery like a mouse that has sensed a cat nearby and struggling to stand still.
“I am outside,” he gave a strange laugh. “This… this is different.”
He looked up to the sky and blinked.
“So much… bigger.”
“You can’t go back inside once you take this,” Josef told Petiere firmly. “You cannot renege.”
Benoit, taking his cue from his comrade, stepped in front of the open doorway and barred it with his stern presence. Petiere took his first good look at Benoit and did not appear happy.
“Yes, yes, I understand,” he thrust out his hand for the packet of cocaine.
“I am not sure you do,” Josef held on to it firmly. “This is a very important matter. I need your help.”
“I know,” Petiere grumbled. “Look, let’s get this over with, huh?”
Josef held out for a moment longer, but what further promises could he extract from the man which would satisfy his doubts? None. Petiere would say anything to get his drugs and would then ignore every vow he had made. Josef gave in. The twist of paper fell into Petiere’s outstretched palm and he snorted it in full view of the street. The hit came quickly and the paper drifted from his hand, falling to the dirt of the road. Petiere visibly relaxed, then he laughed at Benoit.
“He is such a bear! Come on, I know where I am going.”
Petiere had come alive. He strode off down the road with Josef and Benoit following. He did know the way and they were soon on the outskirts of a square lined with nice townhouses.
“My townhouse was even bigger,” Petiere told Josef as he pointed out the house where the newspaper man lived. “Still, this is good for Rouen.”
“You can do this?” Josef asked anxiously.
“Of course!” Petiere was over-brimming with confidence. “All I have to do is ask. I left work at that office and I want to get it back.”
“He may protest,” Josef countered.
Petiere laughed, only it was more a cackle.
“I can persuade him!”
Petiere ran his fingers through his hair to neaten it and adjusted his collar and jacket. He was radiating with self-assurance. This was the Petiere Josef remembered, sadly, now he knew he had only ever seen that old Petiere when he was high on drugs. The real Petiere was something more akin to the man he had met in the hovel, who was terrified of the world and of life itself. Josef felt a little sorry for him and that sparked a renewal of his feelings of guilt.
“Be back in a moment,” Petiere said, and marched across the square to the townhouse.
Benoit winced as Petiere strolled straight past a pair of German soldiers. Josef just shook his head. Petiere was technically in hiding. His anti-Nazi articles from before the war had earned him the lasting damnation of the Fascist regime. It was why his luxury apartment had been raided, and why his assets, bank accounts and his collection of antiques had been stolen from him. Petiere had escaped with only the clothes on his back and his typewriter.
He was still wanted, but few knew what he looked like, and he was such a sorry sight these days that even fewer would recognise him for the person he had once been. Even so, walking straight past a pair of German soldiers was taking a huge chance.
The Germans did not appear to notice Petiere and he entered the townhouse on the far side of the square and vanished from sight. Josef leaned against a wall and sighed to himself.
“He was a great writer once?” Benoit asked
“An amazing writer,” Josef replied. “He was renowned for breaking critical stories, like that crime family who were selling children in Paris. He exposed them, even though his life was threatened.”
“That is a very brave man,” Benoit frowned.
Josef knew he was trying to weigh up the man he had just met and unite him with the man of principles he had just been told of. It was a challenging puzzle.
“The cocaine makes him brave,” Josef said. “I wish it was otherwise. He was a great writer.”
“You think he will never be again?”
“I don’t know,” Josef sighed. “Maybe his mind is ruined?”
They stood silent for a while. The German soldiers finished talking and walked off.
“What does it matter if he needs the drugs to make him brave?” Benoit said at last. “Maybe that is ok?”
Josef just shook his head. It was not ok.
They waited half-an-hour, longer than Josef had anticipated and he began to feel uneasy. Benoit passed the time by picking dirt from beneath his nails. He was perpetually black with grease and coal dust due to his work as a railway engineer. The oily filth of his occupation seemed to stain him to the point where soap was all but useless.
“There was another train of Germans in today,” he muttered after a while. “Soldiers on leave. I look at them as they step on the platform and think how I could derail their train and kill so many. Then I think about the other passengers on the same train, the French citizens travelling in separate carriages and I can’t think about it anymore.”
“That is the very reason they have German soldiers on the same trains as French civilians. You would have to kill your own countrymen to get to them. It is cunning,” Josef answered.
Benoit snorted.
“Cowardly, more like.”
Josef was not sure how to reply, but he did not need to as Petiere emerged from the townhouse at that moment. He loped across the square, some of his confidence gone. He glanced over his shoulder and a pigeon fluttering up from the ground made him start. The high was wearing off. Petiere’s body was so used to it, that a single dose did not last long.
He returned to the alley where Benoit and Josef were waiting and collapsed against the wall. He was flushed and sweat dripped from his forehead.
“Well?” Josef asked.
Petiere reached into his pocket and produced a key. Josef grabbed it, as if it might suddenly vanish.
“Thank you, Rene,” he said to the man.
Petiere just groaned and brushed off the thanks. He took a step away from the wall and his whole body seemed to quiver.
Then Rene Petiere passed out.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 7.01pm
Charlotte had not left Captain Durst’s side all day. She watched over him in silence, occasionally glancing up to acknowledge Gruper or Cophen when they came in. Cophen had informed Gruper of the situation and, though the medic appeared to dislike Charlotte’s presence, he made no fuss about it. He mainly came in to check Durst’s pulse, breathing and heartbeat. On one of these visits, Charlotte assured him that if there was any change in Durst for the worse, she would raise the alarm at once. He didn’t seem to believe her.
Just before seven, Cophen brought her dinner in. He placed it on a table and moved the whole lot next to her.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said softly. The vigil, though not physically challenging, had left her drained and exhausted. The food was welcome.
Cophen shrugged and began to move away, then he paused. He hesitated in mid-stride, as if torn between his instincts and his sensibilities.
“This… this is kind of you,” he said, then hastened out of the door before Charlotte could offer a response.
Charlotte smiled to herself. Sometimes it was easy to imagine all Germans to be fiends when, really, most were just ordinary people placed in an extraordinary situation. And she was here to betray them all… Oh well.
The dinner consisted of sausages and cabbage again, though there was plenty of potato to make up for the blandness. Charlotte was developing a dislike for sausage – familiarity breeds contempt. She could not help thinking about chicken, all the time. Chicken in her mother’s best white wine sauce. Chicken with mushrooms or with a potato Gratin. Chicken in a red wine casserole, with white beans and a little bit of bacon. If she never saw a sausage again, it would be too soon.
Durst groaned.
Charlotte had just started to cut her sausage into small slices that she could force down with the potato. She froze with knife and fork poised, for a moment not sure she had heard correctly. Over the course of the day, she had been so focused on Durst and willing him to recover, that once or twice she had convinced herself he had flicked his eyes open or taken a deep breath. She had subsequently realised that it was her own imagination creating these false signs of hope. Now she didn’t dare trust her ears.
Turning slowly, Charlotte looked at Durst. He seemed as still as before, the only indication that he was a living man and not already a corpse was the rasping breathing that made his chest rise and fall too sharply. Charlotte frowned. Her mind was playing tricks on her.
“That is what too much sausage does to you,” Charlotte grumbled to herself as she returned to her supper.
Durst groaned again. This time Charlotte was certain she was not mistaken. She swung back to the bed and saw that the captain was opening his eyes. He started to cough. Charlotte poured out water from a jug on the bedside table and helped him to take a sip. The coughing had made Durst breathless again and he had to gasp and blink back tears before he could take in the situation. Charlotte thought she saw a glimmer of pleasure, as well as surprise in his eyes as they focused on her.
“This is unexpected,” he croaked.
Charlotte offered him another sip of water.
“Would you like some food? It is dinnertime,” she said.
Durst closed his eyes and, just for a moment, Charlotte thought he had slipped back into his deathly slumber. Then he opened them again.
“Yes.”
Charlotte limped to the door. Supporting herself with one hand on the wall. The leg was not too bad once she got moving, and she was improving her balance on her right side. She was never going to get far like this, but at least she was not confined to a bed. At the doorway, Charlotte called out to Cophen. When the sergeant appeared she grinned at him.
“He is awake and would like some supper.”
Cophen’s natural grim façade lightened just a fraction and he disappeared to have some food arranged for his superior. Charlotte limped back to the side of the bed.
“What are you doing here?” Durst asked, his lips curling into a smile.
Through the illness, through the cloak of death that was fast descending on Durst, he still had a spark of joy. Charlotte saw the man he must have once been, and it broke her heart a little to tally that with the dying patient in the bed.
“I wondered what had become of you,” Charlotte told him. “Now I know.”
Durst’s face fell a little.
“I did not want you to see me like this.”
“Why?”
Durst frowned.
“I am ashamed of my sickness, of my body’s failure.”
“Well, that is foolish,” Charlotte told him bluntly. “You can no more control this sickness than you can control the moon, so why be ashamed of it?”
“How long have you been here?” Durst asked.
“All day,” Charlotte assured him. “Cophen has explained that it is cancer.”
“Yes,” Durst said solemnly. “Nobody knows except for him and Gruper, not even my parents. Oh, and now you.”
“I shall tell no one,” Charlotte promised. “Not that there is anyone I could tell. I wish I could help you.”
“This is help,” Durst’s smile crept back. “Keeping me company.”
Cophen appeared with a tray of food and his delight at seeing Captain Durst awake and alert was plain. He helped Durst to sit up in bed and then placed the tray on his lap. He was grinning from ear-to-ear as he left again, shutting the door behind him.
“You have a good friend there,” Charlotte nodded in the direction Cophen had gone.
“We have known each other many years,” Durst replied. “We have been through a lot together. I am not sure I deserve his loyalty, however.”
“Surely, the only way we know if we deserve the loyalty of another is if they give it to us?” Charlotte suggested.
“Maybe,” Durst speared a piece of sausage and placed it in his mouth.
He became quiet suddenly and Charlotte wondered if he felt well.
“Ivor?”
“Betany, I had a phone call before I became so ill, from the Gestapo. They have captured your pilot.”
Charlotte felt a cold shiver run down her body. She clenched her hands together.
“Oh?” It was all she could manage to say.
“They are looking for you,” Durst continued. “Your pilot has talked about you.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. She did not blame Robert. Torture made anyone talk and he was young. She hoped he was alright, even at the same time as her stomach knotted and she began to panic about her own wellbeing. The Betany Juhtt story would cut no ice with the Gestapo, of that she was sure. It seemed impossible that she would come this far only to end her mission in the hands of the enemy.
“I told them we had seen no sign of you,” Durst said.
Charlotte opened her eyes and looked up at him. His face was serious and sincere. Charlotte was able to breathe again.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I do not like the Gestapo,” Durst said. “And because I like you.”
He went back to his plate of food and for a couple of minutes neither said anything as he ate. Charlotte’s feelings of guilt were resurfacing. Durst had placed himself in a dangerous position for her, all based on a lie she had told him. He was too kind to her, and that made it all the harder to deceive him. But she had to survive, and that was that.
“The Gestapo seem to think you are a very important person in the fight for France,” Durst said gently.
Charlotte swallowed, her throat so tight it felt like she could not speak at all.
“Are you really married to a German?” Durst asked.
Charlotte’s eyes snapped to him and she knew he had seen through her cock-and-bull story. It had been a long shot, and it had worked for a while, or so she had thought. But there were holes in it that called its contents into question. Durst had noticed the holes.
Charlotte licked her lips. She did not know what to say.
“By now you have probably worked out I am not a Nazi,” Durst spoke. “I may be in the army, but I did not sign up to conquer Europe or to kill so many innocent people. I don’t really want to be in France, but here I am. I will not betray your secrets.”
Durst spoke the last in a hushed tone. Charlotte could not reply at first, she was confused and scared.
“You know my secret,” Durst said. “For what that is worth. You could cause me a lot of pain if you wanted, instead you have been kind to me, considerate. I would like the chance to return that kindness, but I must know what I am getting myself into first. I don’t like to be in the dark.”
“There is so much I cannot say,” Charlotte whispered.
“I just want to know why you are here. I want to know if you trust me,” Durst’s eyes grew sad. “I shall not betray you, but, I would like to know that I am worthy of the trust of a Frenchwoman. I don’t have much time left and I don’t want to spend my last days shooting down British airmen. I have to do my duty, but I wish to also redeem myself. I could redeem myself by helping you. Then I would die knowing I did at least one good thing in this war.”
“I am sure you have done many good things,” Charlotte told him.
“Hah!” Durst shook his head. “Do you know the ‘good thing’ I did? The thing I thought was part of my duty? I stopped a man from shooting Rudolf Hess. I saw him coming up behind the Deputy Fuhrer, none of his bodyguards had seen him. I don’t know why he caught my attention, but he did. He was carrying a revolver at his side and I realised what was to happen. I threw myself at him and took him to the ground. The gun went off and shot me in the foot, but Hess was spared.
“That was my good deed and I spend my days regretting it. Had I known what was to come, I would have carried that revolver myself and, if Hitler had been there rather than Hess, I would have gladly shot him.”
“You could not predict the future,” Charlotte replied. “Who knows who would have taken Hess’ place if the assassination had succeeded?”
“I know,” Durst nodded. “I know all that, but I still feel angry and guilty about my actions. I feel trapped, Betany. I have nowhere to go, except this base. My parents’ home is so far away, I would not make the journey. All I can do is continue to maintain this base and avoid alerting anyone to my sickness. For many months that has been enough for me. It was something at least.
“But, these last weeks, as death has drawn closer, I have found myself examining my conscience and wondering at how glibly I have served the Nazi cause. I have made excuses for my actions, saying I am doing my duty, that I joined the military voluntarily and must now accept that decision. I can make excuses no longer. I must do something decisive with my last strength, something so I know I was not just another tool of the Nazis.”
Durst turned away from Charlotte, his words choking him.
“When I say I am ashamed of myself, it is more than this illness,” he said. “I am ashamed that I have done no more than toe the line and keep my head down. I have heard of other officers who have made a stand. I admire them. Me, I… I have been a coward.”
Charlotte did not know what to say to that. She could hardly console him, considering her own politics. How could she comfort a man about his service in the German army when that service meant he was working against her people? How many British airmen had died when Durst’s battery had shot down a plane? She could not justify that.
“Your silence tells me everything,” Durst glanced back at her. “You see it too. If history remembers me at all, it will be as Captain Durst who manned an anti-aircraft battery for Hitler. Because, at the end of the day, everyone in the German army is beholden to the Fuhrer. He is who we serve, whether we admit that to ourselves or not.”
Durst suddenly reached out and took Charlotte’s right hand. She had balled her fists in her lap and he curled his fingers around her knuckles, drawing her attention firmly to him.
“Let me help you,” Durst begged her. “Let me be able to say that I did one noble thing in this war. Please.”
Charlotte looked at him bleakly.
“You want me to tell you who I really am,” she said. “Your help is conditional.”
Durst clutched her hand tighter.
“You are Betany Juhtt,” he said. “And, you are right, I do not need to know what you are doing here or who you really are to help you. My help is not conditional, I swear.”
Their eyes met and Charlotte, just for a moment, felt a strong instinct that Durst spoke the truth and she could trust him. She took a shaky breath.
“I don’t want to fall into the hands of the Gestapo,” she said.
“No, of course not,” Durst nodded. “I won’t let that happen. We’ll need to get you away from the battery, however.”
“Yes. Sooner rather than later,” Charlotte was feeling anxious. “I need to make contact with people who can help me.”
“Do you know how?” Durst asked.
Charlotte was uncertain. She had meant to join with fellow members of the Resistance at the rendezvous site. However, in case of emergency, she had been given the details of a safehouse she could go to. The occupants would be able to offer her shelter and then pass her along to the Resistance. She was only to go to them if the situation was dire, as they would be placed in grave danger by her presence. Was this situation to be deemed dire?
“Maybe,” she said at last. “I think there is somewhere I can go.”
Durst relaxed.
“As soon as I am fit, I shall escort you there myself,” he smiled. “Then I can meet my Maker knowing I have done one thing to redeem my soul.”
“If we are talking of redemption, I think this war will make all of us require a good deal.”
“I hope not,” Durst was solemn, “Not for you, anyway, Betany. I think you have a good heart and a very good soul. That is why I want to help.”
Charlotte was not so certain of his assessment, but she was not going to argue.
“Your supper is getting cold,” Charlotte told him.
“And yours,” Durst pointed at her untouched meal on the table. “You must keep your strength up, even if it is German food.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, had he heard her muttered comment about sausage? Durst was not looking at her, he was eating his supper. Charlotte turned to her own plate, but her appetite was gone. She had a desperate urge to run, yet she knew she could not.
The Gestapo had Robert. That alone was enough to make her insides twist, but they also knew about her. Whatever hope Charlotte had had of remaining anonymous, that was now gone. And her only salvation was a German she barely knew. It was enough to make her sick to her stomach. She had no idea if she could trust Durst or not, only her instincts which told her she could.
Instincts could be wrong.
Yet, what choice did she have?
Rouen, France. 7.30pm
They had to drag Petiere home. He was a dead weight and remained unconscious the entire way. Benoit was swearing as they walked. Cursing the addict who had apparently succumbed to the cocaine. He also swore at Josef, but Josef chose to ignore the comments.
When they reached the Jewish quarter, Petiere’s landlady was outside her house, looking about anxiously. At the sight of Petiere she ran forward and cupped his face in her hands.
“What have you done!”
“Nothing,” Josef lied. “He fainted.”
“Why is he out of the house?” The landlady demanded. “He knows it overwhelms him to go outside!”
“He wanted to take a chance,” Josef replied. “He wanted to see the real world again.”
“Fools!” The woman cursed them. “Bring him in!”
They managed to drag Petiere over the tall step before the front door and laid him down on the landlady’s sofa. She fussed over him and brought a cold, damp cloth for his forehead. Benoit was restless. He wanted to be gone.
“You can go,” Josef said to him.
Benoit shook his head.
“Not before you,” he insisted. “You have what you want, will you come?”
Josef knew he should leave. He could do nothing for Petiere and it would be prudent to get away, but he hesitated.
“I brought him to this,” he hissed to Benoit. “I need to see he is ok.”
Benoit grumbled under his breath, but accepted the situation for what it was and propped himself against the wall by the front window. He folded his arms over his chest and managed to look surly and mean at the same time. Josef went to the sofa where Petiere lay and perched on the arm.
“Rene?” He called softly. “Rene? Do you hear me?”
The little landlady glared at him.
“You were gone for nearly two hours!”
“We went for a walk,” Josef explained, “then Rene collapsed and it was hard to get him back.”
“Walk!” The woman spat the word out. “I thought I could trust you, monsieur, but this is not how a man treats his friends.”
Josef was not sure if she was implying that she knew about the drugs Petiere had taken, or whether she was just referring to their trip out of the house. He decided not to say anymore.
“I am going to fetch the doctor,” the old woman continued. “I do not like how poor Monsieur Petiere looks, not at all.”
She stood tall and departed the house, casting a snide look at Benoit on the way out.
“Have I killed him Benoit?” Josef asked miserably as soon as she was gone. “Have I sacrificed him for my own agenda?”
“He was a drunk and a junkie,” Benoit said. “This would have happened sooner or later.”
“But I gave him the drugs, without me he could never have obtained them. It is like handing a suicidal man a loaded pistol.”
“You are being over-dramatic,” Benoit insisted.
“Am I? This is my fault, all for the sake of a key,” Josef scrunched up his eyes. “I am getting too callous.”
“Josef, you will never be that,” Benoit stepped forward and his voice was softer. “We have to make choices in this war, and they are rarely simple or good choices. Remember, you did this to save lives.”
“And that makes this alright?” Josef asked angrily. “I am becoming wicked through this war!”
Benoit made an annoyed noise by whistling through his teeth. He was impatient and did not have the energy to console Josef. Josef also knew that Benoit did not see the problem. Benoit thought in terms of glory and noble sacrifice. He looked at the Resistance movement as one entity, not a collection of individuals. If one must be lost to save the majority, he had no qualms about it.
The landlady was hurrying back with the doctor. The man was technically retired from medical practice, but since so few non-Jewish doctors would now accept Jewish patients for fear of the retribution of the Gestapo, he had stepped back into service for the good of his community.
Josef drew away from the sofa to give the doctor space. He stood beside Benoit and felt his face contort into a grimace of misery. Whatever Benoit said, this was his doing.
“Has he taken anything?” The doctor asked suddenly, and his gaze went to Josef.
Benoit answered quickly.
“Not while with us, but he was out of our sight for half-an-hour or so. We don’t know what he did then.”
The doctor did not appear to believe him. He still looked at Josef, as if he knew something, then he turned back to Petiere. Benoit nudged Josef’s arm.
“We should go.”
Josef did not move. He felt frozen in time, watching a tragedy of his own making unfold. If Petiere died then that made him a murderer, for he had placed the poison firmly in his hand. Benoit pushed him harder.
“We go!” He hissed in his ear.
Josef seemed to be in a different place, a dream world where he could hear Benoit, but not comprehend what he was saying. He allowed himself to be manoeuvred to the door and outside, without really registering what was happening.
Once on the street Benoit shook him roughly.
“Snap out of it!” He commanded.
Josef blinked and looked up at his friend in a daze.
“Don’t break your heart over an old addict,” Benoit continued, speaking in a low, stern whisper. “You did not know this would happen.”
“I had my suspicions, though,” Josef said softly.
“Enough,” Benoit scolded him. “You did what was necessary, and it will save a lot of lives. If you cannot make sacrifices, then I don’t know what you are doing as head of our organisation.”
The comment hit its mark and Josef looked stunned. He opened his mouth, only silence came out.
“We need to move,” Benoit persisted. “You, for one, have been in Rouen too long.”
He was right. Josef was coming back to his senses and remembering who he was and what he was doing there. He had made the decision that Petiere was potentially expendable when he agreed to provide him with drugs. He could either now beat himself up about that decision or use the results and at least make Petiere’s sacrifice worthwhile.
“Josef!” Benoit hissed at him.
“I know, I know,” Josef mentally shook himself. “I am with you.”
Benoit still held onto his arm and turned him around so they could leave the Jewish quarter. He seemed angry at Josef’s brief interlude of self-doubt and guilty horror. Maybe Benoit could be callous about these things, Josef grumbled to himself, but there always had to be an element of self-criticism, a need to judge what had been done, else they could fall into a spiral of forgetfulness, imagining they were above the law, above the morals of this world – the morals they held themselves against.
Benoit hurried him. A sudden urgency had entered his stride. Josef almost stumbled and he started to pull away, when Benoit spoke low.
“Nazis!”
Josef flicked his head over his shoulder and saw that two soldiers had walked into the Jewish quarter. There was no knowing what they were there for. They could be following orders, or they could be looking for a bit of sport and knew that no retribution would come to them if they pursued that sport among Jews. They had cornered one man and were speaking to him brusquely. Josef suddenly feared they had some knowledge of Petiere’s journey to the square. Could they be looking for him? It seemed far-fetched, how would they know of what Josef was planning? But, as absurd as the idea seemed, it gripped Josef with terror and a dark thought crept into his mind – if Petiere died, he could not reveal them.
Josef abruptly realised he was wishing the man dead because of his fear of him as a liability. Petiere would not hold up well under torture or even mild interrogation. But if he was dead…
He erased the thought from his mind. How fast he lost all his principles! They were heading down an alley and the Nazis had fallen from view. Benoit kept him moving, for that Josef was grateful. Had he been alone, he might have struggled to move. His mind bogged down with its mixed array of emotions.
They left behind the Jewish streets. They took the darkest roads, the quietest paths and disappeared into the countryside. Soon Rouen was far behind and, for the time being, they escaped from the clutches of a France at war.
Rouen, France. 9pm
Lutz’s stomach complained at him. He was late for his dinner, very late. He had become overwhelmed by paperwork and had lost track of time. The Rouen Gestapo seemed to generate an awful lot of reports and counter-reports. He was sure Herr Ribbonkoff would not approve of the amount of details concerning their work they were placing on paper. Lutz knew they were serving the Fuhrer nobly, but their methods had the hallmarks of, well, something akin to the Inquisition, and you didn’t make a note of such stuff, or so he thought.
Apparently, that was not the way the Rouen Gestapo felt about things. They had their ways and he was expected to abide by them. Lutz was not about to complain, considering he was already viewed with dislike by his colleagues. He was the interloper, the new boy sent because they had failed and they resented him. They probably thought he was a spy for the Paris Gestapo, not entirely far from the truth, as Ribbonkoff had contacted Lutz already to ask questions about the Rouen branch. Even among the Gestapo there was distrust.
Lutz relaxed back in his chair. He had come alone to the cafe, instructing Private Hartenburg to retire for the night. The young man’s enthusiasm sometimes made Lutz feel anxious. He did not have that sort of energy.
“Evening, monsieur.”
Lutz glanced up at the waitress. She was a pretty thing, a little nervous in her demeanour, but that made her seem all the more endearing.
“Let me see. Beatrice? Yes?” Lutz asked her.
“Yes,” Beatrice smiled politely. “Would you like something to eat tonight?”
“I think I would Beatrice,” Lutz agreed. “You can bring me whatever is best on the menu tonight. And a mug of beer.”
“Yes, monsieur,” Beatrice made a note on the small pad of paper she carried with her.
She was just turning away when an impulse caught hold of Lutz.
“Have a drink for yourself, on me,” he said.
He had seen other officers do something similar. It seemed to please the girls. Lutz wanted Beatrice to be pleased.
“Thank you, monsieur,” Beatrice half turned her head and smiled at him, looking a little flushed by the gesture.
Lutz was delighted with himself. If only his old comrades could see him now! The power and the influence he was wielding was just part of this new Lutz – his way with women, which seemed to stem from his new-found confidence, would have surprised all those who had known him before. They would have been amazed.
Lutz was feeling very proud of himself, when he noticed two of his colleagues entering the café. That was not surprising, this was where the Gestapo went of an evening. What was unusual was that they headed straight for him. In the past, they had been keen to avoid him, almost as if just being in his company was something unpleasant. Lutz was endeavouring not to take this to heart.
When he saw them heading towards him, he felt a spark of joy. Perhaps they had accepted him and were now going to join him for dinner?
“Gentlemen,” he smiled at them broadly.
Herr Einz and Herr Moltmann stood before his table. Einz was blond and small, rather square and distinctly German. He had an unfortunate tic, which made his left eye narrow and wink when he was unhappy. Some said it was because of his habit of wearing a monocle. Moltmann was older, taller and a lot darker. He had a sinister appearance and never smiled. Lutz always imagined he was just waiting for the right moment to be happy. It never seemed to come.
“Will you sit?” Lutz asked them.
Moltmann pulled out a chair and Einz followed his lead. They had yet to speak and Lutz was feeling less and less comfortable about their presence.
“Would you have a drink?” He asked, casting his eye around for Beatrice.
“We are not here to drink,” Moltmann said darkly. “I am here because you interviewed my prisoner.”
For a moment Lutz did not understand what was going on, then he recalled the British pilot.
“The airman? I was unaware he was solely to be interviewed by you.”
“Lies!” Moltmann snorted. “Of course you did! You had no right to speak with him first!”
“He is still in the cells,” Lutz shrugged calmly, though inside his heart was fluttering. “You can still talk to him.”
“The first interview is always the most important,” Moltmann banged his fist on the table, drawing the attention of nearby diners. They were all Germans and most quickly looked away when they realised the argument was between Gestapo.
“My apologies,” Lutz replied, not sure what else he could add.
“You do not interfere with another man’s case,” Moltmann pointed a finger at him.
“We were not so precious in Paris,” Lutz remarked crossly, regretting at once his bravado.
“You think you are so clever because you were trained by Ribbonkoff,” Moltmann snarled at him. “I read your report on the airman and I can tell you, you are not clever.”
Lutz said nothing. He had only finished that report tonight. Moltmann must have read it the second he had left the building for dinner.
“Do you have nothing to say?” Moltmann sneered.
“What is there to be clever about?” Lutz asked. “The man was an airman who was shot down. He has no great information.”
“What about the girl?” Moltmann demanded.
“The passenger?” Lutz shook his head. “She has vanished.”
“Into the anti-aircraft base,” Moltmann snapped.
Now Lutz was surprised.
“No, I spoke to the base commander…”
“Captain Durst?” Moltmann snorted. “He hates the Gestapo. Everyone knows that. Well, nearly everyone.”
Lutz took the insult badly, but he bit his tongue. Anger was not going to help.
“Durst would not tell you he had the girl. And almost certainly he does. She was injured and could not run, according to the airman. And Durst arrived on the scene soon after.”
“The airman did not see Durst take the girl,” Lutz pointed out.
“What does that matter? Can’t you join the dots?” Moltmann’s tone was patronizing, as if Lutz had demonstrated himself to be very stupid.
Perhaps Lutz had been stupid, or too trusting at least. He had assumed a fellow German would speak honestly to him. He was saddened if that was not the case, but he did not think he deserved Moltmann’s criticism.
“I am going to that base tonight, to find the girl,” Moltmann told Lutz. “And when I do, I shall inform your friend Ribbonkoff how you failed to secure her and almost let her get away. Before you know it, you won’t only be kicked out of Rouen, you will be kicked out of the Gestapo!”
Moltmann rose with that last statement and turned for the door. Einz was just a step behind him.
“You are wrong, Moltmann,” Lutz said coldly.
All his life Lutz had been the victim, now he had the ability to stand up to men like Moltmann – his place in the Gestapo had given him that and he would not lose it. It was far too precious a thing.
“The girl is not there, mark my words,” he told his rival.
Moltmann bared his teeth at him. It might have been an effort at a smile, but the man was clearly out of practice.
“Your days are numbered!” Moltmann barked and then he marched to the door and left, with Einz just behind.
Lutz counted to ten, then he rose from his seat. Beatrice was just approaching his table with his food. He turned to her.
“I need to use the telephone, Beatrice.”
Beatrice was startled by his urgency, but then nodded and showed him through to the back of the café, where a telephone was hung on the wall. A small wooden partition shielded the caller’s face while they used it and gave the false impression of privacy.
Lutz had a remarkable memory for numbers, it was a talent he had not really had the opportunity to utilise before. Now it came in handy as he recalled the telephone number for the anti-aircraft base.
Perhaps Captain Durst had lied to him. That was upsetting, but it was now unimportant. He could not allow Moltmann to succeed. If he proved that Lutz had been deceived by Durst, then his reputation would be in tatters and he would have to go back to Paris with his tail between his legs. Ribbonkoff would not be able to forgive such a failure and Lutz could lose everything. The thought of being unceremoniously kicked out of the Gestapo upset him more than Durst’s supposed deceit.
He could not allow Moltmann to find the girl, if she was at the battery. Whatever happened that night, Moltmann had to be proved wrong. He was the one who must come back with his tail between his legs so Lutz could sneer at him. That was how it must be. For that reason, he was ringing the battery to warn them.
He was working against his own side. He knew this. But Moltmann was determined to humiliate him. Lutz was used to being alone, being the outsider. For years he had allowed that to destroy him, along with defining him. Now he saw it as a potential strength. To stand outside and perceive things others did not was to see the world in a different way. A way that would bring him success and glory. He just had to keep his head and not allow men like Moltmann to ruin things.
The telephone connected and he heard it ringing. He imagined its shrill bell summoning attention in an empty office. He closed his eyes. If no one answered…
“Battery No.42, Sergeant Cophen speaking.”
“I need to speak with Captain Durst,” Lutz said, trying not to rush his words.
“He is unavailable at the moment,” Cophen said, his tone somewhat uneasy.
Lutz ground his teeth. There was nothing else for it.
“Then you best listen to me carefully, Sergeant Cophen,” he said. “The Gestapo are heading to your base as we speak. If you happen to have a French girl hidden there, I suggest you remove her at once. Else trouble is going to ensue.”
“Who is this?” Cophen asked, his voice now agitated.
“Someone who doesn’t want that girl found at your base,” Lutz told him. “You probably have an hour to get her away. Best not waste time.”
With that he put down the phone receiver.
Lutz was shaking as he returned to his seat. His food smelled very good, but his appetite had evaporated. The girl had to be gone before Moltmann arrived. Otherwise…
“Are you alright?”
Lutz glanced up to see Beatrice by his table, a look of concern on her face.
“Just bad news, that is all,” he said.
“Would you like a brandy?” Beatrice added. “On the house.”
“You are too kind,” Lutz felt his smile returning a fraction. The girl’s gentle sympathy was very restorative. “Yes, I would like a brandy.”
Beatrice flitted away and Lutz was distracted enough from his problems to feel some of his hunger returning. He hoped his warning had been enough. He wanted to stay in Rouen. He wanted to prove himself and rise above Moltmann and Einz.
Lutz tilted his head a touch as Beatrice wriggled her way between the tables. He wanted to know more about this girl, this waitress who was so sweet. Lutz had never had a girlfriend before. Women had never been interested in him. Until Beatrice.
He sighed. With any luck he would get to stay in Rouen and learn more about sweet Beatrice.
He just had to hope Cophen had understood his cryptic message.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 9.45pm
Cophen burst into the room where Durst and Charlotte were sitting. Durst was upright in bed and showing Charlotte how to play an old card game. When Cophen dashed in, Charlotte started.
“The Gestapo are coming!” Cophen said breathlessly.
Charlotte froze. Durst had been shuffling the cards, but his fingers paused around the pack.
“How do you know this?” He asked.
“An anonymous man on the telephone,” Cophen replied. “He knew a lot, he knew the girl was here.”
He nodded to Charlotte. She was feeling sick at the thought of the danger she was now in.
“We cannot risk doubting this stranger’s word then,” Durst was still very calm. “Cophen, organise a car and bring it to the back of the headquarters. I am going for a drive.”
“Are you well enough?” Charlotte turned to him. She needed his help, but she did not want to risk his life.
“I always take a night time drive after one of my episodes, do I not Cophen?”
“You do, sir,” Cophen agreed.
“It would seem more remarkable to the men if I did not,” Durst continued. “I shall drive you to safety, Betany.”
Durst met Charlotte’s eyes and she felt the warmth and promise within them. She was pained, but also hopeful.
“Cophen?”
“I shall have the car ready in moments!” Sergeant Cophen disappeared.
Durst packed away the cards and rolled his shoulders to stretch out the tension. He smiled at Charlotte.
“If you would not mind closing your eyes while I get dressed?”
Charlotte obeyed. She even placed her hand over her eyes to prove she would not cheat, or accidentally look up. Durst groaned a little as he climbed out of bed and his steps were heavy as he went to grab his uniform.
“You do not have to do this,” she reminded him.
“Do you want to be taken by the Gestapo?” Durst asked.
“Mostly certainly not!” Charlotte declared.
“Then stop questioning my decision. I know I am a sick man, Betany, I do not wish to keep being reminded of it. People fuss around me all the time, it is tiresome,” Durst paused for breath. “I may be dying, but I can still do a great deal before death overtakes me.”
“I wish…” Charlotte paused.
“What do you wish?” Durst asked softly.
“I wish it was not the case that you were… so ill. It seems so unfair…”
“Your pity is touching,” Durst said. “I don’t think the world works on the notion of fair or unfair. I have long resolved myself to this. Maybe this is fate paying me back for the time I saved the Deputy Fuhrer from death?”
“I don’t believe in fate,” Charlotte answered. “I don’t think I believe in anything.”
“I hope you believe in me,” Durst came over to her and tugged her hand from her eyes.
Charlotte looked up as he stood proudly in his uniform. His pallor was still unhealthy, but his eyes shone with life. It was hard to think this man stood on the very brink of death, that he probably only had weeks to live. He seemed so confident in himself.
“I am glad you came into my life,” Durst spoke. “These last weeks I have been revolting against my fate. Raging against the universe and my own body for putting me in this position. I hated myself, I hated life. Then you came along and you have given me a purpose.
“Do you know how long I have felt guilt for my actions that day I saw Hess on the cusp of death? I wondered so often how things might have been different if he had died. I made myself a Nazi hero that day, and I know history will condemn me for it. I cannot redeem my reputation publicly, but I can redeem myself privately. By helping you. Your arrival has given me that chance to offset my biggest mistake. Maybe that will serve me well in whatever comes after this life. If nothing else, at least I will be able to sleep at night knowing I was not entirely a fool.”
“You are not a fool,” Charlotte took his hand and felt a tear spring to her eye. “You are a brave and honourable man. Germany needs so many more like you.”
“Soon it will have one less,” Durst squeezed her hand and leaned a little closer. “I cannot change that. I can change what happens to you. I think France needs you, Betany Juhtt, whoever you really are. I have this feeling, call it an instinct. I need you to survive, will you do that for me?”
Durst grinned.
“I need you to come out of this war with a memory of a man who was once an idiot, but who redeemed himself in the end. I want you to tell people about me. Please,” Durst’s voice was a little emotional. “I don’t want to be forgotten.”
“I’ll never forget you,” Charlotte vowed.
“Your suitcase,” Durst recalled and went to the other room to fetch it.
Charlotte sat alone, trying to control the flutter of nerves in her stomach. If she allowed them to, they would erupt into full-blown panic and that was the last thing she needed. She was getting out of here, getting to (hopefully) a place of safety. She was still feeling stunned that her pilot had revealed her. Surely he could have lied and told the Gestapo that she had run off into the woods? Better still, he could have stated his passenger was male, which the Gestapo would have readily believed – far more unusual to have a woman onboard. She tried not to judge him, as she did not know what he had been through at the hands of the enemy. His betrayal just hurt a fraction. She was starting to feel that it was impossible to trust anyone.
Which made trusting Durst seem like the worst decision she could possibly make. On that front, at least, she had no choice. If she did not trust him and accept his help, then her only alternative was to sit here and wait for the Gestapo to arrive.
Durst returned with the suitcase. She looked at the luggage in his hand, feeling a little dazed, as if everything was part of a surreal dream. The suitcase looked wrong, yet it was certainly hers. It just seemed out of place.
“Are you alright?” Durst asked her.
Charlotte took a shaky breath.
“Of course,” she said, pushing aside her fears. They would hold her back rather than help her.
Cophen reappeared at the doorway before Durst could say anything else.
“Sir, the car is ready.”
“Good,” Durst nodded to Cophen, then looked to Charlotte. “You will have to hide in the back, under a blanket.”
Charlotte understood.
“Sir, I have quietly sent the word out that the men are not to speak of our guest to the Gestapo. I think they will be more than agreeable to keep silent. For your sake.”
Cophen met Durst’s eyes, and Charlotte saw that glimmer of camaraderie she had noted before, an understanding deeper than friendship, a bond beyond barriers. She barely knew Durst, but she had also sensed that aura about him that made men wish to give their all to him. True loyalty is not bought, it is not something that automatically comes the second a man puts on a uniform. Men will be dutifully loyal to a commanding officer, doing what they believe is correct according to their rank and unit, but to have a deep loyalty to an officer, a loyalty that goes above and beyond that duty – that requires something else, some spark. It might even be considered a sort of magic and very few commanders could attract such devotion.
“Have Gruper make the guest room tidy, so it seems no one has slept there recently. Have him lock it too and return the key to my desk as it would be,” Durst instructed Cophen. “Now, all we must do is get you into the car without being seen.”
Durst tilted his head and considered.
“Cophen, before I go on my drive I feel the need to speak to the men. Have them line up facing towards the big guns and I will have a word.”
Cophen grinned, understanding.
“I shall at once, and then I shall make sure Betany is safely in the car.”
Durst patted Cophen’s shoulder and sighed softly.
“I will miss this,” he said so quietly that Charlotte almost did not hear it.
Cophen suddenly lost his smile and his shoulders sagged. For a moment it had been possible to forget what was coming, what destiny had in mind for Durst, now he remembered.
“Yes, sir,” he replied quietly and then hastened away.
“I suggest you take some morphine,” Durst went to the cabinet beside his bed and opened a drawer. He produced a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid. “You may need to walk and it would be better if you could not feel the pain.”
Charlotte knew that made sense. Dulling the pain would enable her to use her leg, if not properly, certainly to a better extent than she was at the moment.
“Not too much,” she told Durst as he started to fill the syringe. “I don’t want my mind dulled.”
Durst paused and considered the numbers on the syringe, wondering whether to pull the plunger higher and fill the chamber with more of the morphine. He finally made his mind up that he had enough and drew the needle of the syringe from the bottle, gently shaking off the last drops.
“If you give me your arm.”
Charlotte hesitated for just a fraction of a second, that pang of doubt creeping back in.
“You still fail to trust me,” Durst said, his hurt obvious.
Charlotte was slightly surprised how much it pained her to see him so and she relented.
“It is not that, not that at all. I have a fear of needles,” she lied, letting her eyes fall onto the syringe and shuddering with horror.
She proffered her arm and then looked away. The needle stung as it slipped into her arm and she cringed a little. Then it was over.
“Come on,” Durst urged her and, with him carrying her suitcase, they stepped into the hallway and walked to the door at the end.
Cophen appeared moments later. Durst nodded to him. He placed the suitcase down on the floor beside Charlotte.
“I shall be back in a moment,” he told her, winking. Then he disappeared outside.
Cophen stood awkwardly with Charlotte, trying not to meet her eyes if he could help it. They had been united by a shared concern for Durst, but that was as far as things went. What he really made of her she was not sure, but she doubted he believed her story. Possibly he thought she really was a secret agent and that Durst was a dupe smitten by pretty eyes. She said nothing.
Outside, Durst’s voice could be heard addressing his men. He was talking about how proud he was of their performance and letting them know that the imminent arrival of the Gestapo was not a reflection against them. The Gestapo had messed up and they were casting their own failure onto others. He swore to this and that he would stand by his men, they were not to blame, and he would not allow the unit to be treated badly by those who were true incompetents.
Cophen shuffled Charlotte outside and into the back of the car. They worked as quietly as they could, Cophen with one eye on the men, but none looked in their direction. Durst was giving them a rousing speech about their recent successes and how he expected to be able to send back to Germany notices of their excellent performance. He was hinting at medals and promotions, along with perhaps some bonus pay, which was everything a soldier could want except, perhaps, for a larger cigarette ration.
“Now,” Durst said, clapping his hands together. “I am going for my evening drive. I have no idea when these Gestapo fellows will appear and I do not intend to let them disrupt my usual routine. That would be granting them too much respect.”
Durst laughed and his men joined in.
“You just carry on, avoid them if they arrive. It is best not to speak to them. Dismissed!”
The men streamed away, back to their work for those on duty, while the others went to the mess or to the barracks. Durst joined Cophen. Charlotte could hear them from beneath the blanket, which was a thick, oiled tarp.
“Ready?” Durst asked Cophen.
“Ready,” Cophen confirmed.
They clambered into the front of the vehicle and the engine rumbled into life. Charlotte lay very still. The back of the car was not designed for the comfort of passengers and there seemed a lot of sharp edges that jabbed into her as she lay back. Luckily the morphine was kicking in.
Durst drove away from the base and the world seemed to grow darker around Charlotte as they drifted away from the lights of the battery. She felt as if a cloak had fallen over her and she was being smothered. Each breath seemed a little more ragged and short; the first hints that panic was finally creeping up on her. Yet, she could step aside from those feelings and think about where she was in a logical fashion. She could process the weave of the blanket, feeling it with her fingers and contemplate what precisely was beneath her and digging into her flesh. She could do all this while, in the background, some primitive part of her mind was trying to disappear into a realm of panic.
The car drew to a halt. Charlotte had lost track of time, she had no landmarks to judge distance. When Durst pulled back the blanket, she saw they were among trees – back in the woods.
“We are far enough away for you to come out,” Durst said.
Charlotte was relieved to be able to sit up and stretch her back. She turned around and finally saw that she had been leaning on the internal wheel arch and a box of ammunition. It felt as if they had left permanent dents in her flesh.
“Where do we need to take you?” Durst asked.
Charlotte did not hesitate this time. She had no idea where she was and even if she did, her knowledge of Rouen was limited. She had not been provided with a map for security reasons, besides, she had been meant to join up with the local Resistance on arrival which would have solved the problem. The only address she had was meaningless to her without directions or a guide.
“No.12 Rue du Cour,” she said.
Durst glanced at Cophen, who produced a map from the front of the car. Even if Charlotte had known it was there, she was not sure she would have taken the decision to head off alone. Her leg hurt a good deal, despite the morphine. She was thinking the dose had been too low after all.
“It is here, on the outskirts,” Cophen ran his finger over the map, a torch in his other hand to enable him to see. “Twenty minutes, maybe?”
“Let us make it fifteen,” Durst glanced around them.
They were deep among the trees, on a track used by locals cutting through the woods. The track disappeared among the distant trunks of oak and beech, who knew if it became impassable? Durst climbed back into the front passenger seat.
“Eyes peeled for other cars. The Gestapo will not disguise their arrival, have no fear of that.”
The car rolled on, passing through the trees until it came back onto a genuine road. The ground had been flattened and covered with large gravel, then compacted to make a roadway. The vehicle made an unmistakeable noise as it went along.
Charlotte looked about anxiously. The road was big enough for vehicles to pass each other, but there was no means of getting off it in a hurry. On their right was the woods, thick trees which provided gaps only big enough for a person on foot, while to their left there was a bank surmounted by a thick hedge. Again, there was no easy way through it. If someone was to come the other way, they would have to meet them.
Charlotte started to count time in her head. She would slowly count to sixty and clock that as a minute, then start again. Cophen had promised fifteen minutes to Durst, yet with each carefully considered 60-count, that prediction seemed further and further out of reach. The road was endless, just a long country lane that wound around all the edges of the fields.
Charlotte had counted up to sixty ten times when they heard the hum of another car engine. Durst cursed softly under his breath and cocked his head to try and locate where the noise was coming from. Charlotte was doing the same, while Cophen carried on driving with a grimace of determination on his face.
“Get back under the blanket,” Durst suggested to Charlotte, but she was already in the process of disappearing.
She slipped down into the belly of the car and pulled the oily tarp over her, trying to compress herself into the space so it would appear as if she was not there at all. She didn’t want the bump of a knee or the tip of a foot revealing her.
The other car was getting closer, the purr of its engine growing louder. Charlotte clutched her hands together and pressed her palms as tight as she could, concentrating on the pressure, which slowly became more painful, rather than on the noise of the approaching car. It seemed to be nearly on top of them but, from what she heard of Durst and Cophen’s whispered speech, they could not yet see it.
Charlotte wished she had a gun. She should have asked Durst for one. How stupid! How ill-prepared! She would not survive this war by being so cautious! Charlotte took a trembling breath. The engine was so near, a croaky, choky thing that sounded as if it needed a good overhaul. It surely was in sight by now? It would have to pass them.
“There!” Durst hissed.
Charlotte gritted her teeth and ducked her head further down into the hollow metal space. The engine neared them and then it was level with them. Charlotte waited for the demand to halt, but the vehicle carried on past as if they had not been noticed at all. Charlotte started to count to sixty again, when she reached fifty-nine, she pushed back the blanket and looked around.
“What happened?”
Durst grinned at her, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.
“They were using the road parallel to us, over there,” Durst pointed over the fields. “Cophen drove slowly, so they probably never even heard us, and he turned off our lights.”
“Do you think they were Gestapo?” Charlotte asked.
“It was too dark to tell,” Durst shrugged. “Bad engine though. I would expect the Gestapo to have their cars in better condition. But who else could it be?”
That was true, who else would be driving at night in a country where cars were virtually banned unless you were in the Nazi army?
Charlotte scanned the distant hedges of the field, imagining the car sailing past. They had gotten lucky, that was all she could say.
“Nearly there,” Cophen informed them.
The hedges started to be interspersed by stone walls and cottages appeared. Here the town was merging into the countryside, creeping into the woods like an insidious fungus spreading out its spores. Cophen took a turning down a road and now they were driving between rows of houses. They were mainly small, old-fashioned buildings that fronted directly onto the road. Cophen drew the car to a halt.
“This is Rue du Cour,” he said.
Charlotte started to push herself out of the back of the car. Durst came around to help her. He offered his arm and she would have preferred to not have accepted it, as she was feeling rather useless right then, but her leg hurt too much to make her refuse. Durst near enough lifted her out of the car.
“Let’s find a door number, or something,” he suggested.
They walked down the road, Charlotte leaning on him. Her leg felt like it was swollen and slightly numb, but that was not stopping the jabbing dull pain in her calf, which was bearable when she shuffled slowly, but suddenly burned with fiery indignity if she tried to walk normally. She dreaded to think what would happen if she had to run. She had a hunch the pain would be too much to bear.
“What is that?” Durst pointed to a wall next to a door. There were some metal numbers pinned to the brickwork. Charlotte had to step closer to see.
“Ten,” she said.
They counted doors. The next house they assumed was number eleven, the French not adopting the strange British system of having the odd numbered houses all on one side of the road and the evens on the other. No, the French logically arranged their house numbers.
The house Charlotte assumed was number twelve had nothing on its walls or door to identify it. She just had to hope she was right. Durst lifted up his hand to knock, but she gently wrapped her fingers around his fist.
“I must do this alone. They will be afraid to see a German on the doorstep.”
Durst frowned. He looked up at the houses, all the windows dark and the shutters drawn. Cophen was further back down the road. If anyone had heard the car – and it would be remarkable if they had not – they were not prepared to look out of their window and become a witness to whatever it was doing. After all, these days only the Nazis had cars and it was best not to observe their activities if you could help it.
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered to Durst. “I could not have survived without you.”
Durst looked at her sadly.
“Then, this is goodbye,” he replied. “I was hoping for a little longer, but, you are right. Who wants a German on their doorstep?”
“Your kindness will never be forgotten, not by me. And I shall speak of it, whenever I can. Maybe then history will remember you differently to what you fear.”
“I do not care about that, not as long as you know the sort of man I really am,” Durst was loitering, unable to let go.
Charlotte needed him to leave, but his reluctance was palpable.
“Goodbye Ivor,” she said to him, and then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Whatever these next weeks bring you, I hope you find peace.”
Durst dropped his head, almost as if he was shying away from her. Then he looked up and she saw that there were tears in his eyes.
“I wish I had met you years ago. How different would life have been?” He gave a broken laugh. “But, at least I met you now. A ray of light in this horrible darkness.”
“You must get back,” Charlotte pressed him. “The Gestapo will be at the battery.”
“Yes,” Durst still did not move. “Then again, I could not go back, I could come with you?”
His desperate question pained Charlotte. She did not know what to say and any words stuck in her throat.
“No, of course not,” Durst filled the silence. “What was I thinking? I would be no good, none at all.”
“Your men need you,” Charlotte said softly. “Inspire them to be better people, that is your task.”
Durst snorted.
“I think you give me too much credit,” Durst took a step back. “I will miss you Betany, but maybe death will come swiftly now and that pain will not be for long.”
“Don’t say that,” Charlotte hated the words.
Durst squeezed her hand as he turned to leave.
“I can live with dying,” he told her, slipping off into the darkness. “As long as I know you live.”
He walked back to Cophen and climbed into the car. The engine came alive again and Cophen reversed the vehicle down the road. Charlotte waited until they were out of sight and then she found herself crumpling onto the ground. It wasn’t the pain in her leg, though that was bad enough, it was the agony inside her heart. How had she grown so connected to Durst in such a short time? Their friendship had been remarkable, not least for how fast it had grown and how strong it had become. She hated to believe he was dying and yet she knew it was true. Another brave soul who could have made Germany a better place was going to be lost and there was not a thing she could do about it.
She composed herself. The war went on and so must she. With difficulty she rose and knocked on the door. No one answered, so she knocked again. Finally, on the third attempt, a man in pyjamas opened the door to her. Charlotte found herself stumbling through his door, light-headed and giddy. Her leg gave way and once more she slumped to the ground.
“Are you Monsieur Romaine?” She asked him.
The stunned man nodded.
“Betany Juhtt,” Charlotte introduced herself, finally feeling the full effects of the morphine kicking in. She was concerned she might pass out. “I need your help. The Resistance are expecting me.”
Rouen, France. 10pm
Josef had taken the key Petiere had acquired straight to Monsieur Remini later that evening, not wishing to hold onto it any longer than he had to – and that was the wrong decision. Monsieur Remini was in the middle of meeting with those Communists involved in the plot to steal the printing press. They had acquired a cart and were keen to move forward with the plan. When Josef presented Remini with the key there was delight, which soon turned into horror for Josef.
“We shall go at once!”
It was one of the younger Communists who had made the alarming suggestion. Josef assumed his comrades would laugh off the comment and remind him that scrap merchants do not ply their trade at ten o’clock at night. They did not.
“We have everything we need, yes, let us go!”
Josef did not know the name of the man who joined in. He expected Remini to shoot him down. Remini was examining the key.
“Strike while the iron is hot,” he mumbled.
“Yes! Yes!” Another voice came from the Communists. “Before anyone has the chance to betray us or question what we are doing!”
“The whole point of the plan is that it appears we are ordinary people, going about ordinary business,” Josef quietly reminded Remini. “That is hardly the case if we go at this time of night.”
“If we wait until morning there will be many more witnesses,” Remini countered. “The disguise is just to fool the Germans. If we wait until daylight there may be others who will question our actions.”
“The cart can be ready in moments,” someone said.
Remini was clearly leaning towards taking action then and there. Josef was appalled, but also knew he was unable to stand up against them. If he wanted to be able to use the printing press, then he had to work with them, even when he disagreed with their plans. He tried one last time to be reasonable.
“What if someone questions why a scrap merchant is out at that time of night?” He asked Remini, hoping the man would be sensible enough to see the flaw in his plot.
“We say…” Remini paused to think, and then he grinned. “We say that Monsieur Dubois, the newspaper editor, has heard rumours that someone might try to steal the press and wants to have it removed before that can happen. Because he does not want trouble with the Nazis.”
Remini looked pleased with himself. It was a good suggestion, it was logical, Josef wished he had something to counter it with other than;
“We should not get Monsieur Dubois into any unnecessary trouble. He knows nothing of all this.”
“This is war,” Remini said haughtily. “We are all soldiers, whether we like it or not. Monsieur Dubois must play his part, unless he is a Nazi sympathiser, in which case I have no qualms about involving him.”
“I think he is purely neutral, a man just trying to survive,” Josef said.
“Well, that is even worse. I despise men who just duck their heads and hope someone else will solve their problems for them,” Remini snorted. Then he was back to business. “Oskar, get the horse ready. Only four of you will drive up to the building, just enough to move the press. I shall pick which of you that will be when we get nearer. Ralf, make sure the men have guns.”
The Communists went to their tasks and Remini glanced at Josef. Sitting on the old kitchen chair at the head of the room, he looked like some king commanding his court. A fallen king, maybe, but one who still had power.
“Are you coming with us, Josef?”
“Of course!” Josef said at once, knowing any hint of uncertainty would be bad for his relationship with these men. He had to let them know that he was fully on their side.
“Our methods are not like yours,” Remini continued. “We are radical. We like action. But, that is why you came to us, isn’t it?”
“I came to you because I knew we must work together,” Josef replied, avoiding saying that he was happy for the Communists to take all the risks in retrieving the press. “We have the same goals, even though our methods are different.”
“Hmm,” Remini rubbed his chin. “When this is over, perhaps we should talk about how we can help each other more.”
“Maybe,” Josef said.
He kept to himself that he felt the sharing of the printing press was more than enough. He had worked with the Communists once, back in Paris, and that had not ended well. He preferred to go his own way.
“Will you carry a gun?” Remini asked.
Josef wondered at the question. Was he suggesting that Josef was somehow against the use of firearms.
“I was not intending to go without carrying one,” he replied.
Remini seemed satisfied, as if the question had been a test.
“Let’s join the men downstairs.”
They had borrowed the cart from a farm. Only, Josef was not sure if ‘borrowed’ actually meant ‘stolen’. It was in good shape and they had painted it a dark blue to disguise its origins, while someone else had painted signs for the sides which read ‘Scrap Merchant. Any Old Goods Accepted.’ The sign writer was obviously skilled at the task and the painting was very professional.
The horse, Josef learned, had formerly pulled the local hearse, but had been retired at the outbreak of war as it had developed a dislike for Germans. Anyone in grey or black clothing it would lash out at and bite. Which was inconvenient at a funeral, but for the task in hand seemed most fortuitous. Any Germans getting too close to the cart would endure the horse’s wrath. The man in charge of the horse ensured that he only ever wore a light brown jacket when near it. The other men had also donned brown coats.
Remini went through quick introductions. Oskar was the man tending to the horse. Ralf was the youngest and was handing out guns to the others. Then there was Paul, Jean, two named Francis (referred to as Big Francis and Little Francis, due to their respective heights) and Zeus, who was a big, burly bald man. He never spoke, but he looked like someone from a circus. The strongman, for instance. He had tattoos up and down his arms, spiralling around his neck and even decorating his shiny pate. Zeus was not his real name, of course, but no one was going to question him over it.
“Are we ready?” Remini asked his group as Ralf handed Josef a rifle.
Josef quickly inspected it. Army issue, older than the lad who had given it to him, but well-oiled and nicely sighted. Josef had used something similar in the first war. He was familiar with the foibles of these rifles and was confident, even in the dark streets, that he could use it efficiently.
“Let’s go!” Remini slapped Josef on the back and everyone bundled into the cart.
This was another moment for Josef to cringe, as the sight of nine men in a cart would draw attention. It had to at night. His only consolation was that few would be out on the streets, and those who were would be as interested in avoiding being seen as them. Any sensible citizen stayed in their beds at this time of night. There was no curfew in Rouen as yet – it would cause problems for the Germans’ nightlife if all the clubs, brothels and restaurants had to close early – but it was still not wise to be out after dark. This was the time for the Nazis to prowl about and enjoy the town. Anyone who was out with them was liable to be a sympathiser.
Oskar snapped the reins and the horse stepped forward. It had been trained to walk at a respectfully slow pace and it was not about to change the habit of a lifetime. Oskar seemed content to let it amble, only pulling on the reins when he wanted to change direction.
“Head to that little side road I suggested,” Remini was sitting just behind Oskar and offering instructions. Josef was in the middle of the cart, squashed between Ralf and Big Francis, while Zeus sat opposite. He was trying not to think too hard about what was going on. He ran his fingers over the gun.
“Were you in the Great War?” Big Francis asked him in a low voice.
“Naturally,” Josef replied.
“My father served,” Big Francis said. “I was just a boy.”
Josef felt old. He realised, in that moment, that he had to be a decade older than anyone else in the cart. Even Remini was younger than him by several years. He was a veteran of the Great War, a term that made him feel like an antique who should not be out on such adventures as these. He hoped the others in the cart did not feel the same.
The horse wheezed as it pulled the cart, something wrong with its airways that made it produce a nasty gasp every few paces. The fact the animal was not already dead was remarkable, it looked as though it was only fit for the slaughter yard. Oskar clicked his tongue at it as they moved on and the horse responded with little flicks of its ears. Josef thought it would have been faster to walk.
He found himself looking at Zeus. He had to look past the big man to see the houses going by behind him, which meant his eyes strayed to Zeus more often than not. He was fascinated by the artwork on the man’s skin. The patterns and images seemed to merge into one another and it was too dark to really make out what they were, but they were fascinating nonetheless. Zeus finally caught on to Josef looking at him and scowled. Josef gave him a polite smile and then pretended to take a sudden interest in his rifle.
The journey seemed to take forever, but eventually they pulled into a road that was just wide enough for the cart and for the men to scramble out. Oskar remained seated at the front with the horse’s reins draped in his hand.
Remini grinned at them all.
“This is it.”
The main road ran at a right angle to this road and looking down it, it was possible to see The Perfect Pastry, which was the only building for miles around that was ablaze with light. There was laughter and talking, along with the sounds of cutlery and glasses being moved on tables. Josef wished it was raining so that the outside tables were not occupied, but there was no such luck. It had been a hot day and the evening was still pleasant, encouraging Germans to sit at the tables on the pavement and drink wine. Josef sighed to himself.
“Oskar will drive the cart, Ralf, Zeus and Big Francis will join him,” Remini commanded. “And our friend Josef will supervise.”
Josef glanced up in alarm. He had intended to stay as removed from the operation as possible, observing from a safe place without taking any risks. He now saw that Remini had guessed as much and was not going to allow that to happen. If Josef wanted to use the press, he was going to have to be involved in stealing it. Josef met Remini’s eyes; the man was not going to let him get away with being a mere observer.
Josef closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. He had no suitable reply to Remini and climbed back into the cart. Remini was smiling.
“Remember lads, you are scrap merchants on genuine business.”
There were ragged blankets in the back of the cart, beneath which they hid the guns. Josef pulled his hat a bit firmer on his head. He did not like the idea of being this close to the Nazis, especially when he was a wanted man. The Gestapo were out for his blood and he did not need to try his luck by parading before them. They might not know what he looked like – yet – but he didn’t like taking chances.
The cart rolled out of the side road and everyone was quiet, except for Oskar clicking his tongue and quietly telling the horse that it was a ‘good boy’. They pulled to a halt outside the newspaper office, right opposite the café. The horse flicked an ear in the direction of the noise, but otherwise seemed calm. Oskar turned to Josef and handed him the reins.
“Guard the cart,” he grinned, before dropping down and heading to the door of the offices.
Ralf, Big Francis and Zeus followed. For the moment, no one at the café was paying much heed. Josef was trying not to look over. He was aware that Henrietta was probably working tonight and might react to his presence by accident. He was not sure how reliable the girl was. He also felt guilty that he had placed her in that position for no reason. The Communists had acted too fast for him to gather any useful information from Henrietta. She had been placed among the Nazis without there being any need.
Josef was beginning to see that working with the Communists was going to be too great an ordeal. They would share the press but nothing more. They were too impulsive for his liking and Remini was too quick to overrule him. This was not a partnership of equals, oh no, Remini felt that Josef was there as his assistant, nothing more. He had made the decision to come tonight without consulting Josef, without even considering his opinion. Any sort of working relationship would be very much one of master and servant. Josef was not going to allow his organisation to play second-fiddle to the Communists. He was not going to sacrifice his people on Remini’s whim.
He was going along with things for the moment because he needed the press, and because it was only his life in potential danger. He would not put those he cared about into a similar situation.
The horse scraped a hoof on the cobbles and Josef had a feeling that was a bad sign. The door to the offices had opened with a groan and Oskar had walked in, followed by the others. A moment later the lights went on. Josef cringed inwardly, but the truth of the matter was that a genuine scrap merchant on legitimate business would turn on the lights without hesitation.
Out of the corner of his eye Josef saw movement and realised someone was walking towards him. He hunched up his shoulders a little more and tried to look very old. He gave a good cough and complained to himself about being out at this time of night. Only at the last moment, when the man was right beside him did he react, making it appear as if he had only just noticed him.
The man at his side was a German officer in grey uniform. Josef could not say what his rank was, because he had lost track of all the new German insignia, but he knew the man was more than a foot soldier, probably a captain or sergeant from the way he stood confidently with his arms behind his back.
“Do not approach the horse, monsieur, it is vicious,” Josef said in a croaky voice, followed by another good cough.
“What are you doing out at this time of night, old man?” The German officer sneered.
Josef did not mind the insult, not at this moment in time when it was keeping him safe from closer observation.
“Just collecting an item,” Josef coughed again. “Do you have a cigarette, monsieur?”
“No,” the officer snapped. “What item?”
Josef shrugged.
“I don’t know. I should be in my bed. This is not fit work for an old man, but they needed someone to take care of the horse. Please, step no closer monsieur, the horse bites!”
The German had edged forward so he could look over the back of the horse at the building. The horse had flicked back an ear and was starting to pay attention. How well could it recognise grey and black clothing in the dark?
“This is the newspaper office,” the officer continued.
“Yes, it is,” Josef replied casually.
“What could a scrap merchant want in a newspaper office?”
“We take paper,” Josef said, then he gave a hearty cough. “Really, monsieur, do you not have a cigarette? It would clear my throat.”
“No,” the officer barked. “Even if I did I would not give it to an old coot like you! Why are you doing this so late at night?”
“I ask myself the same,” Josef sighed. “It was urgent, apparently.”
“What could be so urgent? You are a bloody scrap merchant!”
The officer’s raised voice was further attracting the horse’s attention and Josef was getting concerned. Now was not the time for trouble to break out. He needed the horse to remain calm until the press was in the cart and everyone was ready to leave.
“Monsieur, could I ask you to take a step back. The horse kicks.”
“Does the horse do anything else but bite and kick?” The German officer snapped. “What does it do if I shoot it?”
“That would be very inconsiderate, monsieur,” Josef beseeched him, doing a good job at sounding like a hard-done-by old man. “I thought the Germans were better than that. I also thought you were honourable…”
“Oh, shut up!” The officer snapped.
Having seen the others emerging with the printing press he quickly went around the back of the cart to confront them.
“What are you doing?” He demanded of the group, addressing his question directly to Zeus, which was unfortunate as the man did not speak.
“Good evening, monsieur,” Oskar doffed his hat to the officer. “We are removing this old printing press.”
“At this time of night?” The officer was almost spitting feathers.
“Monsieur Dubois, the proprietor of these offices, is very worried that a nefarious organisation will attempt to steal the press. He has heard talk that they will attempt it very soon and felt he could not wait any longer for the press to be removed. He asked us to make sure this press was gone today, but we have been so busy, well…” Oskar shrugged his shoulders. “This was the soonest we could get here.”
The German glanced at the old printing press and then at the cart, before turning his gaze back at Oskar.
“What are you doing with it?”
“What we do with all metal things. Break it down and sell on the scrap. Nice lot of iron in this.”
The German officer touched the old wheel of the press, the one that would turn the rollers and force inked printing blocks down onto paper.
“Shame, it must be an antique.”
“A dangerous antique, monsieur,” Oskar said sincerely. “In the wrong hands this could be used to spread sedition. Monsieur Dubois does not want that to happen.”
The officer was calming down and seemed to be accepting the lie. He nodded.
“Very wise. I shall let you get on.”
Josef kept talking to the horse as the press was dragged to the side of the cart. The Communists paused and assessed how they would get the heavy item into the vehicle. The German officer was prowling around, watching them more out of curiosity than out of suspicion. He seemed to want to make sure the dangerous press was properly removed.
Josef felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. Other Germans were emerging from the café to watch the scene. Ralf had climbed into the cart and was tossing over some stout rope. This was wrapped firmly around the press, while Zeus and Big Francis joined Ralf in the cart. With the three men pulling hard the press started to inch upwards. Oskar was guiding it, but it still scraped against the freshly painted sign and left nasty vertical scars. Josef winced.
The press was proving hard to move, even with the powerful Zeus putting his back into it. The problem was the sides of the cart; they sloped outwards and formed an angled lip that snagged the press and prevented it from being pulled into the cart bed. Watching from the side-lines, the German officer snapped an order to the men nearest him and several grey clad soldiers joined Oskar to manhandle the press upwards. They were able to use their combined strength to move the press over the lip of the side board, but it still wobbled precariously, not yet in the cart.
Josef clenched his teeth. Why had they not found a cart with sides that could be lowered?
A German soldier clambered up the side of the cart and perched on the rail, one foot inside, the other hanging out, helping to move the press.
Josef had lowered his head further, trying to ignore what was going on while, inside, he was shaking and feeling sick. The horse was scraping its hoof again, the sound extremely sinister, as if it was preparing for something. Josef decided it was best not to look over his shoulder at the activities in the cart. He kept telling himself it would all be over soon.
The press had reached a point where it was just balanced on the top rail of the cart’s side and could either tumble inside or fall back to the street. Zeus was groaning, taking nearly all the strain on the rope. He had his feet wedged apart on the side of the cart and was leaning completely back so his spine was resting on the opposite rail. He was grunting as he held, virtually alone, the press in position.
“Heave!” Oskar shouted from the ground level.
It was unlikely the Germans next to him understood, they probably did not speak French, but they grasped the implication. They put their backs into pushing up the press. There was a moment when the press was perfectly balanced, in a state of equilibrium, the men’s efforts on either end matching one another, but if one side was to give the press would go hurtling back to the ground and possibly break.
Josef wanted to jump down and help, or climb into the back of the cart, but he sensed the horse was becoming more and more restless and he didn’t trust what would happen if he let go of the reins. The problem was solved when the German soldier in the cart managed to get his hand around the large wheel of the press and pulled sharply. The movement was enough to jerk the press over the rail and it tumbled into the bed of the cart. The momentum caused Zeus to nearly be thrown backwards over the other side. He had to let go of the rope and grabbed the wooden rail behind him to stop himself. Big Francis and Ralf slipped back too, Ralf cracking his head hard on the wooden back rest behind the driver’s seat and dazing himself. On the other side the German soldier fell back hard to the floor.
He laughed at first, saying something in German to Zeus. Josef recognised the phrase as: “the big bugger needed a good pull.” Josef risked looking over his shoulder. The situation seemed to have calmed down and they were over the worst. Then he noted where the German had fallen; right on top of the blanket beneath which lay their guns. Josef held his breath. If the others had noticed, they were acting ignorant. Oskar had climbed onto the side of the cart and was observing the scene. His head had turned to the German and Josef noticed him pause. They were all fearing what might come next.
The German sat up and brushed off his hands, still amused at the ordeal. Josef saw that the blanket had moved when he fell back and the muzzle of a gun was protruding. How the man had not noticed the weapons when he fell on them Josef could only guess. Maybe he just assumed there was more scrap metal beneath the blanket.
“Let me give you a hand,” Oskar offered his hand to the German and pulled him to his feet.
He flashed a glance at Zeus, trying to warn him of the danger, but Zeus was oblivious to the situation. Josef felt that itch to move again. To get up and conceal the guns; but moving now would only make it more obvious they were there. The German had his hands on the rail nearest Oskar and the newspaper office, his back towards the café and the exposed gun, he was starting to climb out. Josef thought they were in the clear, luck had been kind to them for once.
Then the German officer called to the soldier.
“Private! Weren’t you meant to be on sentry duty half an hour ago?”
The private swung around, his smile gone as he realised his departure from his duty had been noticed. It was in that instant that he saw the guns. Josef spotted the precise moment when the shock of the discovery registered and the young man’s eyes widened. Josef still reacted too slow. The trouble was, he did not know how to get the horse to move on. He flicked the reins and clicked his tongue, but the creature stood still, and in that same moment the soldier was shouting to his comrades.
“Guns! They have guns!”
The German officer had strolled back to his spot near Josef, now he turned, his head jerking up in alarm.
“What does he shout, monsieur?” Josef asked him innocently.
The officer gave him a wide-eyed look of amazement.
“Guns! You have guns!” He spluttered.
“Oh, they are only antiques,” Josef laughed. “No good for anything!”
The situation might have resolved itself. Josef might have talked his way out of the matter – the guns were very old, though the German officer was probably not gullible enough to think they were unusable. He might have bought them time to escape, only one of the soldiers who had been helping to move the press was trying to run back to the café to fetch his own weapon and he happened to run straight in front of the horse…
It was almost as if the animal had been waiting for someone to forget themselves. It reacted so fast that even Josef was startled. As the soldier ran past its head, the horse snorted and reached out, snapping its teeth on the man’s shoulder. It latched onto more than just the fabric of his uniform and as the man cried out in pain the horse flicked its head violently and with such force that the man was flung backwards into the side of the building, instantly cutting off his cries.
Everyone was momentarily stunned. Josef glanced at the officer who was agape.
“I said the horse was vicious,” he remarked.
The officer snapped back to his senses.
“Shoot them!”
Oskar jumped into the cart. At the café someone had been alert enough to react speedily to their officer’s command and a rifle barked out. Zeus ducked. The bullet hit the side of the cart and the German soldier who was still inside screamed in panic for his comrade to stop.
The horse, already fired up by the German crossing its path, heard the pinging bullets and reared up violently. Hooves flailed the air and the German officer jumped back as fast as he could.
“Shoot the horse!” He yelled.
Josef knew that would be the end of them if it happened. He flicked the reins, wanting the horse to move. Oskar was climbing into the driver’s seat as fast as possible. They need not have worried, for the moment the horse’s hooves hit the road it bolted. The cart jerked forward and they were suddenly flying down the road.
“Give me the reins!” Oskar yelled, shoving Josef aside. “Get in the back and shoot!”
The Germans were running out from the café, preparing to shoot at the fleeing horse and cart. The soldier who was still trapped in the cart was shouting at his friends not to shoot him, while also panicking that he was now trapped with the enemy. He had some presence of mind, however, for he was standing before the guns, preventing the Frenchmen from reaching them. At least until Zeus stomped forward, grabbed him by the arms and flung him over the side. The German hit the road hard, rolled a couple of times then lay perfectly still.
The Germans now started to fire. Josef was clambering into the bed of the cart, avoiding Ralf who was still seeing stars from the bad bang to his head. Josef was always amazed how, in these moments of utter terror and danger, a strange calm would come over him and he would start to act very conscientiously and calmly. Whether it was the result of adrenaline bursting through his system, or just some quirk of his brain, he never failed to find himself suddenly extremely clear-headed and able to act and think fluidly and efficiently.
As he crawled across the bed of the cart to the guns, Big Francis just ahead of him, he found he was not thinking about the disaster unfolding around them, but rather pondering on how remarkable it was that so many of the Germans had taken their guns to the café. Maybe they were not as comfortable in Rouen as he had previously thought?
Zeus had a rifle and was lining it up, using the back rail of the cart as a rest. He had let off two shots before Josef could join him. The old rifles were single-action, requiring a bolt to be pulled back to enable the next bullet to fall into the chamber. The Germans, on the other hand, had automatic rifles. The only saving grace for Josef and the Communists was that the constant movement forward of the cart was causing the Germans difficulty in their aim. That, and the back board of the cart was absorbing the force of the bullets that hit it. Even so, several zipped past Josef’s head and pinged off the iron of the press.
“Turn us off the road!” He yelled at Oskar, frantically trying to work out how much longer they would be in range of the German guns.
“I am trying!” Oskar shouted back.
He was indeed pulling hard on the reins, but the horse was insisting on flying forward in a headlong plummet from which no one could distract it. Oskar yanked at the reins once again, at the same moment as a lucky bullet flew straight through his right shoulder. He dropped the reins, grabbing at the wound, blood pumping down his chest.
“Shit!” Josef gave up on grabbing for a gun and scrabbled back towards Oskar. “Fall backwards!”
Oskar was reeling with the pain and looked close to falling side-wards into the road. If he did that they would either have to stop and collect him or leave him for the Germans. Neither was a great option, especially as leaving him for the Germans would really mean leaving him for the Gestapo.
“Oskar, fall backwards!” Josef repeated, as the man looked perilously close to tumbling left.
Ralf had come to his senses enough to realise the situation and he reached up and grabbed Oskar, pulling him backwards into the body of the cart. Oskar screamed in pain as he hit the wooden planks and started to sob.
“Bind his wounds,” Josef told Ralf as he leapt over the injured man to reach the driver’s seat. In the calm zone of his mind, the part which was casually watching all that was going on around him, he was impressed with how nimbly he had moved.
That thought left him almost at once as he realised that the horse was slowing down. Josef had been semi-aware of the cart losing speed for a while, but had not registered the thought, being too busy with bullets. Now he was alarmed to see that the horse was rapidly coming to a grinding halt. The surprise and fear that had initially set the horse off on its headlong gallop had evaporated. The creature was old and not used to running with a cart dragging behind it. It was blowing hard, its sides heaving. It was spent.
Josef flicked the reins, slapping them on the horse’s back. Even a trot would be better than being stationary. But the horse had stopped and its head sagged almost between its legs. Josef glanced back, alarmed at how close the Germans still were. They had stopped shooting and were running towards the cart. They would have to abandon the vehicle and the printing press. Saving themselves would have to become the priority. He was about to say as much to the others when guns fired far down the street – behind the Germans.
They were well-aimed and two soldiers fell, either dead or wounded. It was the hidden Communists being commanded by Remini, giving them a chance and Josef knew they could not waste it. The soldiers were splitting up, some still running for the cart, others turning to take on the invisible threat behind them. Josef abandoned the reins and went to join Zeus and Big Francis in the back. It had never been his intention to turn this escapade into a bloodbath, now there was no option. Zeus and Big Francis were ducked down behind the back board of the cart. The winging of Oskar had temporarily shaken them and they weren’t sure what to do. Josef grabbed up a rifle.
“Shoot the damn bastards!” He commanded, having no idea where the fierce sounding voice came from that echoed out of his mouth.
The three of them popped up over the rail and started shooting. The Germans had been running towards them, the lack of bullets coming at them had given them confidence. Now they scattered as the first rounds flew in their direction. The shots were slightly random, more designed to get the Germans to stop running than anything else. No one was hit.
The soldiers took cover wherever they could; one disappeared behind an old metal bin, another slipped into a doorway. Four others pressed themselves against walls and tried to make themselves as small as possible. They were ready to fire and Josef knew that would be a bad thing. Once they started with those automatic rifles, there would be no chance of replying and the stationary cart was a huge target.
He had seconds before hell broke out again. He flew back the bolt on his rifle, heard the next bullet fall into the chamber then took aim, intending to make this shot count. He sighted the man nearest the cart; the soldier was just appearing from behind the metal bin and taking aim himself. Josef aimed at his chest – no point taking risks, go for the biggest target, especially as he was not sure of the accuracy of the rifle he was holding. He took a half-breath, paused and then pressed the trigger.
The German soldier seemed to jump backwards, then he slumped. The bullet had entered his chest and whether it was a fatal wound or not, he was out of action. One down, five to go.
Zeus was thumping out bullets as fast as he could, but his accuracy was appalling. He was aiming in the rough direction of the enemy and hitting nothing significant. The only good thing was that he was keeping the Germans from shooting, as they were trying not to make themselves targets for his wild shots. Big Francis was more precise, closer to Josef’s style of shooting, but less honed. He took three shots at one German, none hitting, though he did succeed in getting the soldier to take cover down an alley.
Josef calmed himself and lined up his next shot. He was aiming at one of the German’s who had not taken cover. The man was ballsy, that was for certain. He had his rifle off his shoulder and was aiming at the cart. Josef realised he was sighting the horse, doing as he had been ordered. If he killed the animal they were definitely doomed. Josef found him in his sights, took a half-breath, paused, pressed the trigger.
The rifle jerked more than before and Josef was disappointed to see the shot had gone wide, though it did give the soldier a start and for a second he was distracted. Josef reloaded as fast as possible, ignoring a bullet that flew past his ear. He had not even noticed anyone aiming for him and he had to rely on Zeus picking up the man. Even if the big fellow could not hit the side of a barn, he would at least scare the German into taking cover.
The soldier he had tried to hit was recovering, he was looking in Josef’s direction, realising precisely who had shot at him. He was exposed, it should be a perfect shot. Yet Josef was also exposed and having to take care when aiming because his gun was not automatic. The German aimed at him. If Josef missed this time, he was surely dead. For the German was going to fill him with bullets. Josef took the half-breath, paused, squeezed the trigger…
The damn rifle jammed and Josef’s quick reaction was all that saved him from being sprayed with bullets. He ducked behind the back board the second he realised he had no chance, hearing the bullets whistle over his head and then slam into the wood, several coming through this time. He ducked even further, hoping desperately that none of the bullets came through low enough to hit him.
He was lucky. The spray missed him. Big Francis was not so fortunate. He took six bullets to the face and neck. He fell to the bed of the cart, dead. His open eyes stared at the sky while blood trickled down his cheeks. Zeus roared, and there was a real danger he would jump out of the cart and take on the Germans hand-to-hand. He was starting to go over the side when Josef grabbed his trouser leg and pulled him back as hard as he could. Josef surprised himself by the strength he employed and Zeus stumbled.
“Don’t be an idiot!” Josef swore at him.
Zeus looked about ready to go again, ignoring Josef, but at that moment the cart jerked forward, sending Zeus tumbling backwards, just as another spray of bullets carved holes in the cart. Josef glanced up and saw that Ralf had climbed into the driver’s seat and had somehow persuaded the reluctant horse to get going again. It was no longer a galloping getaway, but the horse was going at a brisk trot, certainly enough to outrun a man. It was also more compliant this time and Ralf persuaded it to take a left turn.
The German soldiers were having to chase them again, coming out from cover. As they disappeared around the corner, Josef took aim with Big Francis’ discarded rifle and sent a bullet in the direction of the man who had tried to shoot him. He felt redeemed when the bullet hit the soldier in his belly and he tripped over his own feet before falling to the ground. Then they were out of sight and Ralf was taking as many turnings as he could to lose the Germans.
Josef reloaded just in case. The Germans could not run and fire at the same time. The officer may have called for reinforcements, but they had to find them first. Josef was hopeful that they could make a clean getaway.
He allowed the tension to slip from his shoulders, his belly slowly unknotting. Zeus looked like a vicious dog which has come to the end of its chain as he knelt beside him. He held his rifle upright and stared out at the road, his eyes glazed. Josef didn’t dare speak to him. What was there to say, in any case?
Big Francis was dead, his corpse a stark reminder of the risks they were taking. Risks for a printing press. Some might argue it was not worth it, Josef knew better. The press would be a mighty weapon in their war, even if it did not fire traditional bullets. He pulled the blanket that had covered the guns over Francis and then walked over to Oskar. The man was propped against the side of the cart, his shoulder bandaged. He winced whenever the wheels went over a bump. Josef crouched by him.
“What now?”
“The lad knows where to go,” Oskar said through clenched teeth. “We arranged an empty warehouse at the edge of town to hide the cart. Only I, Ralf and Big Francis know where it is. Even Monsieur Remini does not know its location. Just in case.”
“Good,” Josef said, not adding that Big Francis could no longer reveal them, even if the Gestapo had captured him.
“We almost got away with it,” Oskar added, a wistfulness in his eyes. “Almost.”
Josef sat down opposite him. He had nothing to add. The adrenaline was fast fading and it was followed by exhaustion. He let his head slump against the wooden side of the cart. The horse kept up its smooth trot and the roads flew by. Josef lost track of the turnings they took. He was close to falling asleep when they pulled through a set of gates and into an empty building.
Josef pulled himself upright, swaying as the cart passed into the building. Zeus hurdled the back board and closed the doors shrouding them in darkness. For a moment they seemed to disappear into black oblivion, then Zeus lit a lamp that was hanging by the door.
They had made it. Josef slumped down again. All he wanted was to rest a while and recover from the ordeal. Ralf was already unhitching the horse and leading it away to eat and drink. Oskar was clutching at his shoulder and breathing in short, painful gasps. He needed medical attention, but right at that moment Josef did know where it could be found.
Zeus strode to the side of the cart and looked at Josef with bottomless eyes. Josef felt that a lot went on in the mind of the big man, more than anyone ever gave him credit for. Zeus slowly turned his head towards Big Francis beneath the blanket.
“He was good man,” he spoke, and Josef suddenly realised that Zeus was Russian. His lack of conversation was because he did not speak a lot of French, though he understood the language well enough. “You too. Good man.”
Zeus thumped Josef’s shoulder in a comradely way. It was a heavy blow and Josef rocked forwards with it.
“Rest now,” Zeus mumbled to himself. He walked away.
The words were sensible and Josef found his sheer exhaustion was taking over once again. There was nothing more to do for the moment. When dawn came they could leave the old warehouse, right now it was safer to remain where they were. The Nazis would be out looking for them and any man spotted out on the streets would be accosted. Oskar would have to wait for a doctor, just as Big Francis would have to wait to be buried.
There was only one thing to do in a situation like this. Josef had learned how to make the absolute most of any quiet time when he was in the trenches. You might be up to your neck in mud, comrades dead or dying around you, but you had to take the opportunity to rest. It might be the only time you had for many hours to come, and it was the key to survival. Men who lived on their nerves, died on them too.
So, with Big Francis’ corpse just a hand’s breadth from him, Josef closed his eyes and allowed his weariness to engulf him. He would dream of blood and bullets, but at least he would sleep. Right then, it was all he could ask for.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 11.50pm
The military car rolled back into the airbase. Durst was feeling weak and unwell. He was glad Cophen was driving. This time, he had not recovered properly from his episode of sickness. He guessed that was a bad sign.
As Cophen pulled the car around the front of his headquarters, Durst noted the sleek black sedan car that was parked before it. A soldier sat behind the driver’s wheel, looking impassively out at their arrival. The men of the battery were going about their work, but they kept throwing uneasy glances over at the car and then at Durst. The tension in the air was palpable.
The noise of another car engine had aroused the attention of Gruper, who appeared from the headquarters building looking suitably uneasy. Durst was starting to climb out of the car when he was confronted by the medical orderly.
“The Gestapo are here, they have been here for half-an-hour, and they are not happy that you were absent. I explained that you like to go for a drive on quiet nights and, as they had not called ahead to warn you of their arrival, there was no reason for you to wait in,” Gruper paused to catch his breath. “You weren’t to know they were coming.”
He fell silent as men appeared from the building. They were dressed in long black overcoats and appeared to be wearing further black clothing beneath them. Durst felt they were trying too hard to look sinister. He stood up tall as they approached.
“Captain Durst,” the tallest of the pair addressed him sharply. “You were not at your post!”
“Who are you?” Durst replied, not answering the question which was presumptuous and rude. These men had no authority over him, only his superior commanding officer could criticise his absence.
“Herr Moltmann of the Gestapo,” the taller, darker man said quickly. “And this is Herr Einz. You have not answered me.”
“You have no authority to question my actions,” Durst countered.
He noted that a number of his men were discreetly listening to the exchange. Nearest was the young Private Hertter, who was shaping up into a good soldier and proving extremely reliable. He was sweeping the forecourt outside the headquarters, a task that had to be frequently performed due to the dry summer. Whenever cars rumbled into the forecourt they churned up dust on the ground which could then drift into the mechanical workings of the big guns and clog them. Hertter was attempting to sweep the dust away from the wheels of the cars, to prevent them spraying it up when they left and minimise the damage. Durst would not have ordered such a pointless exercise. He wondered if Hertter had grabbed the broom as an excuse to be near at hand in case he was needed.
“What are you doing in my battery?” Durst demanded of Moltmann. “We do not welcome visitors at night. We are busy.”
“Not so busy you can’t go for a night time drive,” Moltmann snarled nastily.
“Look at the skies, Herr Moltmann,” Durst pointed upwards. “Overcast and a new moon. Bad weather for night flying. The British like to come when it is a full moon and little cloud, so they can navigate by natural light. It is one way to avoid our guns. On a night like this, I would not expect them.”
“They might trick you!” Moltmann snapped.
“More fool them,” Durst snorted. “They would have to fly with the aeroplanes’ lights on, and we would see them miles off. We are good at what we do. Anyway, having you ever tried to accurately bomb something in heavy cloud cover?”
Moltmann snorted.
“No excuse can be made for this dereliction of duty!” He barked.
Durst sensed the annoyance behind the anger. Moltmann had flown to the battery expecting to catch them all unawares and to find a British agent in their care. He had found nothing, and he was feeling a fool. Durst was pleased about that.
“Report me to my superiors if you have an issue,” Durst dared him. “Otherwise, bite your tongue. This is my battery and no jumped up civilian is going to tell me what to do.”
Moltmann was infuriated, but before he could retort Durst carried on.
“What are you doing here anyway? This is hardly Gestapo territory.”
Moltmann seemed to be struggling to find his voice, so angered was he by Durst’s insolence. Herr Einz suddenly took charge. The man looked tiny next to his exceptionally tall companion, and he had fitted his monocle, giving him the appearance of an undersized academic. He stepped forward to enter the fray.
“Where is the girl, Captain Durst?”
“Girl?” Durst feigned bemusement. “Am I supposed to understand what you are saying?”
“You shot down a plane, the other night, yes?”
“We shoot down a lot of planes,” Durst puffed up his chest proudly. “My men are very good.”
Around him a few men grinned at the acknowledgement of their skills. Hertter was smiling as he swept.
“This plane was carrying a woman, a British agent,” Einz continued, though it was plain his patience was running out.
“I did not know the British sent women agents,” Durst glanced at Cophen and raised his eyebrows. “They must be getting desperate.”
“You went out in search of this plane?” Einz snapped.
“I attempt to seek out any plane that crashes, so I can make a full report. You will have to specify which plane you are referring to, however.”
The request was polite, but Einz was becoming as irritated as his partner.
“It was a small plane! A Lysander!”
“Ah!” Durst clicked his fingers. “Yes, we did shoot down such a plane. It crashed in the forest.”
“And you found a girl in it!” Einz persisted.
Durst frowned.
“No, the aircraft was empty when we found it. The pilot had fled, and I guess so had his passenger,” Durst leaned closer to Einz. “I thought you knew that? Your men were searching the woods for days.”
“You claim the girl was never here?” Moltmann was barely containing his fury.
“Until this moment I knew of no girl!” Durst barked back, tired of the conversation.
He was feeling nauseous and short of breath. The world was becoming hazy around him, light-headedness making everything seem a little unreal.
“Captain Durst,” Moltmann bent forward until his nose was almost level with Durst’s, “I think you are a liar! And that makes you a traitor to your country! If I had my way, I would haul you into my office and make you talk!”
“Get out of my battery!” Durst snarled back.
“That girl has been here!” Moltmann insisted, his cheeks flushing red. “And you have hidden her! Your treason will be remembered.”
“How dare you question my loyalty to my country!” Durst’s temper flared, the unreality of the situation, caused by his increasing light-headedness, was making him react more aggressively than he normally would. He rather felt like he was in a dream. “Get out of my battery!”
Durst followed up his second command by pushing Moltmann backwards hard.
“You low-life, criminal slugs are not worthy to step on the same soil as the men of this battery. We are honourable, worthy soldiers. You? You are scum, the weevils no one likes to admit having among them. I don’t want you here, so you can take your damn accusations and leave!”
Durst was on a high, fuelled by an inner flame that had been simmering too long. He was angry about so many things; the war, his role in it and his sickness. There had been no means of venting that anger, so he had fallen into drink. Now, all of a sudden, that sticky pool of emotion was washing up his throat and being spat out at the two Gestapo men. Durst was not thinking of consequences, he was just enjoying how good it felt to suddenly free that hatred and rage. It was too tempting, and far too pleasurable right in that moment, to allow rational thought to intervene.
“Remember who you are talking to!” Moltmann stood his ground, clenching his fists. “You are not above us, Captain Durst! We can have your scalp!”
“Really?” Durst laughed. “You are nothing, nothing! Get OUT!”
He pushed Moltmann again, even harder and the man reacted as might have been expected for a thug. He shot back his own blow, only he did not push Durst, he punched him hard square in his chest. In another man the blow would have hurt, but not been greatly alarming. For Durst, however, the punch seemed to break every rib and shatter his breastbone. He went backwards, a searing pain in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and the next moment he was coughing up blood and then choking on it. He crashed to the ground, clawing at his throat, as if he could wrench free the obstruction to his breathing from the outside.
Moltmann looked stunned by what he had done, if only for a moment. Einz was more concerned by the collective gasp that had gone up among the men of the battery. Suddenly a lot of eyes were on the Gestapo men.
“You bastard!” Private Hertter screamed out.
He took a pace forward, lifting his broom. Suddenly he was swinging the broom handle at Moltmann’s head, catching him a savage blow over the eye and shattering his nose. It was an impulsive reaction to seeing a beloved commander badly hurt. The men of the battery were devoted to Durst, he had made them the best unit in France and they would do anything for him. Even kill their own countrymen.
Durst was choking and gagging, Gruper at his side, as he watched the weirdest scene he had ever witnessed in his life play out before him. There was no going back once Hertter had struck the first blow. No one in the battery was going to sacrifice one of their own for a Gestapo man. The Gestapo driver was climbing out of the car with a pistol in hand, while Einz was drawing his own. Cophen had jumped out of his own car and was running for Einz who was aiming at Hertter. The private had frozen with the realisation of what he had done. Things were about to go horribly wrong.
Durst watched, transfixed, as his men rushed the Gestapo. Einz let off a wild shot. It pinged the ground near Durst and only spurred his men into greater action. Einz was taken to the ground in seconds and pummelled until he was silent. The Gestapo driver was flung against his car by Cophen. He kicked the sergeant and was able to pull away, back-handing him with his pistol, so Cophen stumbled, stunned. The driver aimed his gun at the sergeant. There was a bang.
Durst struggled to sit up and see what was happening. He could barely breath, but these were his men, his responsibility. He tried to speak, but all that came out was bloody phlegm. Gruper tried to get him to lay down, but he had to see, he had to know. He managed to flip over onto one elbow and look between the two cars, getting a view of who was on the ground.
Einz lay unmoving, behind him was a pair of feet in dark boots. Durst tried to call for Cophen, failing. Gruper grabbed at him and made him remain still.
Moltmann was to the right of Einz. Someone had finished the job Hertter had started. He wasn’t going to be getting up again. All the men had known that the only way to save themselves once the mess had begun was to get rid of all the witnesses. Dead, the Gestapo men could not report the assault.
“Co… phen…” Durst tried to speak, more blood issuing forth from his mouth. He knew he was close to passing out. He gripped onto consciousness like it was all he had left.
Maybe it was.
“Sir!”
Durst looked up and Cophen was crouching down beside him. Durst gave a rattling breath of relief. The driver had been shot, not his sergeant. He reached out for Cophen’s hand.
“Ta… char….”
“I know, sir,” Cophen said softly. “Rest now. I’ll make sure this is dealt with.”
Durst felt his grip loosening. The world drifted from him. Consciousness was fading. His last view was of a number of worried faces looking down at him. A smile came to his face as he looked at these, his men. He was so very proud of them, and so very thankful for their loyalty.
He gasped and then the world was gone.
London, England. 10am
They reconvened for the court case. Donne was looking forward to presenting the case for the defence. Klaus was less eager. He sensed that Donne thought they already had the whole thing in the bag. He was less optimist. It was not in Klaus’ nature to hope for the best. He always planned for the worst. He wondered what Herne was thinking.
Herne had appeared in the courtroom with Lieutenant Stebbings, as he had done every morning of the trial. Each day their relationship had become noticeably strained, the tensions between counsel and client increasing almost at an hourly rate. Stebbings had come into the case confident of winning, now he appeared to almost want to be defeated. His association with Herne had taken all the spirit out of the man, and Klaus was sorry for that. He feared that Stebbings may carry this jaded feeling over to his next case and not fight as hard as he should for the client that followed Herne.
As for the SS man, he seemed as cheery as on his first day in court, in fact, he seemed to be growing in arrogance. He was not taking any of the proceedings seriously and clearly had no respect for the British Judge Advocate and jury. Klaus reminded himself that pride came before a fall, and Herne was certainly setting himself up for a big tumble.
The Judge Advocate and the jury entered the room.
“I don’t think they are in the mood for anymore of Herne’s antics,” Donne whispered to Klaus as the session began.
Klaus could hardly blame the British court officials for being sick to death of the SS man. He was blatantly disrespecting their justice system and acting as if it was irrelevant. That was enough to make anybody angry.
“Today we will be hearing the case for the defence,” the Judge Advocate announced to the courtroom. “Corporal Donne, you may call your first witness.”
“Thank you, your Honour,” Donne rose. “I would like to call Herr Hermann Kettig as my first witness.”
Klaus could not resist glancing to the doors of the courtroom as Hermann was shown in. His old friend looked in far better shape than when he had last seen him. Hermann’s injuries had been severe and had required several weeks of hospital treatment, there had been concerns about brain damage. Klaus did not know what the final outcome of his friend’s recovery had been, as he had not seen him since he was arrested. He was delighted that Hermann looked so healthy when he walked through the door. He had put on weight and there was colour in his cheeks. However, he was unmistakeably nervous as he walked to the witness stand.
Hermann did not speak English, so a translator had been provided. Hermann clutched his hands before him and looked over at the Judge Advocate and the jury with a frightened expression. Klaus could well imagine what was going through his mind. Hermann was a humble farmer and would struggle to appreciate that the British justice system was not the same creature as the German justice system – if you could imagine such a regime of terror having any sort of official judicial proceedings. Hermann was probably struggling to understand what was going on and was scared of getting into trouble. Klaus tried to catch his eye and reassure him, but Hermann seemed determined to look everywhere but at Klaus.
“Herr Kettig,” Donne stepped forward and drew the man’s attention. The translator did not need to explain what was said, Hermann had reacted to his name. “Herr Kettig, would you mind telling the court your relationship with Klaus Ribbonkoff?”
Hermann did require this statement translated. Once he had listened and understood, he spoke as clearly as he could manage.
“Klaus was my comrade in the Wehrmacht.”
“You escaped France together?” Donne asked.
“Yes,” Hermann replied. “We did not want to serve the Nazi regime. It was wrong.”
Klaus masked his smile at his friend’s simple manner. Hermann had an almost childlike view of the world; he reacted to situations based on his own, highly refined moral code. Hermann believed in being respectful of others, of caring and of causing no harm. He was all wrong for the Nazi army, he was all wrong for any army.
“Would you consider Herr Ribbonkoff your friend too?” Donne asked.
“Yes,” Hermann said staunchly. “He has always looked out for me. He said I would be safe in England and he would keep an eye on me.”
“Herr Kettig, I take it you are not a Nazi?”
“No!” Hermann said firmly once the statement had been translated to him.
Franz Herne, sitting beside Stebbings, sneered.
“Therefore, your position in a prisoner of war camp for ardent Nazis was difficult for you?”
“I feared for my life!” Hermann said emphatically. “You maybe cannot understand. I have lived among these fanatics. They punish kindness and tolerance as if they are weaknesses. I am not weak for believing that others have as much right to live as I do.”
“Bah!” Herne snapped from his place.
Klaus’ head shot to the right to glower at the man. His hackles were up, raised by his innate sense of duty towards Hermann. His protectiveness towards his friend was always there and made him alert to any danger. Now he narrowed his eyes at Herne and watched him intently.
“Had you made efforts to get transferred from the camp?” Donne continued, his tone level as if they were discussing no more troublesome a subject than the best way to grow cabbages.
“Another man tried that,” Hermann spoke. “He was found out and he was badly beaten. I think he died.”
“Herr Kettig,” the Judge Advocate intervened. “That has to be considered hearsay. You do not know if this gentleman died and for the fairness of the court, you will make no further reference to the subject.”
Hermann had hesitated with a frown on his face as the Judge spoke. He could not understand the words, or maybe only a few of them, but he could guess their importance. He looked worried and Klaus wished he could go over and explain to him that he was not in trouble. Instead Hermann had to rely on the translator passing on the Judge Advocate’s message. He seemed to understand.
“Herr Kettig,” Donne continued, once the court had settled again. “Is it safe to say you feared there may be consequences if you applied to be transferred from the camp.”
Hermann glanced at the Judge Advocate, like he was a snake waiting to pounce, then he answered.
“Yes.”
“So, what did you do?”
Hermann shrugged.
“I didn’t think there was anything I could do, except keep my head down and hope they ignored me.”
“And, did they ignore you?”
Hermann’s head sunk down. Quietly he answered.
“No.”
Klaus’ stomach went over. He had not been aware that Hermann had already suffered at the hands of Herne and his like. He thought he had arrived in time. Now he was angry, as much with himself as with the English system that had placed Hermann in such a position. He was even more furious at Herne.
“I have your medical records from the camp here, Herr Kettig,” Donne continued. “I see there have been a few entries in the last six months. I shall read out some and perhaps you can tell the court honestly how they occurred.”
Hermann’s anxiety became more and more noticeable as the translator read out this statement, and he glanced over at Herne who was scowling at him. Donne was clever enough to pick up the look.
“Herr Kettig, you are no longer in the prisoner of war camp with Sergeant-Major Herne. Your safety has become the paramount importance of this court. Do not fear to speak honestly. No harm can come to you now.”
Hermann did not look convinced. He had heard similar words before. His gaze finally drifted over to Klaus. Klaus did not know how to give him confidence with a look, but he hoped his eyes spoke of his determination to make sure his friend was alright. Hermann looked at him for some time and it seemed he was building up his courage. Klaus had saved his life and he owed him the same. Hermann’s testimony was vital to this court hearing. Slowly, Hermann resolved himself. He stood a little taller, he clenched his hands into fists and he set his mouth into a stiff line. Klaus wanted to smile, knowing his old friend had his back after all.
“Herr Kettig?”
“Please, carry on,” Hermann told Donne.
Donne cleared his throat and plucked a folder off the table where Klaus sat. He flicked open the cover and ran his finger down the first page.
“On the 25th March 1941, you were taken to the camp’s hospital for a head injury. The report states it was a gash over your left eye and you refused to say how it had happened. Perhaps you could tell the court instead?”
Hermann clenched his fists a little tighter.
“I was pushed into a door frame,” he said. “I had not joined in with a conversation about another camp inmate who was deemed a lukewarm Nazi. I had refused to condemn him and, as a result, I was pushed about, until I fell into the door frame and cut my head.”
Klaus bit his tongue. He was endeavouring to keep his hands flat on the table, palms down, so that he did not let the rage that was boiling inside overtake him. He had to keep neutral, no matter what he heard.
“On the 11th April 1941, you were at the camp hospital again, this time for a suspected cracked rib. Could you explain how that occurred?”
“It had become known that I was not a Nazi,” Hermann explained in his gentle voice. “As a result, I was often picked upon. On that occasion, I had been detailed with preparing the camp’s vegetable plot for seeding and I was minding my own business when several other inmates accosted me. They wanted me to perform the Hitler salute, they kept taunting me over it. So, I did perform it and then they taunted me more because they said I performed it weakly and like a pathetic Jew.”
Hermann had to slow down, the memory of that event overwhelming him slightly.
“Can you carry on?” Donne asked gently.
Hermann’s clear distress was a powerful thing. It emphasised to those in the court just how sinister and dangerous a place the camp in Scotland had been for non-Nazis. Hermann cleared his throat.
“I can carry on,” he said solemnly. “They told me to perform the Hitler salute again, but better this time. And I tried, I really tried, thinking that would get them to leave me alone. Instead, when I had my arm raised, one of them swung at me with a metal bar and struck me in the side. I had never felt anything hurt so bad, not even when a cart horse kicked me in the side. I fell down and perhaps they would have done more, but a British sentry spotted what was happening and raised the alarm.”
“Thank you, Herr Kettig,” Donne spoke. “I just want to ask you about one more thing. A few nights before you were removed from the camp, you were once more in the camp hospital being treated for a broken finger.”
“Yes,” Hermann nodded. “There was talk in the camp of these men who had come in and were talking about the Deputy Fuhrer. My finger was slammed in a door and broken, as a warning. They didn’t want me to talk to these men.”
“Who didn’t?” Donne asked.
Hermann’s hands twitched. Klaus sensed this was the hardest part for him, but he bravely lifted his head and answered.
“Sergeant-Major Franz Herne and others.”
Herne barked out a laugh. Stebbings visibly cringed at the sound, but he did not react. Probably he was tired of objecting on behalf of his obnoxious client. The Judge Advocate glowered at Herne.
“I see no reason for amusement, Sergeant-Major,” he said coldly.
Herne grinned at him.
“He screamed like a girl when we broke his finger,” Herne told the Judge Advocate without any hint of remorse or, for that matter, any realisation of how dangerous a thing to say that was.
Klaus took a sharp intake of breath and pressed his hands as hard as he could into the table top. He had never wanted to kill a man as much as he wanted to kill Herne right there and then. Hermann bravely faced the mocking of his torturer and did not cower or give in to his fears.
“Be silent Sergeant-Major,” the Judge Advocate said sternly. “You have disrupted these court proceedings long enough, if you will not control yourself I shall have you removed from the courtroom and proceed without you.”
Herne was about to snap something back, when Stebbings whispered in his ear and he fell quiet again. Klaus doubted it would last.
Donne took a deep breath and carried on with his examination of Hermann. He was clearly finding it as challenging as everyone else to endure Herne’s presence.
“Could you tell the court, Herr Kettig, of the events of the night of the escape. What happened to you?”
Hermann’s composure slipped. This was the moment he had been dreading. Reliving that awful night was something he would gladly never do again, but he had no choice, not if he wished to help Klaus.
“Everything seemed calm,” Hermann said. “I knew there was an escape attempt planned, but I was keeping my distance. All I meant to do was eat my supper and go to bed. I had arranged to meet Klaus later.”
“To help you get out of the camp?”
“Yes. We were to meet near the latrine. I went there before lights out, meaning to hide inside. I was followed. Sergeant-Major Herne and others had watched me slip away and decided to come after me. I think they feared I was going to betray them.”
“I wasn’t going to leave a non-Nazi dog alive,” Herne interrupted loudly. “It was my duty to kill you.”
“Sergeant-Major…”
“Yes, yes!” Herne mocked the Judge Advocate, “I ought to be quiet, well I won’t be! I am sick of all this. What does it matter if I tortured this man, huh? He deserved it!”
“That is enough!” The Judge Advocate’s patience had run out. “I will have you removed from this courtroom. Guards!”
“I wouldn’t do that!” Herne jumped from his seat and his hand slipped to his belt.
Klaus saw the movement a fraction too late. He started from his own chair, Donne swinging towards him to tell him to sit down. Klaus wouldn’t sit, he yelled out.
“He has a gun!”
In that instant Herne produced the hidden pistol from his belt and placed its barrel firmly into the side of Stebbings’ head. The lawyer went rigid in fear and everyone froze. Herne was laughing, an insane light in his eyes.
“I am leaving this courtroom,” he said. “I am leaving and you won’t stop me, or I shall kill this man.”
Herne glanced at Stebbings and sneered.
“Not that he is much of a man. What an appalling example of Britishness. I thought you were tougher than this, but I guess I was wrong. Maybe I shall kill him anyway, for being such a bad counsel, but not until I get out of here.”
“Sergeant-Major Herne, there are guards on the doors,” the Judge Advocate said in a steady voice. He was watching the gun as keenly as everyone else.
“They will not shoot while I have a hostage,” Herne grabbed Stebbings’ arm and pulled him to his feet. “You will let me leave this place.”
The gun pressed into Stebbings’ head and his other hand gripping onto the lawyer’s arm, Herne strode towards the door where the two guards had their rifles drawn but lowered. They were waiting for an order.
“I suggest you let me through,” Herne told them. “I am not adverse to killing this man.”
“Once he is dead, you will have no bargaining chip anymore,” the Judge Advocate reminded him.
“True,” Herne did not take his eyes off the guards. “But you will have a dead lawyer, besides, I can do things to him that won’t kill him.”
To demonstrate, Herne wrenched Stebbings’ arm behind his back until he cried with pain. Everyone flinched. The Judge Advocate was still torn, but he could not let the man die.
“Guards, move away from the door and let him through.”
The guards obediently moved to the side and lowered their guns.
“Drop them!” Herne commanded.
The guards looked to the Judge Advocate, who nodded. They dropped their weapons and Herne hurried through. The moment he was out the doors, one of the guards reached for his discarded weapon.
“Don’t,” the Judge Advocate said firmly. “He will be anticipating that. He will either turn and shoot you the second you go through that door or shoot Stebbings.”
The guard left the weapon where it was, but he did not look pleased.
“Your Honour, may I go after Herne?”
Klaus had spoken up. The Judge Advocate seemed mildly surprised at his request.
“If you go out that door it will be the same as if the guards went,” he said.
“I will not go out that door,” Klaus replied.
He turned and opened the window beside the table where he had sat all week. He had looked out of it long enough and had noticed that extra buildings had been tacked onto the main structure, their lower roofs forming a series of platforms it would be possible to climb down.
“I shall go out here and follow Herne, with your permission.”
The Judge Advocate still seemed reluctant.
“I am a very good shot,” Klaus persisted. “I won the German Junior Shooting Championship four years in a row and I was known as the best marksman in my Wehrmacht unit. I can get Herne.”
The Judge Advocate relented.
“You appreciate this court case is not concluded and you must return here?”
“I do, your Honour, you have my word I shall come back.”
“Very well,” the Judge Advocate spoke and Klaus quickly picked up one of the guards’ dropped rifles. “Herr Ribbonkoff, if my honourable colleagues agree, I believe it is fitting to give you permission to kill Sergeant-Major Herne if it is necessary. He must not be allowed to put the lives of British subjects in peril, do you agree with me, gentlemen?”
He looked at the jurymen. They had no hesitation in concurring with his view.
“Thank you,” Klaus told them, though it seemed an odd thing to be thanking them for. He had intended to kill Herne anyway, having permission granted for the act was merely a formality.
He hurried to the window and pushed it up on the sash fitting. Looking out, he suddenly remembered how high up they were. It was dizzying, but the rooftops provided the necessary means to get to the ground. He glanced left, hearing people suddenly crying out.
Herne had emerged from the front doors of the building and was heading down the street, he still held Stebbings firmly, so it made it awkward for him to move fast. Klaus could waste no more time. He clambered out of the window, perching briefly on the sill with one leg out, the other in. He slung the strap of the rifle over his shoulder and made sure the gun was resting on his back, then he lowered himself down until he was hanging by his hands from the window. He was tall enough to be able to rest his toes on the lintel of the window below. He let go of the one above and pressed his hands against the brick wall, precariously balanced. He took another look at the distance between the top of the window and the first roof below him. It wasn’t so far. He braced himself, pushed off from the wall and landed in a roll. The roof was sharply angled and as he landed he skidded several feet, taking off a tile or two, but that didn’t matter as he wanted to get to the next roof just below him.
He managed to halt his slide just before he reached the edge of the tiled roof. Then he dropped down over the edge and landed on a flat roof. He raced across it, now only one storey above the ground. At the far corner he paused to look at what was below. There was a narrow brick wall which formed the side of an alley running alongside the building. Klaus crouched, he took a moment to assess the distance and to point out to himself how tricky it was going to be to land on that narrow wall and keep his balance. Klaus had been good at such acrobatics in his youth, he hoped he remembered those skills now.
Klaus jumped. His right foot found the top of the wall, his left did not. He almost slipped off, his left leg scrapping down the wall, so he fell into a one-legged crouch before his hands planted firmly onto the top of the bricks and held him there. He recovered and dropped to the pavement, much to the surprise of some passers-by.
He was not interested in them. He looked at Herne, who was fast disappearing down the road. Klaus crossed the street and started to run, figuring that Herne would expect guards to come up behind him and not beside. The Nazi was screaming for people to get out of his way and waving the gun at them when he felt it necessary. It was plain he was now uncertain what to do and was looking for a way to make good on his escape. A policeman started to move towards him. Klaus sucked in air through his teeth, thinking now was not the time for heroism. Fortunately, the unarmed policeman realised this too when Herne pointed the gun at him and stepped back.
No guards were running from the court buildings. The Judge Advocate was letting Klaus get on with things. Herne did not know this and was looking back from time-to-time, expecting to see men following him. Klaus could almost see the moment when he realised he was not being chased and he relaxed.
Klaus slowed his pace. He had sprinted up the road, keeping pedestrians between him and Herne wherever he could. He didn’t want to be spotted, as he was confident Herne would have no qualms shooting innocent people to reach him. The only thing that might make him hold back was his limited bullets. Assuming the gun was fully loaded, Herne had six shots and no more. Not that Klaus wanted him to use a single one.
He dropped to a brisk walk and was soon abreast of Herne. The Nazi was walking with Stebbings on his right, making him a barrier between Herne and the roadway. This also meant he was having to hold the gun in his left hand so he could keep it pressed against Stebbings’ temple. That was inconvenient, to say the least. Herne would struggle to fire accurately, unless he switched hands. Not that you required a lot of accuracy when the barrel of your pistol was square against your victim’s skin.
Klaus came to a halt and crouched down against a wall. Those pedestrians who had not already fled were watching Herne and had their backs to him. He pulled the rifle from where it was slung across his back and started to line up on Herne. As the man kept moving forward, so a window of opportunity arose, with Klaus just able to take an angled line at Herne’s back. He really wanted to kill him, but he might have to take a chance and wing him first.
“That man has a rifle too!” Someone screamed loudly.
No one had been paying attention to Klaus. Now they had spotted him and people were crying out. Herne swung in the direction of the commotion.
“Shit!” Klaus bolted through the door of a nearby shop as Herne took a wild shot in his direction.
The bell on the door jangled and an elderly woman appeared from the back room of what proved to be a ladies corset shop. She looked startled to see Klaus crouched within her doorway holding a gun. Klaus put a finger to his lips to indicate silence, and then opened the door a fraction.
“I’ll shoot him!” Herne was yelling, waving the gun at Stebbings.
Herne glanced up and down the road for a sign of Klaus. He finally settled his eyes on the door of the shop, but there was no point firing random bullets in that direction. He yanked Stebbings and hurried down a left-hand turn in the road. Klaus crept out of the shop and followed.
Klaus knew how the game was played; rushing around the corner Herne had darted down would make him an easy target. Instead he carried along the pavement he was already on, opening up a line of sight down the road Herne had taken. He could see the man hurrying and glancing back, occasionally taking the gun from Stebbings’ head and aiming back down the street. Klaus went past the turning and crossed the road further up, before doubling back on himself and coming to the corner of a building. Carefully looking around the corner, he could see that he was parallel to Herne, but further back. He took a breath and then crouched and took aim once again.
People were clearing the roads now they knew there was a madman with a gun about. The solitary policeman was herding people out of the way. The road was almost empty, except an old man with a stick, apparently oblivious to the drama, was wandering towards Herne at a laughably slow pace. Herne was not paying him any attention.
Klaus didn’t want the old man becoming a casualty. He had a good shot on Herne, he was confident he could shoot the man in the shoulder, possibly severing his spinal column if the bullet went straight through. Even if it didn’t, there was a good chance he would nick an artery and Herne would bleed out. He was just worried what Herne might do in his final moments. He wanted the old man to go passed.
He started to count under his breath. Herne had slowed, glancing back over his shoulder to look for his pursuer. He was smart enough to know that whoever had followed him would not simply give up. He may even have realised that it was Klaus who was behind him.
Stebbings started to struggle. He had been a compliant captive until then, perhaps hoping for the arrival of the cavalry in the form of British soldiers. The realisation that no one was coming, at least not in a great hoard, was making him agitated. Herne was also distracted for the moment looking for his pursuer and that gave Stebbings the hope that he could take him by surprise.
He jerked right to try and free himself from Herne’s grasp. Herne grunted as he was yanked sideways and then he reacted predictably. He pistol whipped the unfortunate Stebbings across the side of his head and yelled at him not to move. Stebbings was stunned and slumped a little, almost pulling himself out of Herne’s arm in the process. Herne yelled again and kicked him on the ankle, stirring him to his feet.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Klaus cringed as the old man suddenly came to life, albeit slowly. Wobbling perilously, he raised his walking stick and shook it at Herne.
“What are you doing?” The old man demanded, possibly too blind to realise that he was looking at a man in German uniform.
Klaus wanted to tell the old man to step aside and avoid heroics, but he could not and he had to admire the fellow’s determination to intervene, despite his clearly decrepit physique.
“You can’t treat people like that!” The old man was saying, still some distance from Herne. “Who do you think you are? A Nazi?”
Herne was still struggling with the stunned Stebbings, who had lost his ability to stand or walk due to the blow to his head, though how much was feigned Klaus could not say. The shouting old man was no more than an irritation to Herne, though he had the potential to alert others to where the escaping German was. There was still no need for Herne to turn the pistol towards the old fellow.
Klaus winced, but there was no option. He lined up the shot he had been contemplating, made more awkward now that Stebbings was half-slumped against Herne and masking him partially from view. Klaus had to aim wide to avoid hitting him and he knew that meant there was a good chance he would miss. The whole point of the exercise, however, was to distract Herne and stop him shooting the old man. Klaus drew in his breath, held it and pulled the trigger.
As he feared, the bullet went wide, skimming Herne, though the way he jerked Klaus suspected it snicked his tunic. Herne swung in the direction of the shot and fired two bullets, hitting nothing but brick wall. The old man, suddenly alert to the seriousness of the situation, ducked into a doorway and cowered there on the ground. In his panic he had thrown aside his stick and it was likely he could not get up again without help.
Herne wasn’t waiting around to see if his shooter would reappear. He dragged Stebbings upright and used him as a human shield to protect his side and some of his back, as he escaped down the road. He was heading towards an area that had been recently bombed. Prior to the Luftwaffe flattening it, the area had been a semi-industrial district, with Victorian factories on one side of the road and terrace houses on the other. Now it consisted of giant piles of debris; hundreds of thousands of bricks heaped on top of one another, twisted metal rising up like the ribs of a giant monster, blackened shards of wood, too burned to say what they had come from. The rubble piles offered Herne a place of sanctuary, somewhere to hide and turn the tables on his pursuer. Remarkably, the yard walls of the nearest factory were still standing and it was easy for Herne to open the old iron gates and enter the wasteland beyond.
Klaus watched him go, knowing there was no way he could shoot him before he got inside – not without wasting bullets and risking hitting Stebbings at least. He watched to see which direction he went after going through the gate, then Klaus followed, keeping low and acutely aware that Herne was going to be watching out for him. His opportunity for surprise had evaporated. Perhaps he should have been less conscious of the old man, or maybe that was what made him different from men like Herne – the fact that he would rather risk his own life than put a stranger’s life in danger.
Klaus had no intention of going through the gate. Herne would have positioned himself to watch it and would shoot anyone who came through. Instead, Klaus followed the line of the wall, turning a corner and eventually coming across a second, smaller gate. This one was almost blocked by rubble, but he was just able to squeeze through. He breathed hard, knowing that the few seconds it took to slip through made him an easy target.
The interior of the factory yard looked like one giant hill of red bricks. Klaus paused to listen, trying to hear any sign of Herne. Dotted among the rubble were upright metal beams and large fragments of charred wood, all perfectly placed for a person to hide behind. Herne could be anywhere on this vast site. Klaus crept forward, keeping to the narrow space between the yard wall and the brick pile. He was trying to walk as carefully as possibly, not wanting to reveal his position. He also had his ears pricked for the slightest sound.
Suddenly there was a rattle of bricks falling a short distance away and Klaus came to a halt. It was possible the bricks had fallen by themselves, but there was an equally good chance they had been knocked down by Herne clambering over the rubble to reach higher ground. Klaus kept perfectly still and listened harder. The world seemed to narrow to this place; all his senses were keyed in to this finite area, the outside world was forgotten, irrelevant for the moment.
No more sounds came.
Klaus carried on his slow progress around the brick pile. He came across a set of concrete steps that emerged from the rubble. They had survived the devastation and were only partially buried. They provided a means for Klaus to stealthily climb atop the debris. He slipped into a deep crouch and scaled the steps. As he reached the top he lowered himself to his belly, trying to make himself as flat as possible, then he wriggled up to the ridge of the pile. He had to crawl over the bricks that buried the top of the steps, and had no option but to make a noise. As carefully as he tried to move, the bricks jostled beneath him, giving away his position. He came to a halt again, paused as high as he dared without fully revealing himself. He expected to be shot at. Nothing came.
Herne had already fired two bullets, that meant he had potentially four left, but no more. He was being conservative with his ammunition and would only shoot if he had a clear and obvious target to aim for. That gave Klaus an advantage.
He scanned the rubble, hoping for a glimpse of Herne. Stebbings was apparently cooperating again, certainly he had fallen silent and was not offering resistance. Klaus risked craning his head up a little higher. He still could see no one. They were at a stalemate. Neither would move and risk exposing themselves to the other, and so they were stuck. Something had to be done to force a move.
Klaus dropped his right hand down to the debris at his side. All the time he had his eyes pinned on the landscape ahead, looking for the slightest movement. The rubble was like some alien plain, barren and empty, not even birds to give some life to the scene. A forlorn strip of rag had snagged on a metal beam and blew in the breeze, a pathetic flag flying over the ruins. Herne was somewhere out there, keeping as still as Klaus and hoping to get the jump on his enemy, before Klaus did the same. Klaus was starting to feel concerned about Stebbings. Why was the man so quiet? Was Herne still holding the gun to his head to prevent him moving or speaking? If so, Herne was handicapping himself further and Klaus did not think he would risk such a thing.
The trouble was, Herne could not watch for Klaus and keep an eye on his captive. By coming into this rubble pit he had effectively trapped himself, while also using it as a hiding place. Stebbings would still be useful for when Herne wanted to leave this place and that alone might be keeping him alive, but it was not much.
Herne might have decided to get rid of Stebbings. He would not waste a bullet on the proceeding, but an SS man knew how to kill silently. Klaus was beginning to think Herne had cut his losses, that seemed the only explanation for Stebbings’ silence.
Klaus had had enough. He carefully pulled a half brick from the rubble by his side. He tried to do it as soundlessly as possible, but there was still a soft clink of brick against brick. He paused, holding the brick to his shoulder, his arm curled in, elbow flexed, so that he might lift up and throw in an instant and without making a sound. He waited to see if anyone would react to the noise he had made. There was nothing. He was starting to feel lonely. Could Herne have slipped out of the gate again while he was skirting the perimeter? Maybe those falling bricks he had heard were just a coincidence? That was an unhappy thought.
Klaus hefted the brick and set his sights on a tall piece of corrugated iron that was standing proud of the debris. He threw the brick at it as hard as he could, pleased to see his shot flew true, even while he was lying down. The brick sailed soundlessly through the air, but hit the corrugated iron with a resounding thump, ringing the metal for several seconds after the brick had landed. It was just the sort of loud sound that would take someone who was hiding by complete surprise, especially when their nerves were already on edge.
The second the brick struck, Klaus saw movement near a large lump of concrete and metal. The ruined structure had probably been the base of a column or wall, it was long and low, but someone jumped when the noise occurred and for a brief moment Klaus saw the flash of black cloth. Herne did not fire in the direction of the noise. He was too anxious to save bullets to risk it, but he had revealed himself and there was no way he could now correct that mistake. Any attempt to move would result in him making more of a show of his position.
Klaus wondered what to do next. To move himself around to get a good shot on Herne would also expose him to view. Ideally, he would have used a grenade, except that would have probably killed Stebbings too. In any case, Klaus only had a rifle.
Klaus paused. Might it be possible to trick Herne into thinking he had a grenade? He started to look about in the rubble again. What he needed was a brick that appeared round and black. It would be a long shot, of course. Klaus had to make the situation appear as convincing as possible and hope that Herne’s ragged nerves would do the rest. He had seen men jump before when they believed a rock thrown at them was a bomb. All it took was a little imagination and the rest would follow.
Klaus pulled himself back down the steps a fraction and looked about the debris. The rubble offered a number of possibilities, but he finally settled on a lump of concrete with a shard of metal sticking out of it. At a quick glance it looked just like a stick grenade, the sort the German army used. Klaus realised that a British soldier would never be issued with such a grenade, but he knew many German soldiers who were oblivious to the difference. In fact, he was banking on Herne being more convinced by something that looked like a stick grenade than by something that looked like a British one. He took up the object in his hand and then clambered back to his spot on the brick ridge.
“Herne!” He called out. “Give yourself up!”
“Never!” Herne cried back, no longer worrying about being quiet. He knew he had already revealed himself.
“If you do not come out, I will be forced to take drastic action!”
“I have a hostage!” Herne declared. “You’ll do nothing to risk his life!”
Klaus hoped that meant Stebbings was still alive.
“The British cannot risk you escaping, they are prepared to make sacrifices. If you have any honour left, you will reveal yourself and not force my hand.”
“You won’t kill one of your own!” Herne said cockily.
“But Herne, he is not one of my own,” Klaus barked back. “Would you hesitate?”
Herne was silent, Klaus’ point hitting home.
“Last chance Herne, reveal yourself!”
Herne was still quiet. Klaus wondered that Stebbings had not spoken up in all this time. He would have thought the man would have protested and now he was almost certain Herne had killed him.
“Stebbings is dead, I think,” Klaus said.
“No!” Herne shouted back.
“Then have him speak to me,” Klaus replied. “I can’t kill a man twice, so if he is dead why am I bothering to offer you a chance? The British want you dead, Herne. They do not want you alive.”
“Stebbings is alive!” Herne insisted.
“He says nothing!” Klaus retorted.
Herne fell silent and Klaus could almost picture him trying to think of a way out of the situation.
“This is it Herne! I shall give you a count of five to surrender. Five… Four… Three…”
“I will not surrender to you!” Herne screamed.
“Two… One…”
Klaus lifted himself up, enough that Herne would be able to see him, and he threw the concrete lump overarm, just like he had been taught to throw a stick grenade. It spun in the air, end over end, looking just like the real thing, and it even landed with a satisfying thud.
“No!” Herne yelled and he ran out of cover, heading for the upright shard of corrugated iron Klaus had struck with a brick before.
Klaus had been expecting this and had grabbed up his rifle the moment his pretend grenade had left his hand. He had been ready, focusing to the spot Herne was hiding and as the Nazi leapt away he trained his sights on him. He led the target a fraction, going for the solid mass of Herne’s torso and then he let off three shots, one after the other.
The first caught Herne in the hip and he started to stumble forward, causing the second to catch him in the thigh, the third missed completely because Herne was falling face down. He was incapacitated but far from dead, dropping from view where the rubble dipped into a groove, so Klaus could no longer see him.
Klaus had no doubt that Herne was still armed, even if he was now down on the ground and unable to move. He would shoot Klaus if he got the chance. Klaus pushed himself up on his hands and tried to peer over the bricks. He thought he could just see the edge of Herne’s leg. The Nazi was moaning softly to himself.
There was a possibility the wounds would prove fatal if he bled out. There was also the chance he might survive. Klaus slowly drew up his knees so he could kneel upright and see Herne more clearly. Each inch he rose put him in greater risk of being visible to his enemy. Herne might be too dazed by his injuries to notice, then again, he might not. If Klaus was in Herne’s position, he would be planning on taking out his shooter. Even if he was dying, he would want to take his attacker out with him. Klaus was taking no chances. He could wait for a while, leave Herne to weaken from blood loss. It was the sensible thing to do, but Klaus also knew that if he waited there was a fair chance others would arrive. By now the Judge Advocate must have allowed his men to follow and see what had happened. They would turn up and Herne might try to shoot them too. Yet, it was more likely he would be rescued and taken to hospital. Klaus thought it a certainty he would survive his injuries if that were the case, and Klaus did not want him to survive.
Klaus wanted Herne dead. He had wanted him dead since the moment he had seen Hermann in the camp, bloodied, beaten and hanging by a rope around his neck. Since then the murderous desire had not eased. Neither the consequences of his actions, nor a sense of conscience had diminished that deadly passion within. He wanted Herne dead as much now as when he had first learned of what he had done to Hermann. Klaus had resolved himself to letting the man go. He could do nothing else and he had to live with that. Herne had not committed a crime sufficient to get him hanged, but he would spend a long time in prison. Klaus had to accept that as fitting punishment.
Except, now he had been handed a gun and told he could kill the man who had caused him such pain. He could enact his revenge legitimately, and the last thing he wanted was to be interrupted before he got that chance. In fairness, Herne was incapacitated and could be technically considered a prisoner once more of the British, but Klaus was not going to be denied. He wanted this man dead and that was that. Maybe he would be criticised for his deeds, but he could not be punished. Not if he acted swiftly.
Klaus pulled himself to his feet and walked up the rubble, each footstep causing a miniature slide of bricks. There was no masking the noise. Herne looked over at him. Klaus froze, for a minute he thought Herne was going to try to shoot him. He could not see the man’s right hand. Then Herne turned his head away, looking back up to the sky and groaning.
Klaus took another step and his pounding heart started to ease. When Herne had fallen the pistol had been flung from his hand. With greater confidence Klaus walked the rest of the way to Herne. He stood over the fallen man. It was difficult to say how much blood he had lost, because it was slipping away among the crevices of the tumbled bricks beneath him.
Herne gritted his teeth and snarled at Klaus.
“You win,” he said. “I was fooled by a treacherous coward with no balls.”
Klaus did not react. He had made up his mind to kill Herne and words could no longer hurt him. He cared nothing for the insults this man could throw at him.
“Well?” Herne glowered at him. “Can you not even finish this properly?”
Klaus raised the rifle, he did not need to lift it right to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel, his finger on the trigger.
Herne chuckled coldly, he seemed to be enjoying the moment. Klaus lowered the rifle.
“Well?” Herne demanded.
“I won,” Klaus said, shrugging at him.
Then he turned away to look for Stebbings. Herne swore at him, laughing and calling him lily-livered. The man was in pain and knew he would never escape the British now. He wanted death to end his shame. Klaus would not give it to him. It was odd, but the moment he could kill Herne the desire completely abandoned him. Killing the man in cold-blood had seemed bizarre and cowardly. He found he suddenly preferred the idea of Herne rotting in prison for the rest of his days, bemoaning his life and everything in it.
Klaus could see Stebbings crumpled by the remains of the old wall where Herne had left him. At best he was unconscious, at worst…
Klaus crouched down beside him and felt for a pulse in his neck, then he held his hand before the man’s mouth to see if he was breathing; both tests confirmed he was alive. He looked Stebbings over to see what Herne had done to him. There was nothing obvious, apart from the bruise on his head from when Herne had struck him with the pistol. Klaus guessed he had been choked by Herne in an effort to keep him quiet. He was relieved the man was still alive, it would have been unpleasant if he had had to explain otherwise.
Behind him Herne groaned and Klaus turned to see the man was dragging his wounded body across the rubble. Klaus frowned. He saw that the object of Herne’s struggles was the pistol which lay temptingly close. Klaus could have walked over and collected the gun before Herne reached it. Instead he lifted the rifle to his chest and watched.
Herne was in great pain, each time he dug his hand into the brick rubble and forced his body to slither a little further the agony from his bloody leg cascaded through his body. Klaus could see him shuddering with the pain, clenching his teeth so hard against the moans that wanted to escape. He was making his last stand and Klaus was not going to deny him this final effort. If the man was that determined, he was owed a last chance.
Herne gave a small grunt of relief as he finally was able to put his hand on the pistol. Then he swung the gun up and around surprisingly fast. Klaus was faster. The second Herne had touched the gun he had lifted the rifle, as Herne went to aim so Klaus was already sighting down the barrel and firing. The rifle bullet took Herne square in the forehead, jerking his skull backwards. His arm flew up in the process, he was just on the verge of pulling the trigger and the muscles of his fingers continued the process despite Herne being already dead. The pistol shot aimlessly into the air, the only thing potentially at risk was a low-flying pigeon.
The SS officer was dead. Klaus tilted his head and stared at the sprawled corpse. He had thought he would feel satisfaction, or perhaps a sense of justice. He felt nothing. The frown returned to his face.
Stebbings was beginning to gurgle strangely. Klaus went to him and made sure he was able to breathe. He could hear shouts and other noises from the street which suggested the military were finally arriving. There was a police whistle in the middle of it all, though Klaus doubted the military would allow a civilian force anywhere near the scene. He left Stebbings and walked down to the factory gates. He waited there until a soldier looked in his direction and then he waved. He kept the rifle out of sight just in case an enthusiastic Tommy took him for Herne.
Soldiers began to converge on his position, along with Major Phillips and Major Bailey. There was nothing much said to Klaus, just a nod of the head to acknowledge what he had done, then the British military went to work cordoning off the factory site and getting aid to Stebbings. Klaus was no longer required. He had promised to return to the court house, but he needed a moment to himself, to process what had happened and consider how to explain it all. He hoped the Judge Advocate would stick to his promise that Klaus would not be punished for killing Herne.
Finding a lump of concrete that was poking out of the rubble, Klaus sat down and removed a cigarette from his pocket. He found his matches and lit it, then he let the soothing tobacco do its work. He just needed a moment.
That was all.
Rouen, France. 10am
Josef had not returned from his mission. Benoit should have been at work, instead he was pacing around the Resistance chateau wondering where his friend had got to. Throughout the night he had been at the headquarters, waiting. He knew only a little of what had occurred in the town; he had received rumours of a shooting between the Germans and a band of men. That worried him. Josef should never have been a part of such a mission, he was too important to the cause to go on operations. He had appreciated Josef’s reasonings for going to see the Communists in person, but he had not liked them. Nor had he liked it when a messenger had arrived at his home late last night with a scrawled message from Josef. All it had said was – removal tonight – but he knew what it meant. He had been so upset to learn that the operation was to happen there and then, that he had made excuses to his family and travelled to the Resistance headquarters, so he could be there when Josef returned. If he returned.
And now he had not.
Benoit rubbed his tired eyes. He had slept fitfully, even the slightest sound waking him in his anticipation of Josef arriving. Josef was more than a comrade, he was a friend. They might argue over the way their personal war should be run, but that did not change the fact they were brothers-in-arms. He was angry that Josef had become involved in the Communist plot, that would not stop him from supporting him.
His worst fear was that Josef had been captured. He knew his friend was strong, but the Gestapo had terrible tortures. If he was lost, then they must all flee as fast as they could.
“Benoit?”
Benoit glanced up to the doorway and saw a young lady stood there.
“Emily,” he replied hopefully, “there is news?”
“Not what you are waiting for, but news nonetheless,” Emily stepped into the room. “I have just received a message from the Romaine family. It appears that agent we thought lost the other night has found her way to them.”
Benoit startled.
“They are sure it is the British agent?”
“Yes. She is badly hurt, apparently.”
She!
Benoit rose from the table. He knew what Josef would have done in this situation. Even with his friend absent, he could not neglect their other duties. Until he had news of what had happened to Josef he did not know how to act, therefore it was best he get on with a task he did know how to respond to. He was quickly working through his head how to reach the agent and help her.
A woman! Now that was unexpected. Though the Resistance had been employing women from the start, the British were much more reluctant to do so.
“Is Stefan around?” Benoit asked the girl.
“Last I saw him he was heading to the lake to check his rabbit snares.”
“See if you can find him. We’ll need his little hand cart,” Benoit was thinking fast. “Hurry!”
Emily disappeared and Benoit paced the room, wondering about leaving a note for Josef in the hopes he might reappear, then quashing the idea. He did not like the notion of anticipating his friend’s return, in case it somehow jinxed the whole thing. Benoit was growing more and more superstitious as the war dragged on.
Stefan was found and his hand cart, normally used for transporting the traps, snares and dead animals which were his livelihood, was emptied of its contents and lined with a rough blanket. He didn’t ask Benoit why this was required, which was one reason Benoit liked the man. Stefan was a semi-legitimate poacher. The rabbits and game he caught were very welcome in the shops in Rouen. Stefan had not yet started to supply the black market, preferring to keep his business above board. The Germans were not exactly happy about the black market, unless they wanted certain goods for themselves, and Stefan didn’t need them looking at his activities, not while he was helping the Resistance.
Stefan was in his fifties and had a thick thatch of hair on his head, which sounded like someone using sandpaper when he scratched it. He scratched it a lot and some of the other Resistance members, especially the girls, had suspicions that he was harbouring an awful lot of lodgers in his hair and clothes. Stefan lived in an old hut in the woods, with no running water or electricity. This did not seem to worry him.
With Stefan in tow, Benoit headed in the direction of the Romaines’ residence, he knew it would be a lengthy walk. The morning was already well advanced and he could not shake Josef from his mind. He tried not to think about him, but to concentrate on the gentle rumble of the wheels of Stefan’s hand cart. It did not work and, as Stefan was not a talkative companion, he had no one to speak with and distract his thoughts.
Benoit was very relieved when they found themselves on the narrow road where the Romaines lived after an hour’s steady walking. People did not give them a second glance, especially not Stefan who looked near enough a tramp in his old clothes. Benoit was still in his working overalls from the day before and looked unremarkable. Even so, he pulled his cap down a little further.
There was a young girl sitting on the doorstep of the Romaine household. She was about six or seven, with sparkling blue eyes. She spotted the two men and seemed to guess their purpose. She darted inside and was replaced a short time later by an older woman who appeared on the step wiping her hands on a tea towel. She nodded to Benoit, without really making eye contact. Benoit asked Stefan to wait where he was and then politely doffed his cap to the woman.
“You sent a message saying there is a package for my employer?” Benoit said in careful code.
The woman stared at him for a moment, then nodded.
“This way.”
He followed her inside and to a parlour where a girl sat on a sofa, her leg propped up. She was talking about books with another girl close to her age. This girl glanced up and hastily exited the room when her mother appeared. Benoit took a step forward and gave a small sigh.
“Charlotte!” He said.
Charlotte smiled at Benoit. She had met the man briefly when she had first fled France. He had been working with Josef, though only in the background. He was one of the few in Rouen who knew her true name.
“Betany Juhtt,” Charlotte pointedly introduced herself. “I am sorry to be such a pain, I meant to meet you the other night.”
“Betany,” Benoit corrected himself. “I take it you were detained.”
“Somewhat,” Charlotte sighed and glanced at her leg. “It’s been a trying few days.”
“If you would care to join us?” Benoit offered his hand and Charlotte was very glad to accept it.
He escorted her carefully through to the front of the house. She had to lean on him heavily, her leg had stiffened up and every move was painful. Stefan was waiting patiently outside and did not seem surprised when an injured woman appeared from the house. Stefan was always very accepting of the situations he faced as part of the Resistance.
“I apologise for the transportation,” Benoit paused by the hand cart, for the first time realising how awkward a contraption it was for carrying a person.
“It is better than walking,” Charlotte assured him.
Benoit helped her in, the process clearly causing her pain and making Benoit wince in sympathy. From the doorstep, watching every move with a scowl, was Madame Romaine. What she made of the situation was anyone’s guess as she was not saying a word.
Charlotte was finally, if not comfortably, seated in the hand cart and Stefan took the handles. He did not seem fazed by the new weight in the cart, manoeuvring it as easily as when it was empty. They started to head back out into the countryside. Charlotte was silent for the most part, but when they reached a country road and the houses were far behind she glanced at Benoit.
“Where is Josef?”
The hint of concern in her tone was obvious. Benoit gave her a long sigh.
“That is a question we are all wondering,” he answered miserably.
Anti-Aircraft Battery No.4, near Rouen, France. 10am.
Private Hertter watched solemnly as the shiny Gestapo car was consumed by flames. Beside him, several of his colleagues watched too, lamenting the destruction of such a nice vehicle. It was necessary, of course, to cover what they had done.
Before dawn they had driven the car away into the woods, found a quiet clearing and then set to work constructing their crime scene. The three bodies had been transported separately, now they were arranged in the car; the driver in his place behind the wheel, the two Gestapo officers in the back.
With the assistance of a large quantity of petrol, they set the car ablaze. It would burn for many hours and the smoke would carry a long way. It was well into the morning by the time the flames had properly caught hold and the car was being eaten to nothing. A handful of soldiers remained to watch the destruction and ensure nothing was left.
The hope was that anyone who came later to find the Gestapo men would come across the car and assume they had been ambushed, murdered and then their bodies torched. Which was not so far from the truth. It was also hoped they would blame the crime on a local Resistance group. After all, who could ever imagine such a crime would be committed by the German army?
There was silence among the men. None of them regretted their actions, even if they did feel anxious about the potential consequences. Hertter felt the most shame over what had occurred. After all, it was his first blow that had begun all this. But no one begrudged him that swing, they all would have done the same. Captain Durst was a good man, had been a good commander and he had not deserved what had happened to him.
There was not a man at the battery who did not feel bitter about the events of the previous night. The Gestapo, supposedly their allies, had betrayed them. And now they were leaderless.
Captain Durst had passed away a few hours after the assault on him. Gruper had explained to the men that the blow had caused a blood clot to form in his lungs and this had killed him. None of the men knew enough about medicine to appreciate if this was true or not, so they all accepted the orderly’s words. Nor did the men know that Durst had been suffering from cancer. His odd disappearances had been well covered by Gruper and Cophen, and when he was present he was the reliable leader they all knew.
Durst had made them into one of the finest batteries on the French coast. They had received awards and praise. The best was when they were sent extra cigarettes and chocolate. The men were devoted to Durst because he made their unit so effective and also ensured that those who served with him were well-treated. Their battery had the lowest accident rate of all those on the coast. Their guns were well-maintained and the men well-drilled to avoid unnecessary disasters. When things went wrong, as inevitably they would, Durst always made sure the injured men were well taken care of. If the very worst happened, he would ensure their families received all the support they were due.
Durst was one of a kind and the men knew they were unlikely to get a replacement commander of a similar calibre. They were worried about this and blamed the Gestapo even more for stealing such a good captain from them.
Watching the corpses burn was only fair compensation.
Once the car was well consumed and the bodies blackened beyond recognition, the soldiers turned away and headed back for the battery. Their next task was going to be harder. There would be a funeral for Durst and they would all attend. Not a single man wanted to miss it and it would only be by a direct order that they would stay at the battery rather than pay their last respects.
Hertter walked behind the others, mulling over his life up until this point. He felt he had reached a crossroads, a place where he really needed to consider which way he was going to go. Durst had inspired him, but he was not Durst and a long career in the army did not appeal. He was also beginning to question the German army’s role in France. Why were they there? Why were they shooting at the British? There was this rumble of distrust and unease building in his belly. It made him nauseous. He was starting to wonder about his place in this war. Did he even want to fight it?
Hertter closed his eyes as they left behind the ugly smell of burning flesh and metal. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a soldier anymore.
But what else was there for him?
Rouen, France. 10.34am
There had been the sounds of a commotion building outside for a while and everyone was uneasy. All day the Germans had been searching the streets, looking for the culprits behind the shooting near The Perfect Pastry. Josef was anxious. Eventually they would search this warehouse, wouldn’t they?
His Communist companions did not share his anxieties. They smoked or played cards. Sometimes they drank. Oskar remained slumped in the cart, mostly sleeping. His wound had stopped bleeding and he seemed in no danger. Josef hoped that would long continue. He risked looking out of a grimy window near the roof of the warehouse. It had to be reached by climbing up a flight of stairs. Through the brown filth that had encroached on the glass he could see outside.
There were Germans in the street, harassing a group of young men who appeared to have been idling. The young men were arguing with them in the quintessential way Frenchmen did, a lot of arm waving and eye rolling. The Germans were not very interested, at least for the moment, but it could all boil over very quickly if they weren’t careful. At least the argument was distracting the men from the warehouse.
Ralf had slipped out a back door as soon as they arrived and had secured both the big front doors of the warehouse and the gates with chains and padlocks. It looked as though the warehouse was all locked up and no one could be inside. What they were banking on was that Rouen was a big place and the Germans only had so much time and patience to search for the culprits behind the shooting. They would hopefully ignore a seemingly locked and empty warehouse.
Josef relaxed as the argument finally calmed down outside. The German soldiers had not been in the mood for a confrontation and the Frenchmen had followed their lead. The soldiers were walking off, leaving the locals to return to smoking and wasting time.
Josef headed back down the stairs and checked on Oskar. He seemed to be the only one concerned about their injured comrade. He climbed into the bed of the cart and touched a hand to the printing press. The great lump of metal felt cold under his fingers. It was an impassive thing, an object. Yet they had risked their lives for it. Josef still found that slightly incredible, even though he was among those who had contemplated the mission.
“It is a beautiful thing,” Oskar said, his voice dry.
There was not much in the way of water or other liquids in the warehouse. Josef had already offered Oskar what he could find. He sat down beside the ailing man.
“I am not sure I would call it beautiful.”
“Oh, but it is!” Oskar grinned. “And the words it will produce… even more beautiful.”
“If we can get it out of this warehouse,” Josef said, rather pessimistically.
“We shall, when it gets dark,” Oskar replied. “We have found a place to hide the press. A safe place.”
“Then all that will be left is for me to coordinate with Monsieur Remini about using the press,” Josef nodded. “That is very exciting, at least.”
“I suspect you don’t get excited often, monsieur,” Oskar chuckled.
“This war has rather dented my enthusiasm,” Josef admitted.
“That’s a shame,” Oskar coughed. “For, when we fight, we need all the enthusiasm we can muster.”
There was a clatter behind them. Josef rose and looked over the side of the cart. Ralf was there with a pair of long painted boards in his arms. He grinned at Josef.
“We had planned for this,” he informed him.
The boards were for the side of the cart, to replace those that said it was the vehicle of a scrap merchant. They instead proclaimed that the wagon belonged to – Madame Mordaine, specialist cleaning of all descriptions. Reliable, efficient, reasonable prices.
“A cleaning lady needs a cart?” Josef asked.
“This lady does,” Ralf showed him the second board.
Madame Mordaine’s House Clearance Services. Respectful, reliable and reasonably priced.
“Madame Mordaine is quite the entrepreneur,” Josef smiled at the fictional woman.
“Madame Mordaine is my mother,” Ralf grinned. “I borrowed these boards off her own cart. I painted them, you know.”
“Ah!” Josef understood, there was no better cover than that of an established business.
“We have been busy with the horse too,” Ralf declared.
Josef glanced up as Zeus appeared from a workshop at the back of the building where the horse had been stabled for the night. Josef blinked as the creature, the previous night a dull black animal, now emerged as a piebald.
“Zeus comes from Romany stock,” Ralf explained to Josef in a whisper. “You know, gypsies are skilled at disguising horses.”
The lad did not add that this was usually because the animal was stolen and had to be transformed before being sold on to an unsuspecting buyer. However, Josef had to admit the paint job was remarkably good, you would never guess that this was the old hearse horse.
“There is one last thing to do,” Ralf put down the boards and motioned to a large sack that was on the floor near him.
“What is this?”
“Disguises. Two. For myself and Oskar, only Oskar can no longer ride up front. You are the closest match to him, so now you must take his place.”
Josef frowned.
“Disguises?”
Ralf opened the sack revealing a surprising amount of lace.
“For today we must play as two of my mother’s employees. She always employs women and, for the sake of respectability and safety, they always work in pairs. The others will travel in the back.”
“You want me to dress as a woman?” Josef said flabbergasted. He now realised the lace he had spotted was the edge of a frilly apron.
“Zeus will not fit the clothes,” Ralf shrugged. “I don’t think Zeus would convince anyone he was a woman, either. Besides, I need a hand with the horse. It has become very unpredictable overnight.”
Josef was not surprised, he imagined the creature was high on paint fumes and probably not impressed at being turned into a piebald. Ralf was waiting for his response patiently. The look of optimism on his face indicated that he did not expect Josef to refuse. Josef groaned inwardly and then clambered out of the cart.
“The things I do for my country,” he muttered, collecting up the sack and heading to a side room to change in peace.
By the time he was dressed and returning to the cart, the side boards had been changed and the horse installed in the shafts. The animal was restless and threw up its head regularly, it didn’t act like the docile, old thing they had been using the day before. Josef was inclined to wonder if Zeus had used another gypsy trick to give the horse more vim. If he had, it might not have been such a good idea.
Josef walked to the cart, tying a headscarf under his chin. The silky handkerchief masked his male haircut.
The others had been busy dressing the cart with buckets and brooms, along with several large sheets beneath which Oskar, Zeus and Big Francis’ corpse would hide, along with the printing press. Everything was ready for them to make their departure.
Josef was impressed by the forward thinking of Monsieur Remini and his men. The warehouse and the spare boards had been readied in advance and, from the start, they had decided to brazen out their escape, leaving in daylight and walking in full view down the streets. But then, sometimes the best disguise was the most obvious one. What German would be looking for a cart pulled by a piebald horse, driven by women and proclaiming it was a house clearance and cleaner’s wagon? Josef doubted the Germans were that inventive. Besides, they would not expect the Communists to be so audacious as to drive straight through the streets.
Josef joined Ralf at the front. The others slipped into hiding. Ralf looked remarkably feminine in his outfit and could have passed for a young woman. Josef had no idea what he looked like. Probably like some old hag who had been wizened up by life’s misfortunes. He decided to adopt a scowl if anyone spoke to them.
The doors and gates had been unchained and they drove out, the horse rather vigorous in its stride and tossing its head restlessly. Josef gritted his teeth. He was not a keen horseman at the best of times – the animals were decidedly unreliable. He preferred cats as they were undemanding and self-sufficient. There was something altogether hostile about horses.
Ralf was managing to keep the horse in the cart shafts, just about. They made it out of the gates, almost taking out a woman and child as the horse suddenly found a burst of energy and lunged into the road. Ralf apologised in a sweet, high-pitched voice, before they ploughed on. It took all Ralf’s energy to get the horse to follow the route he wanted it to go down. They took several turnings rather fast and Josef feared the cart might over-tip, not to mention poor Oskar was suffering in the back and occasionally let out a muffled groan.
For a time the journey was uneventful. Ralf explained to Josef, when he could briefly take his attention from the horse, that they were heading to a barn on a remote farm. The press would be hidden there for a while, before they moved it again. Their experiences with their last printing press had convinced them that the only way to keep their operation secure was to constantly relocate it. It was a nuisance, but it had to be done.
They were just turning a corner when the horse stumbled. The cart bumped hard and Oskar gave out a cry. The horse had nearly tumbled into a pothole, luckily it had recovered without suffering any lasting damage. Unluckily, Oskar’s outcry had been overheard by two German soldiers who were accosting people in the street.
Ralf threw a panicked glance at Josef.
“Just carry on as if nothing happened,” Josef said.
Ralf clicked his tongue and the horse started to move forward again. Unfortunately, the Germans were striding over to them at the same time. One caught hold of the horse’s bridle and brought it to a stop. Remarkably the horse did not respond with its usual violence. Ralf looked startled. Josef adopted his scowl.
“House clearances and cleaning?” The second German, the one not holding the horse, read off the side boards. “Quite unusual for women, the house clearance part.”
“A lady has to earn her keep just as a man,” Josef made his voice husky and as soft as possible. “When your husband is dead, what else can you do?”
Josef spat on the ground, vehemently punctuating his words. The German looked mildly startled.
“What do you have in the back?” He asked nonetheless.
“Cleaning supplies, what else?” Josef answered. “Look, I have my bucket.”
He leaned back into the cart and produced a steel bucket.
“Soap, scrubbing brush, rags,” he displayed each item as he named it. “Do you know how many hours I spend on my knees scrubbing, huh? You think it is easy being a woman? I tell you, you have it easy. Be a man, join the army, get given a nice uniform and a gun. Patrol a bit, guard a bit, disturb honest people going about their mundane lives. You think that is hard? You ask your mother about what is hard. About beating carpets until you can’t breathe for dust and blacking fire grates until you have blisters on your fingers. You ask your mother how exhausting her daily life is, how she must cook for you all, clean for you all, and never earn a penny to show for it. That is the curse of being a woman!”
If the German looked taken aback, Ralf looked positively mortified. He ducked his head, flushing red with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. But Josef hadn’t finish.
“I have sons, you know? Where are they, huh? One went to America and I never hear from him, the other was in the French army and disappeared when you invaded.”
“I see why they have abandoned you,” the German said nastily. “You old hag.”
“And what do you think has made me this way, huh? Men! That is what it is! And now you are making me late for my work and my pay shall be docked, and then what shall I eat?”
“What do I care?” The German snapped.
“Ah, would you care if your own mother was in my position? I think you would. But here is my bucket and scrubbing brush, please inspect it to ensure it meets your approval,” Josef grandly tried to give the bucket to the German, who refused to touch it.
“You foul creature,” he declared. “Get out of here!”
He nodded to his comrade and the horse’s bridle was released. Ralf clicked his tongue and the horse pranced forward, leaving the Germans behind. Once they were far enough away, Ralf gave Josef an uneasy look.
“That was risky.”
“Not really, I was playing the part,” Josef smiled. “They expected an unpleasant old hag, so they got one. Never be anything but what they expect, that is the key.”
Ralf looked unsure, but he said nothing more.
After their scare the remaining journey was peaceful and they arrived at the farm a short while after noon. The barn was open, waiting for them and the press was unloaded and safely hidden. Oskar was taken into the farmhouse to receive medical treatment and the others were invited in to eat. Josef, however, was keen to leave. He had been away from his own Resistance group too long. He therefore made his excuses.
Just beyond the barn, as he was walking away, Zeus was letting the horse off to run free in a field. He glanced up as Josef walked past. Their eyes met briefly.
“See you again,” Zeus nodded to Josef.
Josef nodded back. Then he strode out into the countryside, glad to be heading to his chateau. It was all very well dancing with death, but it was a strain on the nerves. At least he could tell Hogan that he now had a means for fighting back with his pen. It would be good to get the truth out.
He set his feet for home and found he was whistling to himself as he walked. Surprising how facing the Nazis and surviving could make you feel so alive.
London, England. 12pm
Major Reynolds had been summoned. On route to the court house he had been informed of what had happened and the fate of Sergeant-Major Herne. He found Klaus sitting in a back room looking his usual sullen self. Corporal Donne was with him.
“Major Reynolds,” Donne stood and shook his hand as he entered.
Klaus stood too, though he looked awkward and not really sure what to do with himself. Reynolds, for once, did not keep him waiting around.
“It’s all over. I have had the chance to speak to those in authority and they are all agreed to dismissing the charges against you,” he told Klaus.
The German looked relieved.
“I think your efficient and discreet dispatching of Sergeant-Major Herne sealed the deal, so to speak,” Reynolds smiled softly. “Herne’s behaviour in court won him no friends either. I hear he was truly obnoxious.”
“Can I go back to my usual work now?” Klaus asked, a pang of longing in his voice.
Reynolds sometimes forgot how dedicated to the task he had set himself the young man was. Klaus may never have regretted attacking Herne, but he had regretted that he had been unable to continue his work for SIS as a result.
“Yes, back to business as usual,” Reynolds told him. “Must say, it will be good to have this behind us. Thank you for all your help, Corporal Donne.”
“My pleasure, though I didn’t get to plead my case for the defence as I had hoped,” a glimmer of disappointment shone on Donne’s face. “But there we have it.”
Reynolds and Klaus walked out of the court house together. There was a car waiting for them. Reynolds paused on the steps. Klaus had already taken the next step down, but he stopped and looked back.
“If you have learned anything from this experience, I hope it is that there is a time and a place for making your own form of justice,” Reynolds did not say the words unkindly. He just wanted to be sure that Klaus had understood the perils he had put himself in.
“I have learned that I can trust the British justice system,” Klaus nodded. “And I must remember that.”
“Would it have been different if you had lost your case?” Reynolds said with a coy smile.
Klaus tilted his head. Then he returned the smile with his own grin.
“I guess we will never know.”
Klaus carried on down the steps. Reynolds laughed to himself, then followed. He was never going to figure out that German, that was one thing he was sure of.
Rouen, France. 7.31pm
There was a lot of noise as Josef entered the rear passage of the chateau. He wondered what everyone was excited about. They didn’t know about the success of his mission yet. He walked through to the kitchen, thinking he would have words about this excessive noise, only to come to a complete halt when he saw Charlotte Guilliot sitting at the kitchen table.
He started to open his mouth in amazement, when Benoit spotted him.
“You are alive!” He cried out and everyone looked to the doorway.
Josef was slightly stunned by the happy faces that now turned in his direction and smiled at him.
“We feared for you!” Benoit continued.
“Bah, you need never do that,” Josef shrugged off their concern. “I am well and Hogan now has a printing press to play with.”
There were new cheers. Josef was handed a glass with a meagre helping of wine in the bottom. He drank it with relish, nonetheless.
“I take it we are celebrating the arrival of our British agent?” Josef asked, quickly joining the dots as to why Charlotte was there.
“And the recovery of the wireless set the British sent us,” Benoit agreed. Then he motioned to Josef and took him to one side. “I wanted to distract them from you still being absent. They were becoming agitated, fearing the worst.”
“I do not blame you, my friend,” Josef reassured him. “You have done as I would. We must keep our spirits up.”
“Things went well then?” Benoit asked anxiously.
“We lost a man,” Josef replied. “It did not go as smoothly as I could have hoped. The Communists were impatient, had we waited a little longer, I am sure Henrietta could have provided us with good information that would have spared that man’s sacrifice. Also, I feel awful that she was placed in such a position for no purpose.”
“Don’t be,” Benoit patted his shoulder. “I have spoken to Henrietta. She does not want to leave the café.”
Josef was surprised.
“She likes the job?”
“Not that, she believes she can be useful to us there. There is a Gestapo man who regularly comes to the café and seems to have taken a shine to her. She thinks she can learn things from him.”
“It is too dangerous,” Josef shook his head.
“Henrietta is determined. She will do this whether we give her permission or not. I think we must accept that.”
Josef sighed. He did not like the idea, but it was wise to have someone on good terms with the Gestapo, he could not deny that. It was just so dangerous and Henrietta was a woman…
Josef paused in his thoughts and glanced over at Charlotte; another woman who had placed herself repeatedly in grave danger for her country and countrymen. Bravery came in many forms and it was not exclusive to men. Josef realised he could not change that, or that he had women working for his organisation. He gave in.
“Tell Henrietta to be careful.”
“I already have,” Benoit replied. “Now, let us celebrate.”
He tapped his empty glass with Josef’s.
“To printing presses and British agents.”
Josef was amused.
“To giant Russians and painted horses,” he replied.
Benoit gave him a look of confusion.
“Later, I’ll explain later,” he said.
The two men returned to the others and joined the impromptu party. How often did such a thing happen during this war? Not often enough. Josef liked the laughter and the happiness. He liked the thrill of feeling for the moment on the up, even though it scared him that this might soon be followed by an almighty fall down.
He grinned to Charlotte who raised her glass to him in response. There would be time later to learn why she was here and how she came to be in their midst. For now it was time to enjoy the moment and forget that tomorrow ever had to come. They made toasts with now empty glasses and hugged one another.
Triumph could be fleeting. They had to celebrate it while they could.