Tom
Breslau, December 1944
As the train sped from Weissburg prison towards Breslau, Tom pressed his face against the window of his armoured cell wagon, shocked at the contrast between the countryside of forests and meadows, and the ruined townships in between. Streets reduced to rubble, buildings shattered, scenes of apocalyptic destruction. Here and there, shadowy figures picked their way among the splintered timber and broken bricks, heads down, searching for anything left inside their bombed-out homes.
People dragged battered suitcases along the highways, some lugged bulging knapsacks and pushed wheelbarrows heaped with bedding, others hauled unwieldy bundles or carried children and bird cages; all refugees escaping their bombed-out homes in search of safety and shelter.
Next to Tom in the cramped train compartment, Luc was also staring at the smashed villages they passed.
‘Just look at that!’ he said. ‘The Soviets must be close. It can’t be long now. Maybe the war will end before they can put us on trial.’
Shocked by the desolation around them, Tom had temporarily forgotten why he was on the train. His trial date had finally been set, and together with his French, Dutch and Luxemburger fellow prisoners, he was being transferred from Weissburg to Breslau for trial.
He had always assumed that he and Harry would face the court together, but now it hit him that they would never again share good times or the bad times, that he would have to face the court, and the rest of his life, without his closest friend. He hadn’t wept for Harry before, but now, overwhelmed by the loss, he blinked several times to hold back the tears. Harry wouldn’t want him to be sad. He could almost hear his friend urging him to buck up and keep a stiff upper lip.
After being informed of their approaching court date, he and the other inmates had been speculating about their future. Unnerving rumours circulated that some prisoners had been sentenced to death by guillotine.
Ever since he saw a movie about Mary Queen of Scots at the Forum in St Helier, Tom had been haunted by the image of the executioner raising his axe above the queen, then holding up her severed head, dripping with blood, before a cheering crowd. The possibility that this might now happen to him made him shudder.
‘Hey Churchill, cheer up,’ Luc said. ‘Did you know that they save money on the coffins for guillotined prisoners? They make them a head shorter.’
His macabre joke aroused laughter from the others, but Tom couldn’t even smile. Surely they wouldn’t condemn him to such a hideous death.
He turned to Luc. ‘The prisoners they sentenced to death,’ he began. ‘I suppose they must have committed really serious crimes?’
Luc snorted. ‘Tu rigoles, n’est-ce pas? You must be joking. They were arrested under that Night and Fog law like us.’
That’s when Tom realised that neither his age, his nationality nor the relatively minor nature of his crime would mitigate his sentence. Prisoners charged with offences under that draconian decree were treated far more harshly than others, no matter what crime they’d committed. And as far as the authorities were concerned, trying to escape was a serious crime.
Finally the train ground to a halt at a dilapidated station whose name Tom didn’t recognise. They were ordered to alight, and after being counted several times, they were marched to a prison. Tom’s filthy cell was home to millions of bedbugs that jumped on him as soon as he lay down on the straw pallet.
Sleep was impossible, and he spent the night scratching and watching the beams of searchlights intersecting across the dark sky. He heard the shriek of air raid sirens followed by the boom of distant explosions. Bombs were falling on Germany.
If Luc was right and the Russians were coming closer, perhaps he would be released soon. But when he finally fell into a restless sleep, he dreamed he was kneeling before an executioner’s block. Just as the axe was about to fall, he sat up, trembling and covered in cold sweat. As he wiped the perspiration off his neck, he hoped the dream wasn’t prophetic.
The following day they got back on the train, which brought them to the Silesian city of Breslau. As they passed the market square, Tom gazed admiringly at the intricately painted facades of the ancient buildings, and he felt more hopeful. Perhaps they would dismiss the charges against him.
But that hope was dashed inside the jail, where he heard that some of the prisoners had already been sentenced to death. They were spending their last days chained in their cells without food, as the jailers didn’t see the point of wasting supplies on them.
Tom’s glance continually strayed to the yard below his cell where the hideous contraption stood, its sharply angled blade poised to drop onto the naked necks of condemned prisoners.
But neither the menacing sight of the guillotine, nor fear for their own fates, seemed to dampen the spirits of his French comrades, who spent the time discussing their favourite foods, arguing about the best wines, and boasting about the attributes of their girlfriends. Tom, whose eyes kept returning to the guillotine, envied their ability to block out fear.
Sometimes, to cheer him up, they told him that some comrades had received light sentences. That meant five to ten years’ imprisonment in the nearby camp of Gross-Rosen, which was guarded by the SS. As Tom had already experienced the savagery of the SS and had heard chilling stories about the cruelty inside that camp, it wasn’t a comforting option. Death by one stroke might be preferable to death by slow degrees.
Waiting for his day in court, he paced up and down in his cell. Although he dreaded the trial, it would be a relief to end the uncertainty.
Finally the suspense was over. Six days after arriving in Breslau, he was escorted into a gloomy courtroom whose small windows let in very little light. From the way people on the public benches turned and whispered when he was brought in, he realised his case had attracted local interest.
As the guard led him to the prisoner’s dock, his knees shook so violently that he could hardly stand up, and a tennis ball was pounding inside his chest. The door behind the judges’ bench opened, and in walked three judges in black robes carrying thick dossiers and black leather briefcases.
Anxiously he scanned their faces, but they took their seats without looking at him. Their expressions gave nothing away, and the swastikas embroidered on the shoulders of their robes made him nervous.
He wondered whether, when they became lawyers, they had ever thought they would have to enforce a law like the repressive Night and Fog decree, and whether any of them ever felt qualms about it. But looking at their businesslike demeanour, and the concentration with which they examined their files, he doubted it.
The oldest judge in the centre, who was bald and had a bulging forehead and large fleshy ears, leaned towards him and spoke in a quiet voice that commanded attention. ‘Do you need an interpreter?’
Surprised, Tom nodded. ‘I’d like an English one,’ he replied in German. Emboldened by the question, he decided to push his luck. ‘And I’d like to be represented by an English-speaking lawyer.’
This seemed to cause some consternation among the judges, who conferred for several minutes, until the one with the bony face and prominent nose took off his glasses and fixed Tom with an unblinking stare.
‘A defence lawyer is not necessary,’ he said, and pointed to the bulging file in front of him. ‘We are already in possession of all the relevant facts in your case. As for an English-speaking interpreter, we weren’t informed you were British, so we don’t have one available. But you seem to speak German quite well, young man. Do you think you can understand enough to continue the trial?’
Tom hadn’t expected his request would be taken seriously. He had asked for an interpreter merely to emphasise the fact that he was British and unafraid. The judge’s response encouraged him to explain that although he had learned German in Jersey, his command of the language might not be adequate for legal terms but he would do his best.
As he spoke, Tom watched the judge on the left, who had a clipped black moustache and hair cut very short and parted in the middle. He extracted a document from his file and passed it to the senior judge, who spoke in an almost inaudible voice.
‘There are five serious charges against you,’ he began, and Tom almost stopped breathing as he listed them.
‘Espionage, attempting to escape from Jersey in order to assist Britain wage war against Germany, illegal possession of a boat in which you escaped, possessing an illegal maritime chart used during the escape, and being an enemy of the German Reich.’
He looked straight at Tom. ‘How do you plead?’
Tom was so overwhelmed that he struggled to construct a coherent answer. To add to his turmoil, the judge with the moustache looked up from his dossier and addressed him in a pompous tone. ‘You should be aware that the last charge, being an enemy of the Reich, can carry the death sentence.’
Tom’s mouth was so dry that when he tried to swallow, it felt as if his throat was lined with sandpaper. So much hinged on his reply. But maybe they had already made their decision and the whole trial was a charade intended to give the appearance of justice. Probably nothing he said in his own defence would make any difference.
While they waited for him to speak, he remembered the advice he’d been given by his fellow inmates. Deny everything. Admit nothing. Then he heard Harry saying, ‘Keep on fighting, don’t give in.’
He pulled his shoulders back and looked at the judges with a level gaze.
‘Not guilty to all charges,’ he stated in a voice that resounded though the courtroom.
The judge who had been examining the documents inclined his head towards him attentively and nodded. Assuming this signified approval, Tom began to relax but a moment later his composure was shattered. The judge was holding up his photo album.
‘How can you say you’re not guilty of spying when your album contains photos of German troops, military installations, aircraft and fortifications?’
Tom felt as though a ton of bricks had just knocked him over. He had been hoping that his album had disappeared somewhere between St Helier and Germany. While trying to figure out how to reply, he asked to see it, to play for time. His hands shook as he turned the incriminating pages.
‘It is your album, is it not?’ the judge on the right demanded, taking off his glasses. ‘Please do not waste the court’s time.’
Tom cleared his throat. ‘It is my album, but if you look carefully at the photos, you’ll see that they can’t possibly be proof of espionage. You see my father was the official German photographer in Jersey, and these are the photos the German soldiers took, and brought them to my father to print.’
The bald judge seemed to be considering this before asking, ‘So why did you take them with you on the boat?’
Tom took a deep breath. Trying to sound bewildered and sincere, he said, ‘I really don’t know how it got there, sir. I certainly didn’t bring it. I had no reason to. It must have been one of my companions, maybe as a souvenir of Jersey. But if you regard the photos as proof of spying, then you should charge every German soldier who took them with espionage.’
He knew he was playing to the gallery, because nods and chuckles greeted this statement until the judge banged his gavel and warned the public that this wasn’t a Berlin cabaret, and if they didn’t maintain decorum, he’d eject them from the courtroom.
After conferring about Tom’s answers, the judges moved on to another charge.
‘You left Jersey to join the British army to wage war on Germany, didn’t you?’ the senior judge asked.
This time Tom’s indignation was genuine. ‘Certainly not. As you know, I was only sixteen at the time, and the British army doesn’t accept boys that young.’
Then he added, ‘Anyway, leaving Jersey wasn’t my idea. My friends were older than me, and they talked me into it. I only decided to join them so I could study in England, because we don’t have a university in the Channel Islands. So my only crime is that I allowed myself to be influenced by others.’
He hoped they were convinced, but he felt bad. Once again he had betrayed not only his friends, but his principles as well. He could hear Harry’s voice accusing him of lying. But surely even Harry would understand that lying in this situation was not only excusable, but essential. His life was at stake, and no matter what he said, he couldn’t hurt Harry or Frank now.
The judge with the bony face took off his glasses and leaned forward. ‘How do you explain the fact that you were in possession of an illegal boat?’ he asked.
‘It wasn’t illegal,’ Tom retorted, relieved to be able to tell the truth at last. ‘I had it registered and I had a fishing permit. Food was so scarce we had to supplement our rations with fish.’
The judge pursed his lips and looked at the wrinkled document in his hand as if it had an unpleasant odour. ‘So perhaps you can tell the court why you had a hand-drawn maritime chart showing the route from Jersey to England?’
Tom felt his knees buckling. He had to think fast. Just in time, he remembered the Gestapo officers in France saying that the map had been found on Frank’s body.
‘I swear I’ve never seen this before, sir,’ he said. ‘I have no idea whose it is or why my friends had it. I don’t know the first thing about navigation so I wouldn’t have had a clue how to use it to get to England.’
His reply seemed to satisfy them, and after noting his answer, the senior judge asked, ‘How can you deny being an enemy of the Reich when you tried to escape?’
At least this accusation was easy to refute. ‘You can’t possibly accuse me of being an enemy of the Reich. I was always friendly with the Germans, as was my whole family. You only have to ask the officers of the Water Police who were stationed at the Pomme d’Or and they’ll tell you. I often ran errands for them. My father was the official photographer, my parents had social evenings for German officers every week at our house, and my mother’s cooperation with the German administration was well known.’
If there was any justice on earth, the skies should have crashed down on his head at this point. He marvelled that those words hadn’t choked him, that he had actually sunk so low that he had used his mother’s behaviour and his father’s compliance to save himself. His parents had become his toehold on the slippery slope of survival to which he was desperately clinging.
The judge seemed to be considering his reply.
‘Do you have anything else to say in your defence?’
‘All I can say is that I’m not guilty of any of the charges against me,’ Tom began. ‘I never meant to harm Germany in any way. The only thing I’m guilty of is allowing myself to be influenced by others. As you know, I’ve already suffered for that. I’ve spent nearly two years in your camps and prisons, and one of my friends died of TB in one of them.’ He paused for effect before adding, ‘I want to ask you – do I look like a spy?’
The judge suppressed a smile. ‘You certainly did not need a lawyer, young man. Your German is excellent, and the court appreciates the respectful way you conducted yourself. But you must realise that the charges against you are punishable by death. Now we will go and deliberate on your case.’
Trembling with apprehension, Tom watched them place their dossiers in their briefcases and rise from the bench without another glance in his direction. As they left the courtroom, their black robes billowing in the breeze of the open door reminded Tom of flights of crows over the potato fields of St Helier.
He couldn’t stop shaking. It was impossible to gauge their thoughts from their impenetrable expressions. At times he had sensed they were sympathetic. But did they believe him when he pleaded ignorance about the album and the maritime chart? Had he said too little or too much? And what would their verdict be?
When the judges returned an hour later, Tom gripped the edge of the prisoner’s dock and tried not to think about the guillotine. The senior judge spoke so quietly that he had to strain to hear every word. ‘Thomas Stanley Gaskell, we find you guilty of all charges, which are punishable by death.’
Tom swayed and only the confined space of the dock prevented him from falling. The judge was still speaking. ‘But as you are young, and your guilt is mostly by association, we have decided to be merciful and commute the mandatory death sentence to eight years hard labour.’
Tom groaned. Eight years hard labour at Gross-Rosen. They thought they were being merciful but he was convinced that death by guillotine would be preferable to eight years in the power of the SS sadists.
The judge continued. ‘But because we are impressed by your manners and your attitude, we have taken into account the time you have already served, and have decided to hand down the minimum sentence. Four years in prison.’
Tom left the court in a daze. He knew he had just been given a reprieve. He would not be decapitated, and perhaps he’d survive four years in an ordinary prison, but he felt too numb to rejoice.
He knew he had just given the performance of his life. It had paid off, but when he recalled having lied, betrayed his friends, and made use of his parents’ collusion, it felt like a hollow victory.
That night, when he lay in his cell going over the trial, a line he had learned in scripture classes came into his mind. For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? He had gained the world – the world that his life represented – but had he bargained away his soul in return?
For hours he tossed on the thin straw mattress in his cell. If only he could beg Frank’s and Harry’s forgiveness. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. He dreamed he was back in St Helier. He knew he should visit Harry but he was too ashamed to face him and then remembered that his friend was dead. But just then Harry appeared. So he’s alive after all, Tom thought, overwhelmed with joy. He knew there was something he wanted to say to Harry but as he tried to remember what it was, Harry gave him that wonderful smile, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, Good on you Tom!
When Tom woke up, he could still feel the warmth of Harry’s hand on his shoulder.