by Jana Petken
This time when he paused, he looked specifically at the four new arrivals, including Wilmot. “We are not under the Inspectorate for Concentration Camps here. In this Straflager, this penal camp, you will be under an SS and police court. That means we can do what we like to you without outside interference. We can batter you stupid, and no one will ever find out, or care.” He turned to the two men standing behind him and said, “Let’s show the newcomers what we can do to them whenever we feel like it.”
The guards approached Wilmot and Christoph, swinging their batons from one hand to the other, and grinning with sinister enthusiasm. Wilmot shut his eyes and braced himself. Four successive blows to his right arm and shoulder were followed by strikes just below his chest. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath as he cradled his injured arm with his other hand. He was in agony, but worse, he couldn’t breathe. They’d broken his ribs.
When he finally managed to catch his breath, Wilmot squinted at Christoph. The boy must have bitten his lip, or he’d been hit in the mouth, for blood was pouring down his chin. He was holding himself well and still standing.
Wilmot struggled to his feet, determined not to be the only man to buckle under the baton. No man would call him a soppy woman ever again or put him on his knees.
His eyes smarted with tears until he glanced at the SS prisoners who’d been there for days, weeks or months. Some were already skin and bone; others had cloudy, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare at nothing. But what was most terrifying, was that all of them, without exception, seemed to have lost their will, their mettle, their desire to survive, and once the spirit of determination vanished, a man might just as well be dead. Willie felt the first tear fall, and thought, I’d have been better off swinging from the gallows or facing a firing squad and dying like a man, if this was what Dachau has in store for me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Romek Gabula
Paris, July 1940
Romek still found it hard to conjure images of the day when Paris had bent its knee to the Germany Army. At daybreak on June 14th a morbid silence had enshrouded the people of the city, as they’d watched the Germans in their field grey uniforms, march in a dazzling show of might under the Arc de Triomphe and onto the Champs Élysées.
He remembered following the enemy on foot, noting the heavy weaponry, the horses, and the never-ending vehicles. He had halted behind the last platoon of German soldiers at the Arc de Triomphe, where they’d hung their huge Nazi Swastika, their claim to the city of Paris. And in that place of freedom and hope, the Germans had broken the hearts of the French people and in their silence and sorrow, they had wept.
He recalled from those early days that the first thing the Germans did was to seize all records from abandoned ministries. They looked for Jews, spies, Freemasons and political dissidents. It was rumoured that they had also snatched the original copy of the Treaty of Versailles – which had so humiliated Germany – and had sent it off to Hitler. They had parked their Nazi arses in cafés drinking coffee like tourists and had filled the restaurants at night with rowdy banter and alcohol-induced bluster.
At the Paris-Bourbon, where the National Assembly building had been converted into the office of the Kommandant von Gross-Paris, a huge banner was spread across its façade reading: DEUTSCHLAND SIEGT AN ALLEN FRONTEN! Germany is victorious on all fronts! Everywhere he looked, the Swastika flew instead of the French Tricolour. Every day, German soldiers paraded up and down the avenues, swift to act against protestors or dissent.
Romek could not, would not find it easy to come to terms with the invasion. What he saw everyday was not just unreal, but almost deliberately surreal, as if the conjoining of Germany and France was the result of an elaborate prank on the French nation.
The number of collaborators and whores wanting to profit from a German soldier’s loneliness was growing. They were also becoming bolder, unafraid of fawning over the invaders and openly reporting the locations of Jewish houses. And what was almost worse were the French people going about their businesses as though a national catastrophe had not just trodden their country into the dirt.
Romek descended the steps to the basement of an old toy factory in the Paris suburbs. The building was owned by a businessman who had stopped making toys on the day the Ardennes had fallen. He, along with his family had fled to England, but he’d left the property in the hands of a Polish refugee.
Romek scanned the spacious area and recognised the faces of people who’d been at the previous meeting. Most were fellow escapees who’d already been involved with the Polish 1st Division. They had put up a good fight against the Germans on the front line at Alsace-Lorraine, but they were outnumbered and overrun within days. Now, the patriotic Poles who weren’t spies or experienced soldiers, were establishing a Resistance group designed to wreak havoc on France’s occupiers. In essence, Romek and everyone else in the basement wanted to fight for a country that wasn’t even theirs.
Romek was baffled by the rants coming from the group’s leaders. They were going to get themselves killed if they carried out their over-ambitious plans to attack German convoys, blow things up, and mount counteroffensives, he thought. It seemed to him that they had no idea of what or who they were up against, and that made them dangerous and stupid.
As his frustration boiled over, he moved to the front of the room where one of the leaders was still speaking about mounting an assault on trains carrying German soldiers coming into Paris. He pointed to a map saying, “... we can kill a train full of German soldiers if we blow the train line at this point...”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Romek interrupted the man taking his place at the front of the group. “I know of subtler methods to harass the enemy – methods which don’t involve military-style attacks. You can’t defeat an army the size of Germany’s with a few sticks of dynamite and stolen weapons. The Nazis are pouring troops into France as we speak, and on their route march they’ve grabbed thousands of French tanks and cannons, not to mention rifles and millions of rounds of ammunition from abandoned warehouses. They control the factories and harbours – and the streets of Paris are theirs too. How many Germans do you think you can kill before a hundred more are drafted in? And how many civilians will die when the Boche take their revenge? I’m sorry to say it, but your way won’t work. We need to build a Resistance movement where we gather intelligence, and share what we find with our allies in Britain. I’m an expert in radio transmissions and code...”
“Other than that, who are you, exactly?” Edzio Korkowski, the man who’d been speaking before, interrupted. “Who are you to come in here like a bloody general trying to take over our meeting. We don’t even know your name. If it weren’t for Darek vouching for you, you’d have been shot before you got your foot through the door.”
“My name is Romek Gabula.”
“We can trust him, Edzio,” Darek piped up from the back of the room.
Romek had met Darek by chance at the Polish Tea House in Paris, and only two weeks after their first meeting, Romek, going against everything Max had taught him not to do as an agent of MI6, had told Darek about his contacts in Britain. He’d been vague, giving no names and never once mentioning intelligence services, but he had shown the Pole his two radio transmitters. In a candid statement, Romek had told Darek that they should help each other, but he’d also given his new friend a warning. “I’ll trust you with my secrets, but if you ever betray me to the Germans, I’ll lead the Gestapo right to your doorstep before they even have a chance to shoot me.”
“I hate the Nazis. I’d never betray anyone who was fighting them. I’d rather shoot myself in the head.”
After involving Darek, Romek had used him to get to other Poles in Paris. He could no longer ask Max to come to France whenever there was a problem, or he needed advice on recruitment. By and large, he’d been left to his own devices, trusted to build a Resistance group that could send clear pictures of what was going on in France in real time, and he wasn’t going to f
ail, he was going to excel.
“... Romek could be invaluable to us,” Darek was now saying. “He’s not only got radios he’s got important contacts who can help us. Give him a chance. He knows what he’s talking about.”
“Look, I don’t profess to know everything there is to know about being a Resistance fighter. Let’s be honest, no one here does,” Romek acknowledged when he managed to get a word in edgeways. “But I don’t think now is the best time to take up arms and fight the Germans face to face. We’ll need to be sneaky, sly, organised and stay underground, not blatant and obvious.”
“Do you want us to sit on our hands and let them get on with it?” Edzio asked.
“No, far from it. I’ve been using surveillance tactics for a long time now, and I know how we can hurt the enemy without drawing attention to ourselves. For instance, while observing German vehicles, I noticed that they’re all differentiated by an operational insignia...”
“So, what of it?” Edzio interrupted.
Romek had already decided that Edzio Korkowski was too temperamental and ill-equipped to lead this group of people. He was like a petulant child desperate to be the leader, and he would have to be removed. “Edzio, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to know, or would you rather talk about blowing Germans up and getting everyone in this room killed? Because, Edzio, as I said, if you kill one German officer or soldier, ten French men and women will be rounded up and shot in retaliation. Is that what you want to see in the streets of Paris?”
Edzio towered over Romek. He had a well-toned body, hard thuggish face with short bristly hair, a snub nose and rough stubble on his chin and beneath his cheekbones. He looked powerful, yet now stood in front of his men with a reddened face. “Go on then, what’s your great idea,” he mumbled.
Romek continued, “The idea is this, we collect and analyse the insignias to determine the make-up of the German forces in France. For example, I know that there is a high-ranking German intelligence officer in Paris right now because I saw the Abwehr insignia on his staff car. I also know the exact time that an SS Battalion Commander visited the Hotel Lutetia in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district. If we put our people to work in those hotels, think of the intelligence we’ll be able to gather on supply corridors, troop and prisoner movements, battle plans, and classified documents sitting on bedside tables. I could give you a list of ways to get usable intelligence that the British would be more than grateful for.”
“I told you he was good,” Darek said. “And he’s been doing all this on his own. Imagine if we worked as a unit and could each find out German routines and habits? We’d know exactly where to hit their High Command at any given time of the day or night. Isn’t that right, Romek?”
“Yes, although that might be oversimplifying it a bit, Darek,” Romek answered. “I’ve already spotted German tank commanders, intelligence personnel and a car with the German Chancellery insignia on its back-passenger door. What if we were able to strike at the heart of the Third Reich from Paris? Kill one important officer instead of a truck full of grunts?”
Thrilled to see a room full of nods, Romek continued. “We can also make notes on train schedules, who and what the trains are carrying, where they’re going and coming from, and their frequency. When we have that information, we’ll know exactly what trains to derail and when to hit them. Sabotage can be a powerful weapon but only if it’s well executed.” He paused to study the attentive faces staring back at him, hungry for more ideas. Edzio was no longer in charge.
“Look, you don’t know me, but I promise you, with hard work we can and will develop a solid Resistance group, well-coordinated and efficient. It won’t be easy. We’ll need to recruit French nationals. It’ll take a lot of organisation to gather the information, but when there are enough of us, we’ll be able to cover the ground, not only in Paris but all over France.”
“Resist them, tickle them instead of stabbing them. I like that idea. It could work,” a man at the back of the room called out.
Darek, who’d moved to the front agreed. “Romek’s right, we can’t go around blowing people and stuff up willy-nilly. That would be like lighting a match and throwing it into a pond. We’re not going to damage the German war machine by doing any of that, and as he said, we might see retaliations that would be a hundred times worse for the people of Paris than what we did to the Nazis.”
“It won’t work,” Edzio said.
Romek met Edzio in the middle of the room. Romek was a foot shorter but when he was only inches from the man, he straightened and shook his head in disgust. “If you’re this pessimistic before we even put a plan together, you might as well go back to Warsaw and wait for the Nazis to knock on your door. They’ll either throw you out on the street to beg for food, shoot you or transport you to a concentration camp – your choice.”
Romek dismissed Edzio with a toss of his head before focusing again on the Poles who didn’t seem to share Edzio’s cynicism. “Don’t forget, the French are reeling from shock. Most of them haven’t even come to terms with what’s happened to their country. But soon, they’ll adjust to the reality that they’re being ruled by Germans, and they’ll get annoyed and impatient, and eventually they’ll hate the Nazi pigs and will want to act against them. And that, my friends, is when we’ll be at our strongest and ready for the big fight back.”
Edzio, shuffling his feet like a scolded schoolboy, appeared to want to ask a question, but his nose had been put out of joint and his male pride had taken a serious beating.
“We value your desire to help and to lead, Edzio,” Romek said to pacify the man. “Is there anything you want to add?”
“Yes ... err ... who do you send your information to?”
“To our allies in Britain, and that’s my job.”
Chapter Thirty
Max Vogel
London, June 1940
The meeting at MI6 headquarters had started before dawn, the fifth such top-brass conference that week. They were becoming the norm, rather than exceptions to the rule, and Max found life easier to sleep in his office at night.
Heller and Max acknowledged that Germany’s invasion of France had not come as a shock, but the speed at which the German mobile units had pushed back the allies at Dunkirk had left the British Intelligence community scrambling to regroup, a bitter taste in their mouths.
Max, sitting behind Jonathan Heller, was taking notes. Heller was advising Daniel Crawley, a junior War Office Minister, that an attempt to form a second British Expeditionary Force would fail at this present time, and his recommendation to withdraw the remaining British divisions was being met with truculence.
“On the contrary, Mr Heller,” said Crawley, “Our people at Bletchley Park don’t see it that way at all.”
Max, who had compiled a list of reasons for the evacuation based on recent intelligence from Romek, cringed at Crawley’s gung-ho attitude and failure to recognise the need for strategic retreat. Max wanted to remind Crawley that this meeting was to share compelling information and intelligence. Crawley could disagree all he wanted, but he was a War Office underling, nothing more. The final decision to evacuate the force in an operation that MI6 had already named, Operation Ariel, would be taken by Winston Churchill, who insisted on receiving numerous opinions from a variety of sources before making decisions.
Absent from the recent flurry of meetings was Stewart Menzies, the Chief of SIS and Section 6 of Military Intelligence. He often used Heller as the spokesman for MI6’s London Headquarters because he was a level-headed tactician, cool under criticism and immune to adverse scrutiny. The armed services and their intelligence arms were constantly tripping over each other, their voices disjointed and confused, but MI6 made it their policy to speak as a single instrument. The whole basis for its existence was to supply the country’s leader with facts based on irrefutable evidence, painstakingly gathered by its agents.
“Perfect intelligence is never guaranteed,” Heller o
ften told his section, “but we must try to get it right at all times … well … as near as damn it, so that we can confidently sell it to the higher-ups making the tough decisions.”
Max maintained that perfection in the intelligence game didn’t exist. There was no such thing as irrefutable evidence or missions where everything went to plan. He was the only man in that room who had witnessed the disaster in Emmen, Holland, where the facts had clearly suggested that the Germans wanted to cooperate with British Intelligence to bring down Hitler – perfection, facts, irrefutable evidence – four words that shouldn’t ever be mentioned in the spy world.
“... might I remind you, Mr Crawley, that the loss of material on those Dunkirk beaches was massive.” Heller sounded like he was lecturing the minister. “We left enough equipment behind to equip ten divisions. Shall I give you our tally?”
“That won’t be necessary,” retorted Crawley, his face reddening.
“But I insist. Not counting the ammunition, we lost 900 field-guns, over 300 large calibre weapons, 500 anti-aircraft guns, about 850 anti-tank guns, 11,000 machine guns, nearly 700 tanks, 20,000 motorcycles, and 45,000 motor cars and lorries. And that is only an initial, hurried estimate.”
Crawley looked aghast. “My God. Well, I suppose that does explain why we only have enough equipment available at home to equip two divisions.”
“Correct.”
Crawley tapped his pen on the desk.