by Jana Petken
“Olga and I will miss you terribly, but I understand. I’ll draft a letter and rush through your emigration papers. I don’t foresee any hitches in getting you across the Swiss border, but, Laura, you will be investigated by the British authorities as a German citizen who gave up her British passport. They might suspect you of having sinister motives for requesting re-entry, or even turn your immigration papers down flat. I can’t do anything for you if that happens, I’m afraid.”
“I understand, but I have plenty of family members over there who will vouch for me. I must be optimistic.” Laura rose from the couch, signalling the end of their meeting. She’d had a thumping headache all day, and now she needed to have a lie down and think about her future. “Thank you for coming, Freddie. Please, see to my emigration papers. The sooner I leave, the better.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Max Vogel
France, September 1941
The aircraft crossed the English Channel, flying at 250 miles per hour and only 50 feet above the water to avoid detection. Its destination was the French city of Saint Quentin where its passengers would parachute out before the plane turned around and went home.
Max cracked an eye open and watched his SOE agent check his parachute. Like him, he had dressed in French labourers’ clothes, was in good spirits and cracking jokes, no doubt to cover his apprehension.
“Don’t worry, Pasqual,” Max said, “If your chute doesn’t open, just go to the quartermaster, and he’ll give you another one.”
“Bugger off, Major,” the Frenchman laughed.
Max chuckled, spread out the map on the floor, and shone his torchlight on it. “We’ve got about fifteen minutes until we jump, so get over here. I want you to take another look at the map.”
The Special Operations Executive arm of British Intelligence, was involved in numerous ongoing missions in occupied Europe. Its agents were organising newly formed Resistance groups, training them in the art of sabotage and intelligence gathering, and on the nuances of coded radio transmissions. But Max, on this occasion had another objective involving Klara and Romek, both of whom had gone quiet since Romek’s SOS call nine days earlier.
Max had learnt through his contacts in France that Romek and other members of his group had been detained in a prison to the south of Paris, but it was unclear who they were and how many were being held. His contact had also informed him that the Germans frequently executed or deported spies and saboteurs within days of capture, forcing Max to face the prospect that the man he’d recruited and had admired, could already be dead or transported to one of Germany’s many hellholes.
Although he couldn’t verify if the members of Romek’s network were still alive, he’d stressed to his superiors that Klara, code name, Marine, was probably not incarcerated with the group. She’d worked with Romek, passing him information on the movements of high-ranking Wehrmacht officers, supplying photographs of possible targets. But she was on the periphery of his organisation, and only Romek and one other Pole, by the name of Darek, knew of her existence. He had also put it to his superiors that to abandon her would be a major blow to British operations in France and a possible death sentence for her.
It had taken two days for the top brass at Bletchley Park to come to a decision: Romek and his men may be beyond help, but Max had been given the green light to investigate Klara’s situation. If she was still active he was to bring her to England where she would officially begin her training with the SOE.
“The local Resistance fighters will meet us here.” Max pointed to a small spot on the map. “It’ll be pitch dark, and we’ll only have a few minutes — no more than that — to hide our parachutes, find the weapons crates and get to the rendezvous point. And remember, this is a hot zone. We’re being dropped into a railway and canal transportation hub…”
“Did ‘D’ give you a final number, sir?” Pasqual asked, referring to the director of the SOE and the number of Germans who might be in the jump zone.
“Same number as quoted in the briefing yesterday.” Max folded the map and put it back inside his breast pocket. “What are you worried about, mon ami? It’s only a couple of thousand Germans. We’ve faced worse odds.”
Pasqual laughed, then pointed to the three crates near the aircraft’s door. “I hope to God the weapons come down next to us. The last time I jumped with a crate of guns, I spent two hours searching for them in a field full of randy bulls.”
“Lucky you.”
They both chuckled then Max shut his eyes to mull over the more serious problem of Romek’s capture. For days, he had pondered on Romek’s state of mind. Both MI6 and the SOE relied on their agents’ physical stamina and mental discipline, and they had learnt to their detriment, that leaving men in the field for too long could initiate grave errors. No one wanted to become complacent, Max acknowledged, but it had been proven that the longer the secret agent operated successfully behind enemy lines, the less secretive he became. He was loath to believe it, but he had to consider that Romek may have become sloppy in the lead up to his arrest.
“It’s time, Major,” the co-pilot announced.
Sudden turbulence caused Max to feel queasy and lose his balance. His feet rocked from side to side as he neared the door being opened by an airman, and twice he stumbled.
“Right, see you on the ground,” he said to Pasqual. “Don’t be late.”
After being jerked upwards when his chute opened, Max settled into a smooth downwards path towards the ground. Pasqual jumped seconds after Max, but the latter couldn’t see so much as a nearby shadow. It wasn’t a good night to parachute, Max thought, completely blind. The weather forecast before leaving England had been positive with a half moon and clear skies over Northern France, but he was experiencing low-lying clouds blanketing the Loire valley, which made it impossible to anticipate possible dangers on the ground.
As the clouds shifted, a sliver of moon came into view, and for the first time Max saw a dangerous landscape racing to meet him.
“Shit … fuck, no, not this!” His muscles tensed as the white tips of rocks loomed. Too late to adjust his position or escape the inevitable, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. He was going to land in a field strewn with jagged boulders, the worst possible landing site on a dark night for even the most experienced parachutist.
His ankle thumped against the side of a rock, then bouncing off it, he rose about a foot into the air before coming down with his legs sliding into a rocky crevice.
His torso, falling half-onto and half-off a two-foot-wide rock, lay awkwardly across it with his head dangling over the side. Breathless with pain and unable to move, he lay there, desperately trying not to cry out in agony.
Footsteps pounded towards him, but the figures were obscured by the rock that imprisoned him. He was groggy with pain, his breathing was laboured, and his eyes were misty with tears. He attempted to reach his pistol, to shoot himself in the head if necessary, but couldn’t raise his arms. He also had his cyanide kill-pill to swallow, which would finish him off within seconds, but that was in his breast pocket, also impossible to reach.
“Major?”
Max heard Pasqual’s voice but couldn’t respond. The pain took his breath away, and though he tried to keep them open, his eyelids drooped.
“Don’t you worry, we’ll get you out of this mess,” was the last thing Max heard before blacking out.
When Max came to, he saw four men surrounding him. Dizzy, he blinked, and struggled to focus. The multiple figures and the circle of trees above him wouldn’t stop darting to and fro, but he realised they were in the woods, no longer out in the open where they’d have been more easily spotted by enemy soldiers.
He continued to blink his eyes from one figure to the other until the men stopped their imaginary dance. Pasqual knelt, and three men towered above him with rifles slung over their shoulders.
“These men are from the Saint Quentin,” Pasqual told Max. “This is their leader, Marcel.”
Marcel, the man Pasqual had pointed out, got down on one knee. “Let me have a look at you,” he said examining Max’s head.
Max responded in French, “What’s our position and situation?”
“We’re in the drop zone, exactly where we were supposed to be,” Marcel said. “But we can’t hang around here, there’s a German patrol heading this way. Can you walk?”
Max shook his head. “I can’t even feel my legs, never mind use them to walk out of here.”
“Oui, c’est domage. You might have damaged your spine.”
“You think?” Max groaned as another wave of pain crashed over him.
“We’ll take you to the safe house and decide what to do with you in the morning,” said Marcel, producing a fully loaded syringe from his rucksack. “Lie still.”
“What are you doing?” Max choked.
Marcel put his hand on Max’s shoulder. “Apart from killing Germans, I’m also a trained doctor’s assistant. I work at the hospital in Saint Quentin. This morphine will help with the pain, and hopefully knock you out.”
Max digested the news that his spine might be damaged. It wasn’t broken, for if it were, he wouldn’t be feeling this much pain. Bloody great stuff, the mission hadn’t even begun, and already he’d failed. And what about Klara? How could he find her without the use of his damn legs? “Don’t put me under,” he snapped at the Frenchman with the needle. “That’s an order. Get that fuckin’ thing away from me. Don’t do it.”
“Désolé, Major. Sorry, we can’t take the risk of you screaming in agony while we carry you through a German infested area,” said Marcel, sticking the needle into Max’s thigh.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Romek Gabula
Paris, September 1941
Romek and twenty members of his group had been taken from Paris to the German’s Fresnes high security prison. Romek had been told upon his arrival that they were facing execution at the hands of the Gestapo, yet after almost two weeks, he was still alive and being largely ignored by his captors.
His cell was two metres in length and one metre wide. The door was made of iron with a peep hole that he couldn’t see through. A tiny, glassless window the size of his head and too high to look out of was on the cell’s thick, back wall, but he rarely saw or heard anything but the sound of chirping birds outside.
Romek had considered numerous ways to escape, but though these ponderings passed the time, they were always broken at some point by visions of his death. He also tried to imagine how his fellow prisoners were faring. He had no way of knowing if Klara or Darek had been captured, if sweet Sabine had been shot or if she’d cracked under interrogation, or if any of his men had survived for as long as he had.
He wouldn’t mind being interrogated, he thought, for even the company of a stinking German would be preferable to the constant silence in a cell which was bathed in light, then shrouded in darkness, light and dark then light again, and on and on until he’d lost count of the days he’d been incarcerated. He was losing his blasted mind!
It was late evening and the cell was gloomy. Romek, torn from a pleasant dream about Poland, leapt to his feet and squinted as harsh light from electric bulbs in the corridor invaded his cell.
Two SS soldiers unlocked the heavy door and entered. With barely enough room for three people, Romek pressed his back against the wall. He’d only ever seen one soldier at a time when they’d brought him food and water – so, this was it – they had come to take him away to be executed.
He didn’t resist when one of the soldiers turned him around and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. What was the point of struggling? He’d probably done all the resisting he was ever going to do.
The soldiers marched Romek along the corridor, and for the first time he saw the other cells, visible through their bars. Six of his men shared one of them. They called out his name as he passed, shouting, “Vive Les Indominables!”
“Vive la France!” Romek added, and his spirits rose.
The guards pushed Romek into a room where a man he’d never seen before was seated at a table. He appeared engrossed in the document he was reading, not lifting his head when Romek was dumped into a chair opposite and his handcuffs were removed. About Romek’s age, the man wore a smart, grey civilian suit with a white shirt and a bright red tie. A strange choice, for red was the symbol of Communism. He looked to be in his thirties with black hair turning grey at the temples. He was non-descript, apart from his relaxed pose and a large black mole on his left eyelid, which made it droop somewhat, and he seemed in no hurry to begin the interrogation.
The longer he sat there, the more Romek fidgeted, his nerves taut. If he were to die today, he’d rather the Boche got it over with, without the games and torture the Gestapo enjoyed so very much. “Are you going to interrogate me before you shoot me?” Romek asked in perfect German.
The man still didn’t lift his head.
“You’ll get nothing from me, so you should save yourself time and put your bullets in me now,” Romek tried again.
The interrogator finally looked up and smiled. “Romek Gabula, a Pole who thought he’d fight the Germans in France, using filthy tactics unbecoming a soldier. Your reputation precedes you.”
“And what reputation might that be?” Romek asked.
“Well, let me see, apart from your mother tongue, you speak French and German without an accent, and you are also fluent in English. You are a talented radio operator who managed to hide from us for over a year, and you have a good tactical brain and leadership qualities.”
“I’m flattered. Sounds like it would be a shame to kill someone like me.”
Again, the German smiled. “My name is Kriminalobersekretär Conrad Hoch. I am here on behalf of the Abwehr Intelligence Service. Have you heard of the Abwehr?”
Romek nodded. This was more serious than he’d thought. The Abwehr would also torture him, but they’d do it until death, forgoing the favour of giving him a quick end by bullets. “What does the Abwehr want from me?” he asked, feigning composure.
“We want a great many things from you, and others like you. It’s no secret that we’re suffering from a lack of agents. The shortage is such that I am not above reviewing prison lists for prospective recruits, which is how I found you.”
Hoch paused, as if anticipating a question, Romek decided not to say a word, or to contribute in any way to the conversation. He felt as though his heart would bound out of his chest, and someone had lodged a rock in the back of his throat. Something was going on here, but it didn’t seem to involve him dying, at least not yet.
“Your role as the leader of a Polish-French Resistance group should make it impossible for you to even consider becoming a spy for Germany. But, your record shows that you have a deep loyalty to your family and your fellow prisoners. Am I correct in that assumption?”
Romek stared at Hoch, but when he’d recognised the not-very-well concealed proposal, he burst out laughing.
Hoch raised his eyebrows, looking like a man who had seen this reaction before, and was in no hurry to tamp it down.
Romek cleared his throat and wiped the smile off his face. It was a vile idea and not one he’d ever consider, even if the offer meant he might get out of prison alive. “Are you out of your bloody mind? I’d rather you shot me in the head now than spy for the Nazis,” he said, spitting in Hoch’s face.
Hoch took out his handkerchief and wiped the saliva from his cheek. When he’d finished, he folded the handkerchief and put it in his trouser pocket. “I expected that answer, it’s the one I always get, at first – though, I admit, you’re the only person to spit in my face – let me put my proposal another way, Romek. Work for the Abwehr in Britain as a secret agent and not only will you be freed, but the jailed members of your Resistance group will be treated as prisoners of war rather than face execution.”
“Go fuck yourself,” said Romek.
“Very well.” Hoch stood, pushed his chair back and left the room.
> Romek stewed for an hour, debating the merits of his hasty response. He reiterated it, but a minute later he called himself a stupid bastard for turning the offer down. He gazed at the wall in front of him, his mind going backwards and forwards over the issue until finally he came to a decision. The Germans were overwhelming the Soviet forces. They were almost at Moscow’s door and were fighting in the streets of Stalingrad. Poland’s destiny lay in Germany’s hands, he thought, and he might as well get on board with them and maybe even have a life in Poland worth going back to.
“Guard! Guard!” He shouted as loud as he could, hoping there was a guard outside the room and that the Abwehr Lieutenant was still in the prison, and hadn’t offered the position to someone else.
After informing the guard that he wanted to speak to Hoch, Romek broke down; tears of gratitude or terror, he didn’t know, but relief that his fellow fighters weren’t going to die. They’d be sent to a concentration camp and might suffer German depravities. Some of them might die of disease, or be killed by the SS, who wouldn’t be party to his arrangement with the Abwehr. But, wasn’t living under those conditions better than the finality of death? He thought so.
When Hoch returned to the room, a small smile feathered his lips. He was accustomed to that reaction from prisoners, as well.
During the second meeting, Hoch explained the Abwehr and its functions. He also informed Romek that an Abwehr agent would fetch him from his cell later that day, to allegedly escort him to another interrogation facility in Paris. However, he would be allowed to escape en route.
“So, it’s as simple as that?” Romek asked.
“No, it’s not simple at all. You see, Romek, I may believe in your sincerity, but my superiors will not.” Hoch leaned across the table and offered Romek a cigarette, and the latter accepted it. Earlier, he’d imagined a German soldier giving him his last cigarette just before he faced the firing squad.