Dateline Haifa

by D A Kent

  In Cadiz, later that evening, it was cold and the wind insistent, rattling windows and keeping most people off the streets. Two men, brims snapped down low, and with one case each at their feet, waited at a table in a bar just a short stroll from the waters that promised safe passage to the south and west. A blonde man, military in bearing, walked in and ordered a coffee in succinct, clipped Spanish. He drank without ceremony and flicked the coins onto the counter top. He turned on his heels and left, with the merest hint of a nod at the two men. They waited a minute and then followed.

  ‘Nice knowing you,’ he said, as he led them towards a small fishing boat. Just before they got on board, he said ‘Herr Brand has done you proud.’ He handed them a bundle each of papers and money, which they put carefully away. ‘Good luck’ and with that, he turned and left them.

  Neither Otto Neumann nor Wilhelm Beck spoke as the boat put out to sea. Both were wrapped in thoughts of their own. It had been a long journey so far, and there was a lot more of it to come. Some might say that to travel together, when they were wanted together, was foolhardy. Others might describe it as hiding in plain sight and the very best way to evade capture.

  Chapter 8

  As the Citroen took them closer to the port, Sylvia told Gunn what George had said about ‘Operation Crown Jewels’ and Rome, and the confirmation of Mueller’s involvement.

  ‘After the épuration and everything,’ Gunn marvelled. ‘Shows how thorough they are. Yes, Rome definitely sounds like a safe house to me. Anyway, sounds as if you have done a good job and he is convinced we are within grasp. He does seem to have special plans for you. I expect it will be a bullet in the back of the head for me.’

  Eventually, they drew to a halt on the run-off on the road above Marseille. The Vieux Port was busy below them, ships being shepherded in and out by busy, officious tugs. The old fortresses of Fort Saint Nicholas on the south side and Fort Saint Jean on the north flanked the entrance, keeping permanent vigil. Across and above the Vieux Port, Notre Dame de la Garde kept a more spiritual watch over the city below as she sat back on the big sky.

  Gunn stepped out of the Citroen and leaned back on the bonnet as the engine ticked down. He handed Sylvia a cigarette and began singing ‘La Marseillaise’ in a ragged tenor. Behind them was a memorial with four names on, and the legend ‘morts pour la France.’ Sylvia sighed. With the pretext call out of the way, and some sunshine, she had planned a picnic on Le Puce’s rug.

  ‘Not if he is in this mood,’ she thought. She gave him a hug, and, echoing his language, said: ‘Come on. Let’s see about that buggering boat.’

  The Citroen slid easily through the streets of Marseille as they narrowed down towards the Vieux Port. Gunn patted the steering wheel. He would be sorry to see it go, but they would make some money on it and that was one less bread crumb on the trail. Keeping the Parc Longchamp on their right, they headed down the Rue Consolat, just about managed to squeeze through the Allée Leon Gambetta, took a left at a prompt from Sylvia and a right onto La Canebière. They made their way down to the waterfront, which was low-slung, back-lit and, to Gunn, stimulating. She noticed the look in his eyes and pursed her lips. They slowed to a halt on the Rue Paradis. Gunn let the engine wind down.

  ‘We can walk the rest,’ he said.

  They soon found the ticket office for the Haifa boat. Unfortunately, a teeming mass of humanity, clutching their worldly goods, had found it too.

  ‘I’m not standing in that sodding queue. Go and talk to that nice gentleman over there, Sylv.’ Gunn pointed to a young French official behind a desk, away from the main queue.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ said Sylvia. She dashed into a little bar for a citron presse (she was parched) and emerged wearing a green number, one of the summery dresses she had packed. They took up virtually no space. She was wearing lipstick, Gunn noticed and the dress suited her, with those olive tones in her skin and that tawny hair. Despite the cut-glass accent, she wasn’t your typical English rose.

  ‘Could I have some of the money, please?’ she asked.

  About fifteen minutes later, after a conversation which had started with ‘Impossible’ and ended in ‘Bien sur’ (with a promise of a drink on the way back through Marseille), Sylvia returned with two first class tickets.

  ‘Christ, Sylv, how much did you pay for these?’ Gunn grumbled. He was secretly impressed that she had got them at all; it hadn’t looked hopeful. He did like to keep her on her toes though, and to tease her. She always rose to it.

  ‘Well, we got the very last cabin. I told them we were married. We should get it to ourselves, but it can be a bit of a scrum, apparently. We need to have a word with the purser when we get on.’

  ‘Probably shouldn’t leave it too late then,’ said Gunn. ‘Shall we get some lunch? You look every inch the officer’s wife, by the way.’

  ‘A compliment or part of their cover?’ Sylvia wondered. At least the dresses she had packed would allow her to pass muster in first class.

  ‘Only one thing to eat around here’ Gunn commented, propelling her towards a waterfront bistro, Marcel Le Grand, all ill-matched tables and old linen tablecloths. A kitten played with the remains of a shrimp. Good pickings. A waiter showed them a table, brought them Pastis, and agreed with Gunn that bouillabaisse was just what was required. Le Grand’s did the best bouillabaisse in the street and indeed the whole of Marseille. Gunn nodded his agreement and, having come to terms, turned to Sylvia and smiled. He poured cold, clear water into their glasses, raised his and said: ‘Cheers, nice work, Sylv.’

  He then allowed his gaze to scan the bistro and its diners; the usual motley crew of waterfront workers, sailors, spivs, whores and policemen. Then something caught and held his attention. He set down his glass and leaned in to Sylvia, looking for all the world as though he was going to kiss her.

  ‘Say nothing, just smile as I speak, but I have spotted an old sidekick of Le Puce, a small time low life smuggler. He’s called Jean Le Mec, because he is everyone’s mate until it comes to doing a deal. A smile like a crocodile with toothache and eyes deader than a shark. He’s over by the telephone, fishing in his pocket for change. I will have to stop him, just in case.’

  ‘Agreed’ said Sylvia.

  Gunn wiped his mouth on his napkin and put his glass down. For a tall man, he could move very quickly. He glided between the tables. The first that Le Mec was aware of his presence was a hand on his shoulder and a whispered ‘I would like a word with an old friend.’

  He shot the shorter man through the kitchen, despite the chef’s protestations, and out into the narrow rat run behind Le Grand’s. He flung him face first into the brickwork opposite. Le Mec shook his head and spat out a tooth. He dropped his shoulder and reached down to his ankle for a sheath knife. Gunn spotted this, and, swinging an efficient shoe, flicked the Frenchman on his back and kicked him in the ribs. Sitting back on his haunches, he removed the knife from the ankle sheath and let it swing idly from his left hand. ‘Been a while, Jean.’

  ‘I wish it had been a little while longer.’

  ‘Of course’ Gunn smiled but the smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Who were you about to call?’

  ‘Alexandre.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘Our business.’ Le Mec spat another gobbet of blood into the rat run. ‘That is all you need to know.’

  ‘Does it involve me?’ Gunn let the sunlight play on the blade. The reflection danced in Le Mec’s eyes.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure? Because if you are lying, I will hurt you a little more. And I will keep hurting you until I learn the truth and then I will cut your throat. Just enough to scar, not to kill.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you.’ Le Mec shaded his eyes against the reflection. ‘I swear on my mother’s grave.’

  ‘You don’t know who your mother is. For all you know, you could have fucked her in one of the brothels around here.’ Gunn laughed, and hauled
Le Mec to his feet. ‘I still don’t believe you, but my time is precious and my lunch is spoiling. Don’t do anything to make me come back here and discuss this further. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’ Le Mec dusted himself down. ‘You are a bastard.’

  ‘Yes, I am. But I did save your life in ’43, and stopped you getting taken away on Operation Tiger. Show some gratitude. See you around.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not.’

  Gunn walked casually back to the table. The waiter was just arriving with their bouillabaisse.

  ‘Good timing. Sorry about that.’ he said.

  They were both ravenous. They agreed that the bouillabaisse, after years of rationing and ghastly English food, was out of this world. They mopped their plates with some bread and had another glass of pastis, followed by a coffee each. For the first time, they began to feel a little more relaxed.

  ‘I could stay here forever’ said Sylvia. ‘But we should think about getting on the boat soon. What shall we do about the car?’

  ‘Excuse me again.’ Gunn wandered over to the patron, returning five minutes later with more cash, which he put away carefully. ‘Two birds with one stone. I also got him to keep an eye on Le Mec. I don’t trust that bastard any further than I can throw him. Shame about that car though.’

  Soon, they were aboard the SS Sidonia. Waving their first class tickets, they managed to get through customs reasonably quickly and headed straight to the purser’s office. A few others had the same idea but Sylvia and Gunn were first in the queue.

  ‘Right, Mrs G. You can deploy those skills you learnt at school when you were skiving off gym. Pretend you are sick.’

  Sylvia duly put on a virtuoso performance for the purser.

  ‘La pauvre,’ he said. ‘Elle est enceinte, votre femme?’

  Trying to contain his glee, Gunn kept a protective arm round Sylvia as they followed the purser to their cabin. It was tiny, with two narrow bunks and an even smaller bathroom, but it did have a small balcony.

  ‘Luxury accommodation, mon cul’ Gunn grumbled. ‘Never mind. Alone at last.’

  They stretched out luxuriously on their bunks for a nap before unpacking. A few people knocked on the door – several families and, bizarrely, a group of nuns. Gunn fended them all off, explaining about Sylvia’s delicate condition.

  ‘You’ll have to keep this up now. All the way to Haifa. Eating for two. Best cut down on the snifters and fags. I suppose I could bring some secret supplies to you. If you behave yourself.’

  ‘Do I look fat then?’ Sylvia was alarmed.

  ‘No’ he laughed. ‘You’re not nearly at that stage yet. You look radiant.’

  ‘How does he know so much about it?’ Sylvia wondered as he took her arm again.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Gunn. Let’s go and explore.’

  The Sidonia was a typical Mediterranean freighter. It had plied the routes between Marseille and Porto Vecchio, then Naples and Crete, and Haifa and Tangiers or Casablanca for more than twenty five years. It had been used during the war for people smuggling out to North Africa and running guns back into Corsica or down the coast from Marseille. There were perhaps fifteen cabins, Sylvia thought, and a lot of deck space now shaded by deck awnings pulled tight. There were far too many people on board, and both Sylvia and Gunn knew it as they picked their way along the deck, treading on blankets and suitcases.

  Becoming exasperated, Gunn whispered:

  ‘You are meant to be pregnant so I suggest you find a nice old Jewish lady to sit beside and see what you can glean from her. I’ll wander on.’

  Sylvia could see he was relishing this pregnancy business. It was going to become somewhat tedious if he kept fussing over her like an old hen. But she had to admit she liked the way his arm was now tightly around her most of the time, and there was logic in his suggestion. For the benefit of the crowds around them, who were smiling benevolently, he said more loudly:

  ‘Put your feet up, sweetheart, and I’ll see you in a little while. Rest those ankles in this heat. Do you want me to bring you anything? Not feeling sick again?’

  Tempted to send him off with a flea in his ear, Sylvia replied:

  ‘No thank you, darling. That’s sweet of you.’ She drew him to her and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘See you in a bit.’

  She settled herself down by a slightly creaky lifeboat. Gunn spread his jacket out on the deck so she could sit down. He smiled, ruffled her hair and began to circulate. They were making their way along the coast towards Toulon, although Naples would be the first stop, then on to Haifa. The coastline was beautiful. It looked red in the late afternoon sun, with the sea a sparkling blue. If she could close her eyes to the conditions around her, she decided, it would be like being on a cruise.

  A voice broke into her reverie. It felt slightly incongruous to hear London inflections in these foreign surroundings.

  ‘He’s a looker, isn’t he, your husband? First baby, is it?’

  The voice belonged to Joyce Hoffman, as Sylvia soon discovered. Within a few minutes, Sylvia had her life story; born in the East End and grew up there, widowed, and now on her way to start a new life in Haifa with her sister. Not a moment too soon, Joyce declared. Having lost Sammy, this would be a fresh start from her and she still felt young enough to want to be ‘part of something new.’

  Sylvia ventured some of her story and Gunn’s. The strange thing was, she realised, she believed it. This was not the same as her other hair-brained pretext stories. It seemed completely right; a young bride, accompanying her husband on business but just pregnant and feeling a little lost. She could very easily lose all track of reality. In a way, she wished it was true.

  ‘Get a grip’ she told herself sternly. ‘This is Gunn you are talking about.’

  ‘Have you got anywhere to stay in Haifa?’ asked Joyce. ‘My Vanessa tells me it’s still a little rough. But you’re welcome to come and stay with us. We’ll look after you while he goes off and does his work.’

  Sylvia had just written Joyce’s name and address down in her address book when a smiling Gunn appeared before her.

  ‘Guess who is having dinner with the Captain this evening? Better go and get our glad rags on.’

  They said goodbye to Joyce and he led her back to the cabin.

  ‘You must be desperate for a wee now,’ he said, seriously. ‘With the baby pressing on your bladder.’

  Luckily, nobody was about. Sylvia almost fell down the stairs, laughing.

  ‘Gunn, stop it. You really are the absolute end sometimes. You sound like some awful medical text book. Come on, what are you going to wear this evening?’

  ‘I haven’t got a clue. I shall go and beg, borrow or, more likely, steal something.’ He scratched his chin. ‘And I’m not sure how we have ended up at the Captain’s Table. I suppose the English officer façade comes in useful.’

  ‘It is a façade, isn’t it?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Gunn sat down on his bunk. ‘I am half-English, half-French, and just a poorish boy. Though not from a poor family.’

  He stood up. ‘Time for a wander and a forage. Back in a while.’

  ‘He really is an enigma’ Sylvia thought to herself, as she got ready. She tried to piece together what she knew about him, but gave up after a while, concentrating on making herself look presentable for dinner. She decided upon one of her favourite dresses, quite low cut, with pink and blue flowers on a white background, and a white collar. She had caught the sun on deck. It suited her. As she sat at the dressing table (a luxury after the fleapit and their nights on the road), looking in the mirror while she put some lipstick on, she became aware of Gunn, standing in the doorway.

  ‘You look beautiful, Mrs Gunn. I’ve never seen you in anything like that before. Shall I do you up at the back?’

  ‘I’d like nothing better,’ she thought to herself. ‘He can be so sweet sometimes but at other times so infuriating. And he seems to be quite accustomed to living with a woman. That’s strange.’

  Sh
e would have to try and draw him out, she resolved. Gunn did her zip up and fastened the clasp on her pearl necklace. It was the only item of jewellery Mother had left behind, after her flight from Daddy, she explained.

  She looked at Gunn appreciatively. He was wearing a dinner suit, purloined from the purser. Putting her arm through his, they sallied forth. The Captain had drawn his guests from both the first class cabins and from those camping out on the decks - World War 2 veterans and Holocaust survivors; a fascinating mix.

  Gunn introduced Sylvia and then himself. He shook the Captain’s hand and then let the stories unfold. He had resolved not to say much. His story was not relevant to these people or their experiences. As the first course, a rough potage, arrived with bread and a more than useful white wine, tongues began to loosen and scraps of lives began to float around the table like rags on barbed wire.

  Next to Sylvia was Manny Kaltz, a scholar from Warsaw. He had survived Auschwitz by luck and no judgment. His family were dead. He had a cousin in Jerusalem. They did not get on, but there was a hope in their blood. Across from Gunn, and next to the captain, was Sarah Rosen. She ate sparingly, as if afraid she would not eat again. In Vienna, she had been a dancer. Her ankles had been broken with hammers. She could walk now, but she would not dance. She hoped to teach in Israel, in a place where olives grew, somewhere over the horizon from Galilee.

  Next to Gunn was Solomon Kalinsky, a Pole. He had fought at Monte Cassino, been captured by the Germans and beaten forensically on a daily basis. He had lost an eye and was deaf in one ear. He was twenty seven years old. Kalinsky had been rescued by New Zealanders and carried a silver fern in his pocket that one of them had given him for good luck. He and Gunn fell into natural comradeship.