Marit appeared to have put on weight, and her skin didn’t have the sallow pallor of the other inmates. Hanne could have sworn there was a trace of make-up around her eyes, along with a faint smear of red on her lips, and her hair looked as if it had been washed.
‘Marit, you look almost well – what on earth has happened to you?’
‘You won’t believe it, Hanne, and if you do, I suspect you won’t approve.’ She giggled like a schoolgirl telling a friend about a boy who’d asked her out.
‘Unless you’ve become a Nazi, I can’t think of anything I could disapprove of.’
‘I’m not so sure. I’m working in one of those houses by the SS barracks.’ Marit looked down, embarrassed.
Hanne grabbed her by the forearm. ‘You mean the brothel?’
‘Not so loud, Hanne! I’m only telling you because I trust you. They told me it was a choice between working there and going to a labour camp in the east. And they promised me that if I work there for six months, they’ll set me free – I’ll be able to go home to Oslo!’
‘And you believe them?’
Marit shrugged. ‘Why not? Apparently a couple of French women were allowed back to France last month. Anyway, it’s not like I’ve become a prostitute or anything. I don’t get paid, so I can’t be a prostitute!’
‘You look well on it, Marit.’
‘I have to admit, we get decent food, and when the SS men come in, we get to wear nice clothes and have a bath first. Some of the men aren’t violent. One that I had last night was actually quite sweet: he showed me pictures of his daughters. You could join us, Hanne. I could put in a good word for you, and hopefully they wouldn’t think you’re too old. It’s easier than working in those bloody fields.’
Hanne glanced down at her hand, which was bandaged after an accident with a spade that morning. She’d been working the fields for the last few weeks and it was back-breaking toil, dawn to dusk with barely a break.
She told Marit not to be so ridiculous and said she’d see her soon. But as she walked back to the field, she found herself wondering whether going to work with Marit would be so dreadful after all.
* * *
She wondered if she’d ever recover from the shock of that morning in Copenhagen at the end of January. She’d been at her desk in the Major Robbery Unit at Nørrebro when she became aware of the door being flung open and people marching towards her. She had no time to react, not even enough time to put the cap on her pen. They asked if she was Hanne Jakobsen, and when she said yes, she was hauled to her feet and more or less dragged outside and thrown into a car. A few minutes later, they were at the Gestapo headquarters on Kampmannsgade.
‘Do you know a Peter Rasmussen?’
At least she’d had enough time to anticipate that question. She frowned, appearing to rack her brain, then shook her head. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but it doesn’t ring a bell. It’s not exactly an uncommon name, is it? You’ll have to help me…’
‘You have to help us, not the other way round. Do you know a Peter Rasmussen?’
‘In what context?’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ A different man took over; a thickset man with a lisp of some sort. ‘You either know him or you don’t.’
‘In that case, the answer is no, I don’t know anyone of that name. Is he supposed to be someone I may have arrested – or worked with, maybe?’
Another man spoke, younger and quite presentable, his voice quieter and his approach very clear and calm. ‘Back in November, you went to the registration and records department at Polititorvet and asked them to issue a legitimationskort for a Peter Rasmussen. You authorised it yourself; we have all the paperwork. This Peter Rasmussen, using the very same legitimationskort, travelled to Berlin in December in the company of a Danish businessman called Otto Knudsen. While in Berlin, Rasmussen and Knudsen were involved in acts of espionage against the Reich. It therefore follows that you know Peter Rasmussen and I’d appreciate your help’ – his voice rose slightly – ‘in telling us where he is.’
A wave of utter relief swept over her. Such a basic and naïve error to reveal that they didn’t know where Peter was. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m still struggling to recollect this man. What did you say the other gentleman was called?’
‘Otto Knudsen.’
Agent Horatio.
‘Maybe if you ask him?’
‘Don’t try and be clever. We were about to try that yesterday and then the bastard went and killed himself.’
She felt she did a reasonable job of not reacting one way or the other to the news of Horatio’s death. She was sorry, of course, but she doubted he’d have coped too well with an interrogation. Perhaps it was for the best. But she knew they’d find something out sooner or later. She’d have to play for time.
I’d really like to help… I just cannot recall a Peter Rasmussen… I deal with dozens of people each month… My apartment? Of course, here’s the key.
They’d find absolutely nothing in the apartment, but she realised they were unlikely to leave it at that. They’d ask her neighbours, and one of them was bound to mention her father’s flat – the one opposite hers, the one where Peter lived. And even though she’d done her best to tidy that up after he’d left for Rostock, they’d ask more questions and it was hard to think they wouldn’t eventually establish a link.
The interrogation went on for days, the Gestapo using their predictable tactics of allowing her an hour’s sleep then waking her up and questioning her for a few hours, keeping the light on in her cell all the time, depriving her of food and drink, even some quite unpleasant roughing up, though they stopped short of what she’d describe as torture.
But it was bad enough, and there were moments when she felt she couldn’t hold out much longer and thought that wouldn’t be so bad, because she’d resisted for long enough and Agent Laertes ought to be safe.
Agent Laertes. Peter. Her Englishman. Safe.
In the end, they told her they didn’t believe her: there was the irrefutable evidence that she’d requested the identity papers for the same Peter Rasmussen who’d travelled to Berlin, and neighbours said that a man matching his description had been seen going in and out of the block where her father’s apartment was.
‘Our orders,’ said the man with the lisp, ‘are to send you to Berlin. Our colleagues there are going to deal with you. You’ll soon wish you’d been more forthcoming with us.’ He sounded quite disappointed.
* * *
Two or three days later, she’d been flown to Berlin on a military aircraft. She knew little about the journey, as she was blindfolded and in handcuffs. The plane was cold and the noise almost unbearable. It seemed like an age while they waited for a van to collect them from the airport, followed by a long and uncomfortable drive into what she took to be the city.
The van drove into what felt like a basement garage, and she was led through a series of corridors and down some narrow steps into a room where the blindfold was finally removed.
It took a while for her eyes to become accustomed to the light, and when they did, she saw she was standing in front of four men behind a table, rather like the panel that had interviewed her for her last promotion.
‘Welcome to Berlin.’ The man who spoke looked dishevelled, as if he’d slept in the clothes he was wearing – a feeling she was familiar with. When he spoke, his mouth opened wider than normal, revealing a set of yellow teeth. His name was Lange, he told her, Manfred Lange, and he was the officer in charge of finding Peter Rasmussen.
‘Have you heard of Prinz Albrecht Strasse?’
She replied that she hadn’t.
‘Well that is where you are now. This is the headquarters of the Gestapo. And let me tell you,’ he added, leaning forward and smiling broadly, ‘that I am one of the most…’ he paused, obviously thinking about which words to use, ‘accomplished investigators here. I am personally responsible for breaking the spy ring that Peter Rasmussen was involved with.’
He stopped and looked at her carefully,
hoping to discern some kind of reaction. She remained as impassive as possible. She was desperate for the toilet and was using that to focus her attention on. She wondered whether to smile or look defiant, but settled on what she hoped was a neutral expression.
‘Does the name Albert Kampmann mean anything to you? He also went under the name Kurt? He was an Oberst in the Luftwaffe. Thanks to my officers,’ he looked appreciatively at the men either side of him, ‘he’s now dead. He was one of your spy ring.’
Your spy ring. She shook her head.
‘And Bruno Bergmann, perhaps… is that name familiar? He worked for Spandau Locomotive Engineering and was a contact for your Peter Rasmussen and an Otto Knudsen. Bergmann had his trial two days ago and was found guilty of espionage. He will be executed today, an event you will have the pleasure of witnessing.’
She said nothing.
‘And you are aware that this Otto Knudsen took his own life before we had the opportunity to find out what he knew. He worked for Mortensen Machinery Parts in Copenhagen – does that help?’
She shook her head once more. It appeared the idiots had managed to kill most of the people involved, which was careless in the extreme.
‘That leaves you and Peter Rasmussen. Rasmussen is missing, and we will find him, and because you are connected to him, you will help us. But we will begin that process tomorrow, after you have visited Herr Bergmann. That will give you a taste of what we have in mind for you in the unlikely event of you being unwilling to help.’
She was taken to a cell not unlike the one in Copenhagen. She was able to lie down for a while, use the bucket in the corner, and they even brought her a meal of sorts, which was surprisingly not as bad as the others she’d been given since her arrest. She wondered why they hadn’t interrogated her further when she was undoubtedly at her most vulnerable.
She must have fallen asleep, because she was woken by the sound of her cell door being noisily unlocked. She was handcuffed and marched down a corridor and up a flight of stairs. Outside a pair of double doors was the smiling figure of the Gestapo officer she’d met earlier, the man who’d introduced himself as Manfred Lange.
‘We are about to have the pleasure of witnessing the execution of Bruno Bergmann. Please be assured the same fate awaits you in the event of you not cooperating with us.’
They went into a long room crowded with people. She was pushed towards the front, where the man she took to be Bergmann was standing against a wall, supported by two guards. She suspected that even had she known him, she’d have had trouble recognising him. He looked terrified, his body emaciated, his face showing signs of several beatings and most of his teeth missing. His eyes darted around the room, anxious to spot anyone who might help him.
In front of him stood a man in a dark suit, reading out the death warrant in a high-pitched voice.
…and crimes against the German state… against the German people… guilty of espionage… sentenced to death… Signed Roland Freisler, President, People’s Court.
The official stood back, and Hanne noticed that Lange was now at the front of the room. He stepped forward. ‘Look around carefully, Bergmann: is there anyone here you recognise?’
The prisoner peered anxiously at the people gathered in the room. Hanne suspected he was having trouble focusing. ‘My wife, is my wife here? She knows nothing! I tell you, she’s a loyal German. I have wronged her and my children terribly. I beg of you to spare them. For me, I deserve my fate, I—’
‘Shut up, Bergmann! We do not regard your wife as innocent and she will certainly never see your children again. I can offer you a quick end, or a more painful one. For the final time, tell me: where is Peter Rasmussen?’
Bergmann shook his head in an almost manic way. ‘I tell you, I have no idea whatsoever. I was surprised when he turned up with Knudsen. I never liked him or trusted him. I beg of you…’
Lange nodded, and the two guards dragged a whimpering Bergmann to a platform in the corner of the room. His wrists and ankles were bound and a wire dangling from the ceiling was placed round his neck. As the noose was tightened, his face turned red and his eyes bulged. Another nod from Lange and the platform was pulled away. Hanne tried to avert her gaze, but she was thumped in the small of her back.
‘Watch!’
She’d expected it to be quick, but it was anything but. She tried to focus her mind on something else but found it impossible. The sound of Bergmann gasping for breath and then choking went on for far longer than she could bear.
As she was led back to her cell, Manfred Lange told her it had taken Bergmann three minutes and twenty seconds to die. ‘It usually takes longer!’
* * *
Gruppenführer von Helldorf tried not to look at the man from the Gestapo with too much obvious disdain.
‘I see you’ve killed another witness, Lange.’
‘He was found guilty by the People’s Court. I am surprised you question the verdict.’
‘And now you want our help again?’
‘We have drawn a blank in our hunt for Peter Rasmussen. The woman Jakobsen is not proving helpful. We shall have to resort to our tried and trusted methods or put her before the People’s Court.’
‘Whatever you do, Lange, keep her alive, eh? She’s the only link with Rasmussen you have left. We can carry on looking for him, but she’s no use dead. Put her in a camp by all means, but don’t go and kill her too, at least not until we find Rasmussen.’
* * *
The afternoon following her encounter with Marit, Hanne had a few unexpected moments to pause and gather her thoughts. She was in the field, digging away at the unforgiving soil, when two prisoners began fighting and the guards all rushed over. She supported her weight on the spade and looked around as she caught her breath.
It could be worse.
She was physically fit, at least more so than most of the prisoners here. And as hard as the work was, it was now the end of April and the summer was bound to be easier. She’d developed an ability to let her mind take her to places well away from the hell she was in. Being in the fresh air all day reduced her chances of catching a disease, and at least she wasn’t as badly treated as the Russian or Polish women, who were being experimented on, or the Jewish women shipped to their deaths in the east.
The next morning, she had cause to regret her brief lapse into optimism. Everyone in her hut was being reassigned. They were to report immediately to the Siemens factory in the south of the camp, where they’d be assembling parts for armaments. The conditions were meant to be terrible there, the air full of noxious smells making it hard to breathe, the temperature freezing cold one minute, stifling hot the next.
She had no idea how long she’d be able to survive.
Chapter 24
England, May 1943
It was late afternoon on Tuesday.
Richard Prince had landed in Scotland the previous afternoon before being flown on immediately to an airbase apparently somewhere near London and driven to a nearby safe house at the end of a long and narrow lane. The house was surrounded by a thick wood on all sides, the wind catching the trees in a way that made them appear as though they were advancing on the house.
He had no idea where he was, and Hendrie said it was best it remained that way. A doctor was waiting for him, and after a thorough check-up, he announced that Prince was on the mend. ‘Take three of these four times a day for five days,’ he said, thrusting a large bottle of pills into his hand. ‘Just check what it says on the label, I may have got the numbers mixed up. And take this one tonight: you’ll sleep like a baby.’
He must have slept for twelve hours. After breakfast, Hendrie took him into the library and introduced him to a severe-looking woman, who was introduced as Prudence. Her task was to commit to paper everything Prince could recall about his mission. She was skilled at asking the right question at the right time, prompting him carefully to ensure his account didn’t stray in terms of dates and that any questions Hendrie asked were strict
ly relevant. She wrote everything down in shorthand, rarely looking up at Prince and occasionally holding up a hand for him to pause while she turned a page.
After three hours, she announced they were done and said she’d type up her notes before passing on the report to Mr Gilbey.
‘Prudence is terribly good,’ Hendrie told Prince. ‘By far the best we have at this type of thing. Have some lunch, but stay around here. She’ll probably want to double-check some dates with you or iron out any discrepancies. Then the report goes to Gilbey, and once he’s read it, all three of us can have a chat.’
‘When will I be able to get away? I’m terribly keen to see my boy. It would be wonderful if I could be driven up overnight and be there when he wakes up.’
Hendrie had moved over to the shuttered window and seemed preoccupied with it. ‘That’s probably pushing it – best not to get ahead of ourselves, eh?’
‘Could I at least telephone my sister-in-law?’
‘One step at a time, Richard, one step at a time.’
He couldn’t recall Hendrie calling him Richard before.
* * *
Now it was late afternoon, and Prince sensed something was up.
He couldn’t put his finger on what that something was, but when he entered the room where Tom Gilbey was waiting, he felt like a spendthrift customer about to ask his bank manager for another loan. It was that kind of atmosphere.
‘Welcome back, Richard.’
That was it for a while. Gilbey had been standing behind a desk. He hesitated before coming to shake Prince’s hand and then sitting down. He lit a cigarette, moved a sheaf of documents from one side of the desk to the other and tapped his fountain pen on the desktop.
‘May I sit down, sir?’
‘Of course, sorry. I’m told you’re on the mend, eh?’
Prince assured him he was, though he tired quite easily.
‘You’re going to need a decent rest, old chap.’
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