by Jana Petken
It was midday, and Judith’s birthday lunch was to begin at one o’clock. Judith, who had been working until the early hours of that morning, was still asleep, and Laura had ordered everyone in the house to keep as quiet as possible.
Hannah and baby Jack were also attending the party, but Hannah, worried that Jack’s squeals would wake Judith up, had bundled her son in his pram and headed off on a long walk in the crisp air to tire the toddler out.
Dieter, Heller and Max huddled in Dieter’s office. It was, in fact, called a third bedroom, albeit not big enough to house a bed. Dieter often retreated there to listen to his radio and read as many newspapers as he could lay his hands on. The news was often slow to go to press, meaning he usually learnt more about the latest developments through intelligence gathered at Bletchley Park before headlines for public consumption hit the stands. But despite the delays, he enjoyed certain journalists’ perspectives on politics and the war.
Heller and Dieter were discussing the recent German strike on Malta. Valetta, the Maltese capital had been hit hard and its iconic Royal Opera House had been reduced to rubble. Max kept his eyes on Heller, hoping he’d finally tell him where he was being posted to. Unsure if this was Heller’s way of compounding the rebukes he’d received in London, Max was erring on the side of caution. Far be it for him to interrupt his boss and Dieter Vogel. He supposed he should be honoured for being allowed to attend the intimate gathering in the first place.
Heller had talked about everything from the sinking of the American coastal steamer SS David H. Atwater by gunfire from a German submarine off the United States East Coast, to the newly released comedy film, My Favourite Blonde, starring Bob Hope and Madeleine Carroll. But he had not seen fit to put Max out of his misery, yet.
Max excused himself and went to the kitchen for some water to settle his nerves and curb his frustration.
Laura touched his arm. “Max, I’ve just woken Judith, so be a love and tell your father and Jonathan that I’d like them to be seated at the dining table in twenty-five minutes.”
Max returned to the office where Heller and Dieter were in the middle of a discussion about Egypt. He leaned against the wall near to the door as the debate heated up and waited for the opportunity to relay his mother’s message.
“We should never have committed to that second British intervention in February,” Heller said. “What right did we have to compel King Farouk to accept al-Naḥḥās as his prime minister? The monarch will get his revenge on us, you wait and see, Dieter.”
“I thought it a necessary evil to stick our noses in,” Dieter disagreed. “And the Wafd party’s overwhelming success in the general election last month proves that the British took the right action. At least we’ll have better cooperation with this new government.”
“It’s not looking good over there,” Heller shook his head. General Rommel’s Deutsches Afrikakorps are revelling in their advances. Between you and me, we’re being out-fought every inch of the way. If the Germans keep going, they’ll push us out of Cairo altogether.”
As though seeing Max for the first time that day, Heller then asked Dieter, “May I have five minutes alone with Max before lunch?”
“Mother wants us seated in twenty minutes, Father,” said Max.
“I’ll go and give her a hand, shall I? Don’t be long, you two.”
After Dieter had left and closed the door behind him, Heller seemed to relax. “I’m sorry, Max. I wanted to tell you earlier, but you’ll need to keep this under your hat for now, I’m afraid. I’m sending you to Cairo, but you’ll also cover our Libya operations. I suspect it will be a long stint.”
Max’s heart raced. Give him a posting anywhere in Europe and he’d take it in his stride. He possessed the tools for the western front: languages, familiarity with terrain and culture, an in-depth knowledge of battle lines and strategies, clandestine networks and habits of both the Germans and the Resistance. But Egypt and Libya? Those countries and their inner workings were a mystery to him.
“Egypt? I’ll admit that never crossed my mind,” he said, calmer than he felt.
“Well, it’ll be front and centre in your mind now. I’m giving you a week to get up to speed with the intelligence we have to date. We’ve lost two agents over there in the past six months. We think there’s at least one mole in our camp, if not more. Egypt’s turned into a damned hotbed for spies. I need my best man on the job.”
Max eyebrows shot up.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know how highly I think of you. You’re hot-headed and impulsive, Max, but despite your failings, you’re still my best agent.”
“Thank you, sir. When do I leave?”
“We’ll get you kitted out and ready to go next Sunday, and in the meantime, this news must remain top secret.”
“What am I to tell my parents?”
“That you’re going off to war and you’ll write to them, the same as every other young man does, I suppose. Max, I haven’t forgotten what you went through with your brother Paul. Wondering if a loved one is still alive must be excruciating. I’ll have a quiet word in your father’s ear at the appropriate time, all right?”
Max felt a swell of love as he looked around the dining table. Mother giggling after Father had whispered something in her ear. Heller, rattling baby Jack’s toy clown with bells on its hat, and making him giggle, and Hannah, a lost look clouding her pretty features, no doubt thinking about Frank and wherever he might be.
He gazed across the table at Judith’s eyes, those wonderful dark orbs. Then on an impulse he tapped his coffee spoon against his water glass and rose. “Everyone, I have an announcement to make.”
Heller’s eyes widened, but Max shook his head. “No Jonathan, nothing to do with work or war. What I’m going to share is infinitely more personal and much more pleasant.” He smiled at Judith, then at his parents, and finally at Hannah, who slid her gaze to Judith, perhaps with some feminine sixth sense.
“Come on, Max, don’t keep us in suspense,” said Dieter with a sparkle in his eye.
“I’ve bought a birthday present for Judith, and I wanted to give it to her at this table where she and I are surrounded by the people we love.” He went into his pocket and retrieved a little blue velvet box. When he opened it, a gold ring of sapphires set around a diamond glinted in the light. “Judith, will you do me the honour of accepting this token of love, with the promise of becoming my wife?”
Laura squealed, startling Heller and Dieter who were staring with their mouths open.
“I knew it. I knew it would happen. I just knew it!” Laura jumped from her chair and raced to Judith’s side, embracing her with kisses to both cheeks.
Dieter, with a much more subdued reaction, asked, “How and when did this have time to flourish?”
“When you weren’t looking apparently, Papa,” said Hannah, her eyes swimming.
“It seems none of us were looking,” Heller said, with a surprised but congratulatory nod at Max.
“Well, what do you say, Judith? Do you think you can control my boy?” Dieter asked.
“No, not control.” She giggled as she gazed at the ring Max was placing on her finger. “But I will love and cherish him always.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Wilmot Vogel
Viipuri, Finland,
The Mannerheim Line
June 1942
Wilmot was thrown into action against the Russians as soon as he arrived on the Mannerheim Line at the beginning of May. The area surrounding the Syväri River, situated close to the Finnish-Russian border, had been mercilessly besieged. The three Soviet corps, encompassing large formations of KV-1 tanks, had breached the Finnish defences in April, and Wilmot had caught the beginning of the Finns and Germans’ counterattack using four divisions of tanks from the remnants of the third and sixth Panssari Komppania.
Wilmot, sitting on the supply wagon next to Klaus, the driver, breathed the sweet air now free from the taste and stink of fuel, gun p
owder, and cordite from the Flak 88mm antitank guns that had clogged it for almost a month.
“I can’t believe how warm it is. I didn’t think I’d ever feel heat on my face again,” Wilmot remarked to Klaus.
“Don’t get carried away, Willie, it’s only sixteen degrees.”
“Hah, you should have felt what I did in the Russian forests when I was on the run … then you’d know what cold really feels like.”
“You might be right. Ach, I suppose I’ve been spoilt being with the Finns. They’re mostly outdoorsmen, and the cold doesn’t bother them because they know how to tackle it. When I was with them in January on reconnaissance patrols they seemed to take the weather in their stride. Mind you, they do build good snow caves and dugouts, much warmer than we ever managed when I was with an all-German unit. To be honest, I think the cold weather is one of the reasons they’ve been successful against the Russkies. The Finns’ tactics of using the heavily forested terrain to bottleneck the enemy with their vastly superior numbers has really worked. They’ve turned this countryside into a graveyard for unprepared Soviet troops.
“The Finns certainly seem to be motivated to fight,” Wilmot remarked. “It’s beautiful here.” It was stunning but, although he’d never share his melancholic musings, he also sensed loneliness in every bush and rock standing in solitary splendour. They somehow reflected his own feelings of isolation.
The dramatic vista was interrupted by ugly wooden watchtowers like alien beings planted on foreign hills, squat stone bunkers, sad-looking raped tree trunks, and barbed wire fencing that distorted the otherwise perfect landscape.
The Finns had closed potential traffic and attack pathways with myriad anti-tank ditches and the circular defence lines made from square-pyramidal fortifications of reinforced concrete – the hedgehogs and dragon’s teeth. These were supported by a complex system of ditches and barbed wire runs that protected the anti-tank barriers against sappers, bridge-layer tanks, and engineer teams. It had made a lot of sense to Wilmot, for the Russians were forced to attack trenches as they had in The Great War, without armoured forces or direct fire support and at a terrible cost to life.
“You know, Klaus, I’ve only fired my rifle once since getting here. Remember when that Soviet unit managed to sneak behind our lines? I’ll be glad to get back to full duties. I’ve been quite happy sitting on this wagon, but I’m ready to fight now. I’m fit.”
“You’ve been fattened up like a Christmas turkey, despite the rest of us feeling half-starved all the time,” Klaus giggled like a girl, as he was apt to do. “I like your stories, Willie, we all do. You’re a celebrity around here with your Russian prisoner of war tales, and the promise of an Iron Cross, not to mention losing your toes.”
It was not for extraordinary feats that he was admired, Willie admitted to himself. It was his ability to turn his horrendous experiences into a humorous adventure saga. Only when he closed his eyes at night did he relive the savagery and suffering of his imprisonment and subsequent escape.
As they neared a Finnish fortified bunker, Wilmot noticed more changes in the landscape.
“Look, Klaus, the ice has gone. The rivers are running again … and I never noticed those brown rocks before…”
“That’s because everything was white.”
“Ach, it’s beautiful.”
“You sound like an old woman.”
“I know …maybe …I suppose it’s because I never thought I’d live to see anything like this again.”
Wilmot suspected that his new-found appreciation for the land, and life in general, was due to his many brushes with death and his erstwhile belief that he wouldn’t survive to see another spring or summer. His renewed optimism had lifted him out of the black hole of despair that had undoubtedly finished Haupt off. But in a strange twist of fate, it had also turned his grief to resentment. Wilmot rarely mentioned the Hauptmann to anyone. He’d been inconsolable for days after his friend’s suicide, but now he was disappointed with the man who’d tried so very hard to survive only to throw his life away when he’d attained victory. Every day Wilmot thought, Look, Haupt, look at what you’re missing.
Upon arrival at the friendly bunker, the unit of ten Finns and four Germans were given six-hours to eat and sleep before taking over line guard duties, allowing those men already in the bunker to go on reconnaissance. Wilmot helped Klaus unload the wagon and then went inside the tiny stone fortress that was their respite area. Floor mattresses and a wood-burning stove looked inviting; however, he noted that the place had no weaponry and armaments of any kind.
“We might as well put a welcome mat out for the Russians, Klaus. I can’t see us holding back the Red Army with rifles,” Wilmot remarked.
“Don’t worry, Willie. This bunker hasn’t seen action since February. I’ll be quite happy to spend the rest of the war here. This is where I do all my writing.”
“What writing?”
“You know, letters to my family, a bit of poetry.”
Since his meeting with Major von Kühn in Viipuri, Wilmot hadn’t thought to write to Kriminaldirektor Biermann. He’d presumed, wrongly it seemed, that the major would at some point hear back from Biermann. “To be honest, Klaus, I’m a bit disappointed not to have received a single letter from anyone since last year,” he said, a little down in the mouth. “Kriminaldirektor Biermann – you know, the man I told you about – he hasn’t replied to Major von Kühn in Viipuri, or at least he hadn’t before we went on patrol. I was hoping he would inform my brother, Paul, and then Paul could maybe find a way to let my mother know I’m all right.”
The lanky, freckled-faced, Klaus, looked puzzled. “Why don’t you write to your mother in Berlin? That’s where you’re from, isn’t it? The postal service picks up our letters once a week from Viipuri aerodrome, and they deliver mail whenever a plane comes in…”
Wilmot’s face reddened. Keeping secrets and lying wasn’t easy when one was apt to forget what the secret and lie was about. Luckily, Wilmot didn’t need to say anything further on the matter, for a booming voice outside shouted for him.
“Schütze Vogel! Get out here – now!”
Outside, Wilmot was met by two German Panzergrenadiers getting out of a Soviet BA-6 armoured vehicle, which had been acquired after one of the recent failed Russian advances.
One of the grenadiers said, “We’re here for you, Vogel. Get your gear together.”
“What’s going on?” Wilmot questioned his unit’s Obergefreiter.
“You’re going back to Viipuri. It must be urgent if they sent a tank for you.”
“We have to leave now,” one of the Grenadiers said. “We’ve been ordered to hand you over to a transport unit further up the line. They’ll give you a lift to Viipuri. You’ll be sleeping in the city tonight, lucky bugger.”
Wilmot grinned. Joy spread through him, tears poured down his cheeks. “My God, at last, they’re sending me home on leave.”
“No, they’re not. As far as we know, you’ll be leaving Viipuri tomorrow afternoon to come back here. They just want to see you for a short time. God knows why, but there it is, get a move on.” The Grenadier handed Wilmot his orders.
Wilmot, anxious rather than excited, strode towards the tank. “I’m ready to go now. My gear is already on my back in my rucksack.”
The men in Wilmot’s unit gathered around, patting him on the shoulders and back as he climbed into the armoured vehicle.
“Well done, Willie. Don’t forget to pin your Iron Cross to your camouflage uniform before you come back. We all want to see it on you,” Klaus told him.
Of course, Wilmot thought, he was going to get his medal.
In the armoured car, Wilmot looked at his orders which had been scribbled quickly on a piece of paper, and read, 08.00 at the Viipuri aerodrome. Wear dress uniform. “Dress uniform?” he muttered. He didn’t have one. He was carrying a toothbrush, a tin of tooth powder, and a fresh pair of long johns. The last item had been a must. When he’d been with the
Russians, he’d shat himself, and that feeling of walking about with hard shite rubbing against his arse had disgusted him and made his backside raw. He’d been forced to keep them on, stinking like a sewer for almost a month. Never again, he’d thought, when he’d eventually removed the johns despite the sub-zero temperatures.
Alarmed by the vehicle’s accelerated speed that was causing it to skid, Wilmot began to imagine more sinister reasons for his orders. He was to testify to a military court about Haupt’s and Jürgen’s deaths? He was to write yet another report about the Russians’ military intentions, based on his time with them? He was in trouble for opening his big mouth about something or other, which he was prone to do, but on this occasion couldn’t remember doing? Be at the aerodrome at 08.00, but he wasn’t getting on an aircraft, according to the driver. So, what was it all about?
“Can either of you tell me why I’m going to Viipuri?” he asked. “You seem to be in a hell of a hurry to get me to wherever we’re going. Am I in trouble?”
“We don’t know anything,” the driver shouted over his shoulder. “They’ll probably tell you what’s going on when we get you to the base.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Schütze. If you had done something wrong, they’d have sent us with a pair of handcuffs.”
“Alright. That’s comforting.” Wilmot sighed.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Viipuri, Finland
June 3rd, 1942
As soon as he arrived in the city’s military barracks, Wilmot contacted Otto Krause, the man who’d guided Haupt and him through Viipuri’s streets weeks earlier. He was determined to go out, get drunk, perhaps talk to a woman, and even kiss one if he were lucky. Not since Poland had he socialised with the opposite sex, albeit without having been allowed to touch any of them. He’d almost forgotten what it was to have a good time, and thanks to Otto kindly offering to take him to a club, he was looking forward to the evening ahead.