Bitter Field

by Jack Ludlow

  From being cheered by the speed of response, that evaporated when he saw that it had come from Broadway. ‘You sent this through the office?’

  ‘Yes, it was bound to be quicker.’

  Noel McKevitt was wondering how many people would have been apprised of that and how high it would go. ‘I would have been happier if you’d told me, Gibby.’

  ‘And I, Noel, would be happier to be getting on with my proper job.’

  ‘Your job is to do what I tell you.’

  ‘But you’re not telling me, are you?’

  Not having mentioned that the station was going to be closed down yet, that waspish reply allowed McKevitt the pleasure of doing so now and he told Gibby Gibson with no attempt to soften the blow to a man who was bound to wonder what this meant for his future career.

  ‘So once this job, my job, is complete, old cock, it’s pack your bags and back home for you and your 2IC, Bucharest and Warsaw for the others.’

  ‘That’s mad.’

  ‘Tell Quex, Gibby, not me,’ McKevitt replied with a cold stare, ‘the orders come from him.’

  Turning to the list, the name of Nolan stuck out as the only one where there was a query, given the owner had applied for a replacement, claiming his original had been lost, and the name on the document should be a Mr Laycock of 156 Fulham Palace Road, London, address and distinguishing mark supplied. All the other numbers were genuine. He toyed with the notion of sending for a copy of the photograph but that would take too long.

  ‘Where’s the Meran Hotel?’

  ‘Wenceslas Square.’

  ‘Get me a car and some backup, I’m going there.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Noel, but the folk you want to back you up are all out doing what you wanted already.’

  ‘Then it will have to be you and me.’

  ‘What about an interpreter?’

  ‘We don’t need one, the bloke we’re going to call on is English.’

  Gibson grabbed a copy of the hotels his other men were calling on that day. ‘The people you might want to question don’t speak English, so let’s find Miklos first.’

  Cal extended the walk around Cheb in search of a meal as much as he could, passing several possibilities, trying to memorise the layout of the place and relate to the pictures he had seen. One of his stops was outside the Nazi Party HQ, much more formidable in fact than shown in the photographs.

  It had steel doors with firing slits and shutters of the same kind for the windows; they at least were not going to take any chances if the Czechs came for them. They would not succumb to mere rifle fire – they would need artillery.

  A wide loop in what was not a large town centre finally brought them back to the hotel square and Cal then chose the station café right across from the Victoria for a bite to eat, which had Jimmy Garvin, who was sitting indoors, scuttling away to try to remain unseen, ducking out of the door and scooting towards the station entrance. Sadly, nothing catches the idle eye quicker than movement and Corrie spotted him.

  ‘So there’s another reporter here?’ Cal said.

  ‘Sure, but why is he avoiding me?’

  ‘Probably best I don’t answer that.’ That got him a thump on the arm, which only deepened his grin. ‘Anyway, let’s see if they do a sandwich.’

  ‘You’re not planning on an outside table?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s blowing a gale.’

  ‘We’ll be OK.’

  ‘You might, I’ll freeze.’

  ‘Don’t they have wind in Boston?’

  ‘They do, and people of sense avoid it.’

  He had to accede even if he did not want to; there was no way he was going to tell Corrie of his intention to study the exterior of the Victoria Hotel, the numbers going in and out and how the guards behaved – he also hoped to be there when they changed.

  Frustratingly there were no tables by the window, but as soon as one was vacated he picked up his food, moved, and since his concentration was taken by the front of the hotel, he sat in silence.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Corrie finally said.

  ‘I was just thinking about what Henlein said this morning and how he lied so easily, and with that nice-old-man smile on his face. Then when you look over there at those two Herberts standing outside the front door with their feet spread and a glower for anyone passing you wonder what makes them tick.’

  ‘Power.’

  ‘Yep, even a tiny bit is enough.’

  In truth he was thinking that even the hotel would be hard to attack; it was in a terrace, which meant a frontal assault on the door was the only option and that was after you had crossed a wide open space large enough to give those inside, forewarned, a very good chance to get out the back doors where there was very likely an alleyway.

  The next thought was how he was going to get round the back to check it out without causing suspicion; it was not, after all, what a man like him would do, wander into some narrow passage going nowhere. It was one of those situations where the presence of Vince would have been handy.

  ‘Guards changing,’ Corrie pointed out.

  A party of Brownshirts approached and with much rigid arm raising, shouting and stamping they performed a farrago of a military drill, which would have been comical to Cal if he did not know the nature of the berks doing it. He had seen men like them taunt and beat up Jews in full view of their fellow citizens, who even if they wanted to, dared not interfere.

  Often they would assault anyone who showed insufficient enthusiasm in their salutes to the name of the Führer, or even some poor soul who looked at them the wrong way, sure that whatever treatment they meted out would not bring down on them any sanction – they were above the law.

  ‘You done?’ he asked, looking at Corrie’s unfinished food, and when she nodded he added, ‘Best have a wash and freshen up before we see the leader again.’

  ‘He sure has nice manners,’ Corrie said, rubbing the back of the hand he had kissed. ‘Not like some people I could mention.’

  With that Cal extended his arm, which was taken by Corrie with a smile. The wind tugged at their clothes as they made their way back to the Victoria, and they separated to go to their respective rooms to prepare for the afternoon session.

  There was not much difference between that and the morning, exactly the same cosy atmosphere, with slight variations on the trotted-out mantras, but at least Corrie had got into her stride when it came to sounding sympathetic because she had seen that was the only way to draw Henlein out.

  And he was enjoying himself; it was almost as if being denied the kind of international publicity he clearly craved he was bathing in the sound of his own glory, repetitious when it came to his patience in dealing with the separatist problem, calling as concessions things he had done to make life awkward for the Czechs.

  It was the same as what was happening across the border, the same as that speech of Goebbels: the well-honed lie that sounded reasonable as long as you stuck to it and allowed for no one to question it.

  ‘I feel you need more, Fräulein Littleton,’ Henlein said when the time came to end the session, impatiently signalled by the Ice Maiden, each sentence translated by Cal. ‘There are documents I would wish you to see, things Herr Barrowman could interpret for you to demonstrate how far backwards I have bent to avoid a problem turning into a crisis. Alas there is no time today, but I will ensure these things are made available to you tomorrow and then, in the afternoon, perhaps we can talk again.’

  ‘That would be most generous, Herr Henlein.’

  ‘And perhaps,’ he added, with a scholarly smile, ‘you will have outlined in some detail the article you intend to submit and we can discuss it.’

  There was no choice but to accede to that and they were ushered out.

  * * *

  The clattering of Corrie’s typewriter was audible through her door when Cal came to fetch her for dinner, another indifferent meal, this time accompanied by the drone of th
e Deputy Führer, Rudolf Hess. He was no man to rally the troops, in fact looking around he looked like the kind of speaker who would be able to send his audience to sleep – even Corrie knew that and she could not understand a word he said.

  ‘A walk?’ Cal asked when Hess had finished – they could not pull the same sickness stunt twice.

  ‘No, I’m bushed, Cal, being lied to all day and having to smile takes its toll.’

  ‘We’ll go for a little spin tomorrow morning, have a look around.’

  That got him a look of deep suspicion; he was not the type for a ‘spin’, but she said nothing, just smiled and nodded and they made their way to their rooms. Cal, when he entered his, noticed his canvas bag had been moved.

  He also noticed when he lifted it that it was a damn sight heavier than when he had left it at the foot of the chair, not surprising really when he saw that it had inside a Mauser pistol in a leather holster and two full ammo clips. He had to hide it quickly when there was a knock at the door, which when opened revealed standing there, in full SA kit, Karol Veseli.

  ‘Heil Hitler, Herr Barrowman,’ he said, in a voice too loud given they were only a few feet apart, just enough for him to add a salute.

  ‘Good day …?’ Cal could not use a name.

  It was instructive that as soon as Veseli’s hand dropped it went to his lips to command silence, then a finger waved to indicate the room was bugged.

  ‘Standartenführer Karl Wessely.’ The same sound, but Cal assumed the surname would be a different, more Germanic spelling. ‘I have come, on the instructions of our leader, to ensure that everything is in order with your visit.’

  ‘It is, thank you.’

  Responding to a crooked finger, Cal immediately stepped out into the corridor and shut his door, hissing, ‘My room was searched last night.’

  Veseli replied softly in German, ‘I know, I ordered it. Leave the keys to your car at reception when you go to breakfast tomorrow. Tell them to bring it to you in an hour.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Matters are coming to a head, you will see.’

  ‘I was going to do a recce in the morning between here and Asch.’

  ‘The time for that is past. We need to act quickly.’

  Reaching past Cal he pushed the door open, speaking normally. ‘My Freikorps troop are having a rally tomorrow night in the central square, we would be most pleased if you and Miss Littleton would come and attend as my guest. There will be food and beer and we can listen to the speech of the Führer from the Congress Hall on the radio.’

  ‘Delighted,’ Cal replied, managing to make it sound as though he meant it.

  ‘And perhaps we can talk together and I can introduce to you and your lady reporter some of my men, and they will relate to you the lies that are told daily about how we ordinary Sudetenlanders behave.’

  ‘I’m sure Miss Littleton would be very grateful for that.’

  ‘I will call for you at eighteen-thirty hours tomorrow. The Führer’s speech begins at seven.’

  Wessely/Veseli gave him another stiff salute and was gone, leaving Cal to wonder at what the plan was, because there had to be one and whatever was going to take place had to happen tomorrow night and he was not sure he was happy with that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In a strange city, especially one where the language was difficult to understand and few spoke English, Vince Castellano was glad of the Automat cafés; there he could eat and drink by merely looking at what was on offer in the various compartments and putting coins in the slot so that the glass-fronted door opened.

  He also thought it a good idea, since he had time on his hands, to locate the Jewish Emigration Centre well before there was any need to go there in a panic, but when he got there, having got lost a couple of times, he wished he had not.

  The sight depressed him too much; he had seen this sort of thing in the cinema on the Paramount and Pathé newsreels but in the flesh it was much worse, the displaced flotsam of those dislodged by war or the threat of it.

  There was no queue outside the building, more a mob of people desperate to get out of the country by any means possible, all ages from ancient beings in black round hats with long ringlets to wailing babes in arms, tired-looking men and women, all Jewish, surrounded by suitcases or wrapped bundles of possessions.

  The whole seemed to move in a swaying motion, much like a tide, as rumours were spread from one to another, this while volunteers moved through the crowd with buckets of water and ladles to quench the thirst of those hoping for those magic papers that would allow them to cross a border.

  If it was like this before the Germans invaded, what would it be like afterwards? And then Vince realised it would be quieter – there would be a lot less Jewish emigration if they were in charge instead of the Czechs. The temptation to go inside was killed off by the people besieging the entrance so he turned round to retrace his steps, map in hand, constantly required to stop and peer at the street names which were incomprehensible.

  It would have been nice to travel by bus or tram but he feared getting even more lost by taking the wrong one and occasionally, in frustration, he cursed Cal Jardine for leaving him alone in such a strange city.

  Yet many of the locals, seeing his confusion, took pity on him as he sought to compare street and map names, eager to help, and everyone, even without English, knew the name and whereabouts of Wenceslas Square, so if it took time to get back to the Meran, he got there in the end.

  Having been surrounded, when he overheard any conversations, by an unintelligible babble, the sound of a loud English voice, even a slightly irate and Irish one, as well as people dressed in the kind of clothes he knew from home, was welcome, and he made to approach the two men who were in heavy discussion by a double-parked car, one of whom had a very military moustache and bearing.

  ‘For the love of Christ, Gibby, tell Miklos to send the bugger on his way.’

  He did not in the end get close, but wiping the half smile of greeting off his face, Vince spun on his heel and went to look at a poster stuck on the nearest lamp post advertising something, he knew not what.

  There was a third person at the front of the car explaining something to an unsmiling policeman and he was the big benevolent-looking fellow who had come to his door and asked to see his passport the day before.

  ‘Copper’s only doing his job.’

  ‘And I am trying to get on with mine, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘There’s no rush, Noel, he’s bound to come back here.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that.’

  ‘Where else is he going to go? The clerk says his luggage is in his room.’

  ‘We should get Miklos to work him over.’

  ‘Miklos is not a real policeman, and anyway they don’t do that sort of thing in Czecho.’

  ‘Then they’re too soft and deserve to be invaded by the Hun.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that your man, Nolan, might be genuine?’

  ‘On a lost passport?’

  Vince had pulled his hat down while he listened to the argument and then that was added to by an accented voice. ‘The policeman says he doesn’t care if we have diplomatic plates, we can’t park here and must move.’

  If there was a reply Vince did not hear it; he was already walking away, forcing himself not to rush, wondering what time he had, only registering after several paces the way that foreign bloke had said ‘we’. Diplomatic plates? He ducked down the first alley then doubled back to the rear of the Meran and through the door.

  The lift was opposite the reception desk so it was a run up the stairs, and when he got to his room door a full kick splintered what was not a very strong lock. Inside, Vince shut the door and waited, counting to sixty; the noise of splintering wood might bring out someone from the shared hallway to see what had caused it but they would have to be standing right outside the door to see the damage.

  In that minute the whole gamut of possibilities ran through his mind
but the one thing that was certain was that he could not stay here and he could no longer use that false passport, which had to be the reason that bloke was calling again. Diplomatic plates meant an embassy as well, but then he had heard the military-looking one say that the bloke was not a real policeman.

  Was it the law after him or someone else? Assume the worst, it’s safest. What would they do when they discovered he had flown the Meran? He had a choice, the Jewish Emigration Centre or another hotel and he did not fancy the former, yet if he went to another hotel and it was the law they would come round looking for an Englishman who had checked in that day.

  That was when Vince nearly laughed; first off he set a chair against the inside door handle to keep it closed and went to the canvas bag Cal had provided, then he packed his things quickly and untidily, including the book of short stories, pocketed the key to the Tatra and was out of that door in three minutes, bounding back down the stairs.

  Outside in Wenceslas Square, thanks to an insistent policeman, it had been necessary to let Gibby Gibson move the car and so Noel McKevitt had taken station in the lobby, this after he had sent Miklos to the receptionist to flash that false warrant card again and order him to alert the man with the wispy fair hair sitting over there if Mr Nolan came back and asked for his key.

  But a quick recce had revealed the back entrance and Miklos, duty done, was sent to cover that, arriving seconds before Vince reached the ground floor and made for the back door. Well oiled, it opened noiselessly and there before Vince was the back of a big bloke looking up and down the street, his hands in his pockets.

  Stick or twist? There was really no option and no time to consider if this man blocking his way was a proper copper. If he was here, and whatever he was, the front had to be covered too. Dropping his bag, Vince stepped forward. Miklos heard the soft plop of it hitting the ground and turned to see coming toward him, smiling, the man he had spoken to previously.