by C. T. Wells
Lucas strode ahead. ‘This way if you please, Josef.’
Josef hesitated but Mr. Hood mutely motioned with his gloved hand for him to follow. The man’s face was slightly asymmetrical, as though it had been dragged down on the left towards the burn scars on his neck. It was not a gross disfigurement, but he was permanently fixed with a look of disapproval. Must be hard to flatter the ladies with a scowl that can’t be turned off.
Josef followed Lucas. He decided to comply for now. He would resist when there was something to be gained. From here on in, it would be a game of wits. Venture no real information. Play the dumb low–ranked nobody. That wouldn’t be too hard. Stick to name and rank for now. But he knew all men had their limits, and at some point in the coming hours or days he would be hurting so badly he’d have to change tactics. If he had to yield something, he would have had time to get creative. He would make them pay for every word. If they were going to hurt him, he would feed them so much disinformation they would be looking for Nazi secret weapons up their own backsides. It wasn’t that he had to hold out for a certain period of time. It was about staying in control.
They entered a heavily curtained drawing room where Lucas was pouring two glasses of scotch from a crystal decanter. A dark–suited man of about fifty was sitting in an overstuffed chair near the fire. He had a black doctor’s bag at his feet. Mr. Payne, evidently. He was an innocuous–looking chap for a torturer.
Josef scanned the room. It was very much the home of an English gentleman; a country squire perhaps. An oil painting of a foxhunt dominated the space over the mantle. Scarlet–coated gentlemen, hounds and horses all running the poor beast to ground. The whole scene looked like a lot of fuss and bother for something you couldn’t eat.
He took in the rest of the room: an enormous leather–topped desk, towering book shelves and a scattering of comfortable, club–style furniture. The only thing out of place in the room was a second desk laden with a collection of khaki–coloured field radio equipment and a Morse transmitter key. A thick antenna cable lay like a python across the patterned carpet then went up behind the curtains and presumably to a radio mast mounted outside the house. All things considered, it wasn’t quite the dungeon that he had expected for an interrogation.
‘Josef, this gentleman will be attending to you. Mr. Payne, your patient.’
Mr. Payne looked over the top of his half–glasses and nodded at Josef. He looked mild–mannered. But maybe he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A sadist in a suit.
Lucas passed one of the glasses of scotch towards Josef. ‘You might be needing this.’
Josef hesitated.
Lucas rolled his eyes. ‘It’s just whisky. I don’t believe in truth serums. Go on then, take the other one, if you don’t trust me.’ He proferred both glasses equally. ‘I’ll have whichever one you don’t want.’
Josef took a whisky glass.
‘Bottoms up!’ Lucas downed his own whisky.
Josef drank a mouthful through bruised and bloody lips. The alcohol stung his damaged flesh, but it would work like an antiseptic on the wounds. If he was going to make an escape attempt, he did not want to be fighting infection and fever.
Lucas turned to Mr. Payne. ‘Where would you like him?’
The dental surgeon looked around the room, clearly disappointed with his options. ‘The chaise.’
Josef sat back on the closest thing they had to a dentist’s chair. Payne leaned in to inspect the damage to his teeth. Lucas poured a second scotch before stirring up the coals in the fire. Mr. Hood left the room.
‘Open up, please, Josef.’
Josef obliged while the dental surgeon looked down through his glasses to evaluate the damage.
‘I say, Lucas, is there no way we could attend to his teeth in the surgery in Plymouth?’
‘Absolutely not,’ snapped Lucas. ‘You’ll fix him here. Improvise.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
Josef was trying to follow the conversation. He was rigid, expecting them to drill into his teeth until he blurted everything he knew about Messerschmitts, but they were talking about fixing, not harming. Maybe it was another mental tactic. Build hope, then crush it.
The surgeon must have seen the tension in him. ‘Relax, Josef. I have no intention of harming you. I will give you a painkiller in a moment. Better than whisky.’
‘What’s the damage?’ Lucas came over to peer into Josef’s mouth. He immediately wrinkled his nose in distaste and returned to the armchair.
‘Not too bad really. He’s split his lip and bruised the gum, but there’s only one tooth that has broken off, by the look of things. It needs a crown.’
‘Well, get on with it. We need him up and about shortly. No stitches needed?’
Payne was plucking fragments of tooth from the inside of his gum with tweezers. ‘His lip could do with …’
‘No, no. Nothing obvious. It cannot look like he’s received any medical attention.’
What was going on? It seemed more likely that Lucas was some kind of civilian operative, and this whole experience was off–the–record. But somehow Mr. Payne’s manner reassured him. He was going about his work like a diligent professional.
Lucas took another Honduran cigar from a humidor on the desk and clipped the end with the snick–snick of a cutter. For someone who didn’t have many left, he went through them at a steady rate. There were numerous singe marks in the carpet around the desk where he had been careless with the ash.
Josef rolled his eyeballs sideways to keep Lucas in sight. The Englishman ambled back across the room and sat down. He lit the Toro with a match and leant back in the lounge chair. He flicked the match away. It made a short, bright arc and landed in the fireplace. It reminded Josef of seeing his plane go down.
Lucas drew heavily on the cigar. It occurred to Josef that Toro meant ‘Bull’. It amused him faintly that Lucas sucked on the end of a Toro all day long. He must be full of bull.
Lucas was absorbed with his cigar for a moment, blowing smoke rings that drifted upwards and merged into a haze that almost obscured the decorative ceiling.
Who was he? There was not a military bone in his body and he was not some grey–suited plodder who had made a prudent journey up through the government bureaucracy. An aristocrat maybe? Someone who assumed a great deal of influence. Josef had heard that many British Intelligence officers were drawn straight from universities, without having once marched around a parade ground or stripped and cleaned a rifle. Was this place his home? Or had it been acquired for the war effort?
Mr. Payne produced a syringe and Josef did not protest as his jaw was anaesthetised. He was ready for anything that would get it over with.
‘Are you a Nazi, Josef?’ asked Lucas as Mr. Payne hunted through his bag for the correct apparatus.
Josef mumbled through his damaged mouth.‘No. I’m not … political. Just a pilot.’ This was Stage One of the game plan. Dumb, low–ranked nobody.
‘I thought as much, but what do you think of Hitler?’
Josef was spared answering as the surgeon went to work on his mouth.
‘I’ll tell you what I think, Josef,’ Lucas went on. ‘Hitler is a failed artist. Very dangerous, indeed. He’s already fouling up Europe like it’s just another cheap canvas. Only it’s not paint that’s being wasted. It’s blood.’
Josef’s face went numb and Mr. Payne got on with the work of extracting broken pieces of the tooth. Josef stared at the cornice above the fireplace as Lucas went on with his political commentary.
Josef felt the dental surgeon’s fingers pry back his gum from the base of the tooth. He didn’t know what was worse, the dentistry or Lucas’ prattling.
When Lucas left a gap, Payne spoke softly. ‘I need to use a drill to prepare the tooth for the crown. We will do the crown tomorrow, but I must prepare the tooth now. It might hurt. Usually
I have a patient fully anaesthetised and restrained. Can you keep still?’
Josef nodded.
Payne inserted a small drill into Josef’s mouth. He prodded the damaged gum.
Josef flinched.
Lucas stepped closer, drawn to the pain like a moth to flame.
‘Sorry.’ Payne shot a glance at Lucas. ‘That’s where a proper anaesthetic in a surgery would help.’
‘Desperate times, desperate measures. Get on with it.’
Payne turned back to his work. The electric drill whirred and Josef felt it press into the shattered tooth. He wanted to arch his back and writhe but he gripped the sides of the chair and tried to be a statue. He could tell by the concentration on Payne’s face the surgeon was trying to do a good job. A moment later, it was done and his mouth was being irrigated with some kind of hand pump.
‘I know all this political talk doesn’t mean much to you, Josef,’ Lucas continued. ‘You’re what? Twenty–one? And you’re a pilot. A junior flying officer. It’s not really your place to make decisions, is it? You do what you’re told. You don’t take responsibility, you just fly your fighter plane and the young girls think you’re very dashing. You’re an opportunist, not an idealist.’
Josef focussed on lying still while Payne swabbed his gum and flushed out his mouth. It was an awkward process without an assistant or suction.
‘Spit,’ Payne said.
Josef spat blood and saline solution into a stainless steel dish.
Lucas wrinkled his nose, but kept talking. ‘And we know you’re a South African, Josef. You’ve only been in Germany for three years or so. It’s not your homeland. Not what you stand for. Flying was a way out for you, wasn’t it? An opportunity to leave all that other stuff behind …’
Josef tried to breath steadily through his nose as Payne continued cleaning his wounds. How did Lucas know this? Was the British intelligence so good they had background information on every Luftwaffe pilot? Or was he working the probabilities to build some kind of rapport or feign insider information? Maybe it was just more trickery to loosen him up.
Lucas fossicked around in Payne’s medical bag like a distracted schoolboy. He discovered a set of surgical spectacles fitted with cylindrical magnifying lenses and a tiny electric torch in front of the frame. He tried them on and studied Josef through the strange apparatus, opening and closing each eye in turn, flicking the torch on and off, amusing himself.
At last he spoke again. ‘Lufthansa was the first step, yes? The airline recruited young men with aptitude from all over. You had a German mother, a decent academic record and a desire to fly, see the world. That would be, what? 1937?’ It was a rhetorical question and Lucas paused long enough to drop Payne’s glasses back in the bag like a bored child. ‘But after a year of flight training with Lufthansa, so many young men realised it was a closed shop. A boys’ club. Advancement went to those who were better connected. What chance did a South African farm boy have?’ Lucas leant forward on his armchair and stirred the embers in the fire with a poker. ‘But the Luftwaffe … now there’s a different story. The military. Promotion by merit. The opportunity to fly fighter planes. Impress the girls. Be a hero. Make a name for yourself. There were stories of the Condor Legion and their victories in the Spanish Civil War. You were, what? Nineteen? You swore an oath to Hitler. It was the easiest decision you ever made.’
Josef fixed his eyes on the ceiling, trying not to react. It was all true. It seemed Lucas had anchored the story to some facts, but even the speculations were accurate. He was like a fortune teller doing a cold–read. But how had Lucas acquired any of the facts that formed the skeleton of the story?
Josef thought of himself as an insignificant pilot. One of many. But within hours of landing on British soil they had detailed information about him and his background. They were serious, so they must want something serious from him. But what? Josef had expected to be interrogated about the capabilities of German aircraft or radar technology or some such thing, but playing dumb on these topics was not much of a stretch. He didn’t know about the really classified stuff. So what did he have to offer?
‘So Josef, I have reached a conclusion about you. You’re not a Nazi. You’re not even really a German. You’re a practical man. And that is why you will help me.’
Payne offered Josef the metal dish again and he spat blood–laced saliva into it and looked hard at Lucas. ‘I cannot help you. I am a Prisoner of War.’
‘Ah, but you’re not. Not officially. You haven’t been registered, see? That’s why we picked you up so quickly. You’re off the books. And you will help me. Because I know that a practical man will help in a situation such as this.’
Josef tried to speak clearly despite his swollen and bruised mouth. They hadn’t hurt him yet, so he was still in Stage One of the plan. ‘I am Feldwebel Josef Schafer. I claim amnesty under the Geneva Convention …’
‘Don’t give me that rubbish, Josef. The only good thing that has come out of Geneva is chocolate. Have you tried their liqueurs?’
Josef pushed himself up off the chaise. ‘I have rights.’
‘I hab wights,’ mocked Lucas, exaggerating the words misspoken by Josef’s numb mouth. ‘Mr. Payne, you may leave us for a moment.’
The dental surgeon nodded and exited the drawing room.
Josef glowered at Lucas. In his peripheral vision there was a syringe still on the side table. He did a quick calculation. It would take half a second to pick it up, then a second to cross the space between them and another half–second to stick it into Lucas’ neck or at least threaten to. Two seconds to have him bleeding from his carotid artery or held as a hostage. That was the ace–card he would hold onto for now.
‘Listen, Josef. Sit down. I have something better to offer you than your rights.’
Sceptical, he sat on the edge of the chaise to listen. The syringe was within arm’s reach.
Lucas faced him from the armchair. ‘I am prepared to offer you freedom. That’s why I had to get you here before the MPs got their hands on you and had you registered as a POW.’
Josef frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘A mutually satisfying arrangement. I’ll help you. And I know that you’ll help me.’
‘Why would I help you?’
Lucas uncoiled like a black mamba. ‘Melitta.’
The name hit him like the strike of a snake. Lucas knew about his sister! Josef stiffened, knowing at once his body had betrayed his reaction to the name.
Lucas smiled; a cruel rictus, oddly framed by his soft features.
‘What has Melitta got to do with this?’
‘She’s your little sister, Josef. The only one left in your family. Who else is going to look after her?’
‘What has happened to her?’
‘She’s still in Johannesburg, Josef. Interned in a British compound. Compound is not really the word, though. More of a prison camp, from what I gather.’
‘She’s in prison?’ It was possible. He had had no mail in months. It was not like her to neglect letter writing, even if his side of the correspondence was lacking.
‘Your mother was a German, Josef. The British government of South Africa considers Melitta a theat. An enemy alien.’ Lucas used the iron poker to stir the coals in the fire place, coaxing them into a glowing heat.
‘How can she be considered an enemy? She’s a girl.’
Lucas shrugged. ‘These are the times in which we live.’ He returned the poker to its stand and reached up to the broad mantelpiece. For the first time Josef noticed a manila dossier sitting on the marble shelf. The Englishman extracted a photograph from the file and offered it to Josef.
Josef stood to receive the sepia–toned image. The photo was of Melitta, aged about eighteen. It was quite recent. Josef hadn’t seen her in nearly three years but she was unmistakable.
Everyth
ing had happened at once at the end of 1937. Their mother died in a car accident in Johannesburg. She was coming to see him at his boarding school when the taxi ran off the road. When the police recovered her body they found his letter of acceptance for the Lufthansa pilot training program in her handbag. She had been coming to deliver it in person. She had been the one who gave him every chance he ever had.
They had buried her on a scorching Saturday with Melitta gripping his arm by the graveside. One week later he graduated. In the absence of both parents, his little sister had been the one to raise a glass to toast him. When his classmates went off on their summer holidays, Josef had stayed to sort out the family’s meagre affairs. There was enough money left to send Melitta to St. Andrews School for two more years. And enough for him to buy a ticket with Imperial Airways to take a flying boat from Durban to Marseilles. From there he would travel by rail to Berlin to commence his training with Lufthansa.
The photo showed her to be womanly now, not the gangly girl who had hugged him goodbye on the dock at Durban. That was the last day he had seen her.
She had been all elbows and a lightly freckled face streaked with tears when they embraced that last time. Small in his arms. But she would be fine, he’d told himself. They would miss their mother terribly, but they were survivors. They’d already proven that. Melitta would get a good education. He would go and start his career as a pilot. They would be fine. They would write often.
A small launch ferried the passengers from the dock to the aircraft that floated serenely on the bay. Josef sat with a dozen other travellers. People in fine clothes with lots of luggage being handled by the crew. Make–up cases. Hat boxes. Leather suitcases. They made his own faded canvas bag look cheap and tired. But at least he was amongst them. Going somewhere.
Melitta was waving, bravely trying not to cry. Maybe she could join him in Europe for the summer break. Lufthansa would pay him during his training and he could save some money for her. He waved and grinned as they shoved off, trying to be cheerful, but she was sobbing now.
The launch took the passengers out over the bay towards the streamlined airliner. Fifty thousand pounds worth of aeroplane. It was a Short Empire C Class; a gleaming monument to the modern world. They said the sun never set on the British Empire, and the Empire flying boat could take you to its farthest reaches. Josef had never flown before and, as the launch took him out from the dock, he tried hard to sit still and contain his excitement. This was a moment he had yearned for.