Death Order

by Jan Needle

  ‘So you are Swedish, Johanne Malling? Or German? Yesterday, you were half and half. And Sweden was so very, very boring, you wanted blood. This is me speaking as Carruthers, by the way. The dedicated agent.’

  ‘I am Swedish, but my family are a mixture. We have interests in Germany, technology, metallurgy, industry. I am studying at Dresden, and I probably will stay. The blood and boredom … well, perhaps I was a little drunk. I can’t see even Hitler causing trouble for the Swedish, he needs our iron ore too much. I can always leave.’

  ‘Hitler is a mad dog. If anything – if I agree with you at all – that is surely why a war is necessary? Many of us in Britain see it as our duty, now. Killing Hitler. As much as anything, it’s a matter of honour. And some of us are afraid that that’s in danger of slipping away from us. The Munich Disease. I’m a Churchill man myself. He thinks Chamberlain has wrecked this country. I’m awfully afraid he’s right. He must come to power, soon.’

  Hannele wriggled. She moved from off his shoulder, swung her legs round, then crossed them under her. She faced him, earnestly, sitting like that, her hands inside her thighs, her vagina exposed to him amid soft hair, smooth skin. Carrington had never talked to a woman like this before. It shocked him, thrilled him, filled him with a kind of ache, a hunger. This woman of twenty spoke to him like a mentor, like a sage. But he could not shift his gaze from off her sex.

  ‘Churchill has read history,’ she said. ‘Churchill should know better. Mr Chamberlain has tried everything, and he has lost. But he knows what will happen if war comes. He remembers carnage, the blood and misery. Mr Churchill caused Gallipoli and would do it all again. He is a playboy, a gangster with a rich uncle. Between them, he and Hitler would lay everything to waste, and the uncle would have to save your side again. America.’

  Still Edward felt no irritation. He concentrated on her breasts, small and soft, tipped so brightly in their red, moving in her agitation. He put a hand out, touching her knee, tenderly. Her head was haloed in the sunlight pouring through the casement. He wanted her at peace.

  ‘Many of your countrymen – no, many of the Germans we have talked about – think Hitler would have stepped back if Churchill had been in power. He would have been afraid. But let me be Carruthers, Hannele. History means nothing to the English. At school I was no great shakes at it, or anything. I’m ignorant.’

  It was a lifeline he was offering, a last throw to save the mood, enjoy the bed and sunlight. Hannele, making a small face, decided to accept it. There was on her lips the slightly sulky look he had first noticed the night before, but she was fighting. A smile broke through.

  ‘Ignorant and arrogant. You are right, Carruthers. How did you gain your empire, I wonder. Were those your weapons? What did you learn at school?’

  Laughing, Edward moved sideways, sweeping her with him, untangling her legs, straightening her until they were facing each other, side by side. Joyfully they made love again, this time at his pace, not hers, even with a contraceptive he produced, both of them delighted by their mutual daring. Still, she did not come, which almost dampened Edward’s happiness. It was nothing, she protested, it was something she could not control today, it did not mean she thought the less of him, or their sex together.

  ‘But we may never meet again! Hannele, I couldn’t bear that!’

  She tapped his nose with her index finger.

  ‘You’re being quite ridiculous. Should I ask Hitler to postpone the war because of your dreadful vanity? You were excellent. I am a woman, not a machine. Everything was excellent.’

  As she spoke she stood. The sun was lowering, painting her pale skin gold. She began to dress.

  ‘Don’t go, Hannele. Another hour.’

  ‘Third time lucky. But I have a train to catch. No! Don’t stand. Stay there, naked. I’d like to take that image. A photograph inside my head.’

  They kissed lightly when it was time to say goodbye. Edward had a heavy certainty that the lightness was more genuine on her part than on his. How ridiculous that the world would guarantee to keep them apart. How ridiculous that he should care. Hannele did not, she did not care to even hide it.

  ‘Don’t look so sad, Carruthers. Have no regrets.’

  ‘I doubt if we’ll… You have no plans to return to England?’

  ‘Oh no. But Edward, you can come to Germany. On a parachute! I promise I’ll be waiting, if you tell me in advance!’

  She laughed, deliciously, and he laughed with her. He watched her from the window, half hidden, naked, behind the curtain. She walked across the corner of the square, and did not look back. He resigned himself to the single thought. That he would not see her again.

  But two days later, Hannele Malling returned to London and sought him out. She brought amazing news.

  Seven

  That Friday evening, after Hannele had gone, began the drabbest weekend of Edward’s life. Outside in London, if he cared to leave the flat, he would have found an atmosphere, an edge, that any man of twenty-five with money in his pocket and an afternoon like that behind him should have delighted in. In the last few weeks, in the last few days especially, a suppressed excitement had been growing. Chamberlain may have shrunk visibly as the clouds across the face of Europe had grown darker, but the British people had taken a different path. Sandbags in the streets, gas-masks issued, ration books and evacuation procedures explained – all had induced a kind of mild hysteria, a desire to ‘get up and at ’im’. Like Hannele, nobody who was nobody had any doubts that Britain and her Empire would be victorious: only the grey men in their boiled shirts and wing collars, who strode the streets of Westminster in rain or shine with black hat and rolled umbrella, were afraid. And lately, they had disappeared, gone to Scotland, Yorkshire, Cumberland to fish for trout and salmon, or shoot grouse. What did they know of real life?

  After Hannele had gone from view, Edward turned from the window and surveyed the bed. It was rumpled, with the impression of their bodies clear on one side and across the middle. His clothes were in a heap, sadly formal clothes compared with hers, one sock suspender hanging from a chair-rail, a jacket sleeve turned inside out. Amid the jumble was a contraceptive, leaking onto the mat. He should have tied it. One of his mentor-girls in Scotland had told him once, in all seriousness, that it was against the law to use a rubber johnny then throw it away without knotting-in the dangerous efflusions. It probably was, in Scotland…

  Perturbed by the keenness of his loss, afraid that it made him a stuffed-shirt Englishman as Hannele had assumed, Edward went to the bathroom and began to fill the mighty iron tub. While the taps were thundering, he poured himself a large whisky and soda, and gulped it. He tested the water with his hand, adjusted it, and climbed in. His penis floated, moved in the swirling surface water when he lay down, and he fingered it, remembering. He let it come erect, then looked at it, with Hannele in his mind’s eye simultaneously. He stroked it with the side of the whisky glass, smiled, drank. Ah Christ, he thought. What a thing to happen.

  Dressed once more, in lighter, more informal clothes, he went to the telephone table in the lobby. He fished out the number Major Morton had given him, and dialled. A girl’s voice answered. A secretary’s voice. No, Major Morton was not in, she had no idea. There was more implied than said: it was Friday afternoon, it was getting on, the watering holes were filling up. He wondered if he dared ring Brendan Bracken, perhaps drift round to Morpeth Mansions; who knew, Winston might be up in Town himself. But damn them. He felt like a hanger-on, a toady. Damn everything, being born in a far colony, being cursed to cruise round Europe, to be on the edge of everything. He would not chase, that was demeaning. They could come to him.

  He thought, briefly, of going to a night-club later, picking up a girl. The febrile atmosphere of pre-disaster London had already wrought a gear-change in the night scene, the numbers of men away at training barracks having produced a seemingly equal and opposite number of women on the spree. Edward had no uniform, which was the biggest draw, but he h
ad cash, and what the girls called style. He also had a picture behind his eyes, of Johanne Malling, naked. He did not want another woman, not even as an antidote.

  So. Get drunk in London, or get out? Edward dialled the operator and put in a call to Portsmouth. He had two friends there, two male friends, who had a little boat they could take fishing. They were always asking him to come and join them, although he did not like the sea and did not fish. They were homosexuals, although their little house at Cosham was very respectable, with separate bedrooms visible to anybody who cared to look. John and Simon always left the doors open upstairs, as if casually, so that anyone who suspected, but did not know, would think they’d been wrong. Edward knew. He had met them on business once, in Denmark, and found them quite congenial; save for the sea-obsession. When the operator put him through they were pleased to invite him. If he motored fast, he would be in time for dinner. They would hold it.

  Seventy miles to Portsmouth, but the A3 was congested. There were motor lorries in their dozens, most of them in Royal Navy blue, and convoys of staff cars and vans. South of Guildford he got stuck behind a road-train of three steam traction engines hauling a low bogey. The load was covered in tarpaulins, but was recognizable as a gigantic naval gun. The lead engine had a canvas dodger along its canopy, that was stencilled in crude letters, Look Out, Fritz! As Edward motored down Portsdown Hill, from the George, the harbour stretched out before him in the dying light. Extensive though its waters were, it was jammed with warships.

  John and Simon, although they had sounded cheerful on the telephone, were fractious, upset, and ultimately a crashing bore. At first, after the normal welcomes and politenesses, their bitch had been about their little boat. They were unsure as to whether they would be allowed to use her any more. Although they had not seen the Harbour Master’s orders themselves, there seemed a distinct possibility that all ‘normal’ use of the water was about to end.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Simon, a stocky, angry man. ‘We’re not at war yet. It’s an infringement of our liberty.’

  Behind the bluster, there was a deeper fear. John had received preliminary notice that his services would be required by the Navy, as he had extensive knowledge of commercial diving technology. Simon was expected to be called up by the Army, and sent off God knew where. Edward, disaffected, could only try to hide his lack of sympathy, or interest. Why, he wondered, did they expect to be treated differently from anybody else? Even any other married couple? Pleading tiredness, he went to bed early, and masturbated.

  Saturday was worse. They drove to the little creek where they kept their fishing boat, and moaned extensively to other men with blue-knit jumpers and glowing pipes. There were assessments of Herr Hitler’s chances (poor), Chamberlain’s ability (poorer), and the courage of the Italian fighting soldier (poorest, by a long shot). On balance, Chamberlain would win although he did not deserve to, because Hitler had the Eyeties on his side, and the Eyeties had sent six hundred thousand men to crush Albania and almost been repulsed. Hitler was fit only for the loony bin, his generals would kill him within five minutes if he ever declared war, and he only had one ball. Ivan was the real threat, and if only Adolf had the sense he’d do a deal with Churchill, they’d kick Neville into touch, and the pair of them would whip the Reds from here to Kingdom Come, or from arsehole to breakfast-time, whichever was the shorter route. Carrington said little.

  He stayed till Sunday morning, but the tensions only grew. Simon and John hinted that he was preoccupied, but in fact he was downright bloody rude, and everybody knew it. When they set off for church he set off for London, driving fast. He had never believed that anything like this could happen to him – this being, he supposed, love at first sight – but he acknowledged that it had. With the proviso that it was probably only lust, because he was already feeling slightly better. He stopped for an early beer at a roadside pub in Surrey, then dropped the car off in its lock-up garage and strolled to a cafe for lunch. There were still visions of Hannele, intermittently, but they were growing less. Distance and impossibility were a help. He had no address, no way of contacting her. She lived in Dresden, possibly. Or in Sweden… At ten past eight that evening, when he ran downstairs to answer his outer doorbell and found her on the doorstep, it was as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

  Hannele was all in. Her hair was greasy, her face white, her eyes smudgy. She wore a light travelling raincoat, and was carrying only a small leather bag. Edward was dressed to go out, immaculate. They stared at each other, however, in equal disarray.

  ‘Hannele. Good God alive.’

  ‘Edward. I’m sorry. Can I come in?’

  ‘But you’re in Germany! What happened? Didn’t you go back?’

  He touched her sleeve, guiding her through the doorway. He took her bag, then put his free arm around her, involuntarily, hugged her. Hannele, when they got there, pressed the button for the lift.

  ‘I’ve been there and come back,’ she said. ‘I have some information that your government needs to know. Suzanne Simonis could not return, she has problems in Berlin. It is not official information, it is better that it goes directly to a department that can deal with it. It is about Hermann Goering.’

  The lift arrived as she said the name, and the two people inside looked at her curiously through the metal lattice. Edward jerked open the door, interposing himself so that they should not stare. He put a finger to his lips.

  Inside the flat, he was at a loss. He closed the door, and faced her in the lobby. He opened his arms, then his palms, desperate to hug her again, to hold her. Hannele’s arms stayed at her sides, although she tried to smile. Edward turned away.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Take off your coat and come into the drawing room. Hannele, you must be exhausted. It’s only two days since you left! London to Germany and back again! Hannele!’

  Unbuttoning her raincoat she followed him, watched him light the gas.

  ‘I could not get a flight to Croydon. That would have been easier. Edward, you do have contacts, don’t you? This information is of the first importance. Goering wants to fly here. To avert the war. He wants to come and talk to your Cabinet.’

  ‘Goering?’ Edward’s brow was furrowed. He was holding the lighted match. He blew it out. ‘Hannele, Goering is a painted fairy. He is an evil, preening thing. He baits Jews, he founded the Gestapo. He is a Nancy-boy.’

  Hannele’s eyes, black holes in the pale, smudged face, held his.

  ‘I hoped we had buried Carruthers,’ she said quietly. ‘Are all your countrymen as prejudiced as you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Edward snapped. ‘Some of my closest friends are homosexuals. But Hermann Goering is revolting. He’s a beast.’

  The kettle had begun to sing. Hannele rubbed a hand across her forehead.

  ‘He is a strange man,’ she said. ‘He is eccentric, should that not appeal to your race? Much of what he says and does is just to shock. The clothes, the make-up sometimes, the jokes. He is not a homosexual, he is married to a Swedish woman, the sister of a count, and his first wife was also devoted to him, she died. He is prepared to risk everything to avoid this war.’

  ‘Jokes,’ said Carrington, with disgust. ‘A Jewish friend of mine, in Germany, said that after Kristallnacht, last November, Goering suggested that the Jews should be charged for all the damage that was done. The shop windows, the synagogues, the cleaning of the streets. Was that a joke?’

  ‘Probably. You would not understand. Men like Goering have to live with Hitler. Under Hitler. So some compromise is necessary, some protective stances. Even Hitler cannot control the Sturmabteilung, the Brownshirt animals. Self-preservation, Edward.’

  He did not reply. He rattled in a cupboard, fetching cups and saucers. He banged a teapot onto the table, pulled the lid from off the caddy.

  ‘Is this the fight we almost had on Friday?’ asked Hannele. ‘I will not have it, Edward, because I think you are being stupid, or obtuse. You know nothing of Herr Goering, only what you are
fed by propaganda. You know nothing of me, only that we went to bed together for a while. You must stop treating me like a naughty girlfriend, for I am neither the one nor the other. Goering has been negotiating secretly for months. One of his deputies, Helmut Wohltat. has been working on behalf of your Sir Robert Vansittart for years, even, feeding information. Three weeks ago Goering met some Englishmen on Sylt. You know it? One of the German islands. They also failed to take him seriously, and made him angry, but he has carried on the struggle. There is a Swede called Birger Dahlerus who has been aiding him. Now things are very black. So Goering is going to fly to England. Place himself in your trust. If you will not listen, Edward, take me to somebody who will!’

  The kettle was boiling. Edward lifted it and splashed a little water into the teapot, swirling it around. He made the tea, conscious that Hannele was close to him, unmoving, unanswered.

  ‘You take a European view,’ he said, finally. ‘You think we want this war, we welcome it. That’s not true. But Hermann Goering… Forgive me, Hannele. Of all the German leaders… Look – have some tea. Go and sit in the drawing room, I’ll bring it through. I’ll ring some people. Of course. I did not know he was married. Not that that matters, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally.’ she said, bitterly. ‘Nor that his wife is Swedish, either. No. Only Germans are prejudiced, naturally. That sounds like a Goering joke, in fact.’

  She left the kitchen, and Edward watched the teapot for a minute, a small trail of vapour escaping from its spout. In the drawing room, Hannele had removed her raincoat and was sitting on the edge of a hard armchair. She had a white blouse on, and a severe grey skirt that reached halfway down her calves. Her fist was bunched under her chin, she was staring into space. Edward poured the tea.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Thank you. Sorry, I mean no. I’m in England, aren’t I, a different language. I’m very hungry, Edward. Is there any food?’