by Ken Follett
After a minute he released her. She was really too tired to canoodle, and he had an appointment.
She took off her boots and lay down on his bed.
‘The War Office have asked me to go in and see them again,’ he said as he tied his tie.
‘But you were there for hours last time.’
It was true. He had had to dredge his memory for every last detail of his time on the run in France. They wanted to know the rank and regiment of every German he had encountered. He could not remember them all, of course, but he had done his homework meticulously on the Tŷ Gwyn course and he was able to give them a great deal of information.
That was standard military intelligence debriefing. But they had also asked about his escape, the roads he had taken and who had helped him. They were even interested in Maurice and Marcelle, and reproved him for not knowing their surname. They had got very excited about Teresa, who clearly could be a major asset to future escapers.
‘I’m seeing a different lot today.’ He glanced at a typed note on his dressing table. ‘At the Metropole Hotel in Northumberland Avenue. Room four two four.’ The address was off Trafalgar Square in a neighbourhood of government offices. ‘Apparently it’s a new department dealing with British prisoners of war.’ He put on his peaked cap and looked in the mirror. ‘Am I smart enough?’
There was no answer. He looked at the bed. She had fallen asleep.
He pulled a blanket over her, kissed her forehead, and went out.
He told his mother that Daisy was asleep on his bed, and she said she would check on her later to make sure she was all right.
He took the Tube to Central London.
He had told Daisy the true story of his parentage, disabusing her of the theory that he was Maud’s child. She believed him readily, for she suddenly recalled Boy telling her that Fitz had an illegitimate child somewhere. ‘This is creepy,’ she had said, looking thoughtful. ‘The two Englishmen I’ve fallen for turn out to be half-brothers.’ She had looked appraisingly at Lloyd. ‘You inherited your father’s good looks. Boy just got his selfishness.’
Lloyd and Daisy had not yet made love. One reason was that she never had a night off. Then, on the single occasion they had had a chance to be alone together, things had gone wrong.
It had been last Sunday, at Daisy’s home in Mayfair. Her servants had Sunday afternoon off, and she had taken him to her bedroom in the empty house. But she had been nervy and ill at ease. She had kissed him, then turned her head aside. When he put his hands on her breasts she had pushed them away. He had been confused: if he was not supposed to behave this way, why were they in her bedroom?
‘I’m sorry,’ she had said at last. ‘I love you, but I can’t do this. I can’t betray my husband in his own house.’
‘But he betrayed you.’
‘At least he went somewhere else.’
‘All right.’
She had looked at him. ‘Do you think I’m being silly?’
He shrugged. ‘After all we’ve been through together, this seems overly fastidious of you, yes – but, look, you feel the way you feel. What a rotter I would be if I tried to bully you into doing it when you’re not ready.’
She put her arms around him and hugged him hard. ‘I said it before,’ she said. ‘You’re a grown-up.’
‘Don’t let’s spoil the whole afternoon,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to the pictures.’
They saw Charlie Chaplin in The Great Dictator and laughed their heads off, then she went back on duty.
Pleasant thoughts of Daisy occupied Lloyd all the way to Embankment station, then he walked up Northumberland Avenue to the Metropole. The hotel had been stripped of its reproduction antiques and furnished with utilitarian tables and chairs.
After a few minutes’ wait, Lloyd was taken to see a tall colonel with a brisk manner. ‘I’ve read your account, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We expect more people to follow in your footsteps, and we’d like to help them. We’re especially interested in downed airmen. They’re expensive to train, and we want them back so that they can fly again.’
Lloyd thought that was harsh. If a man survived a crash landing, should he really be asked to risk going through the whole thing again? But wounded men were sent back into battle as soon as they recovered. That was war.
The colonel said: ‘We’re setting up a kind of underground railroad, all the way from Germany to Spain. You speak German, French and Spanish, I see; but, more importantly, you’ve been at the sharp end. We’d like to second you to our department.’
Lloyd had not been expecting this, and he was not sure how he felt about it. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m honoured. But is it a desk job?’
‘Not at all. We want you to go back to France.’
Lloyd’s heart raced. He had not thought he would have to face those perils again.
The colonel saw the dismay on his face. ‘You know how dangerous it is.’
‘Yes, sir.’
In an abrupt tone the colonel said: ‘You can refuse if you like.’
Lloyd thought of Daisy in the Blitz, and of the people burned to death in the Peabody tenement, and realized he did not even want to refuse. ‘If you think it’s important, sir, then I will go back most willingly, of course.’
‘Good man,’ said the colonel.
Half an hour later Lloyd was dazedly walking back to the Tube station. He was now part of a department called MI9. He would return to France with false papers and large sums in cash. Already dozens of German, Dutch, Belgian and French people in occupied territory had been recruited to the deadly dangerous task of helping British and Commonwealth airmen return home. He would be one of numerous MI9 agents expanding the network.
If he were caught, he would be tortured.
Although he was scared, he was also excited. He was going to fly to Madrid: it would be his first time up in an airplane. He would re-enter France across the Pyrenees and make contact with Teresa. He would be moving in disguise among the enemy, rescuing people under the noses of the Gestapo. He would make sure that men following in his footsteps would not be as alone and friendless as he had been.
He got back to Nutley Street at eleven o’clock. There was a note from his mother: ‘Not a peep from Miss America.’ After visiting the bomb site, Ethel would have gone to the House of Commons, Bernie to County Hall. Lloyd and Daisy had the house to themselves.
He went up to his room. Daisy was still asleep. Her leather jacket and heavy-duty wool trousers were carelessly tossed on the floor. She was in his bed wearing only her underwear. This had never happened before.
He took off his jacket and tie.
A sleepy voice from the bed said: ‘And the rest.’
He looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Take off your clothes and get into bed.’
The house was empty: no one would disturb them.
He took off his boots, trousers, shirt and socks, then he hesitated.
‘You’re not going to feel cold,’ she said. She wriggled under the blankets, then threw a pair of silk camiknickers at him.
He had expected this to be a solemn moment of high passion, but Daisy seemed to think it should be a matter of laughter and fun. He was willing to be guided by her.
He took off his vest and pants and slipped into bed beside her. She was warm and languid. He felt nervous: he had never actually told her that he was a virgin.
He had always heard that the man should take the initiative, but it seemed that Daisy did not know that. She kissed and caressed him, then she grasped his penis. ‘Oh, boy,’ she said. ‘I was hoping you’d have one of these.’
After that he stopped being nervous.
8
1941 (I)
On a cold winter Sunday, Carla von Ulrich went with the maid, Ada, to visit Ada’s son, Kurt, at the Wannsee Children’s Nursing Home, by the lake on the western outskirts of Berlin. It took an hour to get there on the train. Carla made a habit
of wearing her nurse’s uniform on these visits, because the staff at the home talked more frankly about Kurt to a fellow professional.
In summer the lakeside would be crowded with families and children playing on the beach and paddling in the shallows, but today there were just a few walkers, well wrapped up against the chill, and one hardy swimmer with an anxious wife waiting at the waterside.
The home, which specialized in caring for severely handicapped children, was a once-grand house whose elegant reception rooms had been subdivided and painted pale green and furnished with hospital beds and cots.
Kurt was now eight years old. He could walk and feed himself about as well as a two-year-old, but he could not talk and still wore diapers. He had shown no sign of improvement for years. However, there was no doubt of his joy at seeing Ada. He beamed with happiness, burbled excitedly, and held out his arms to be picked up and hugged and kissed.
He recognized Carla, too. Whenever she saw him she remembered the frightening drama of his birth, when she had delivered him while her brother Erik ran to fetch Dr Rothmann.
They played with him for an hour or so. He liked toy trains and cars, and books with highly coloured pictures. Then the time for his afternoon nap drew near, and Ada sang to him until he went to sleep.
On their way out a nurse spoke to Ada. ‘Frau Hempel, please come with me to the office of Herr Professor Doctor Willrich. He would like to speak to you.’
Willrich was Director of the home. Carla had never met him and she was not sure Ada had either.
Ada said nervously: ‘Is there some problem?’
The nurse said: ‘I’m sure the Director just wants to talk to you about Kurt’s progress.’
Ada said: ‘Fräulein von Ulrich will come with me.’
The nurse did not like that idea. ‘Professor Willrich asked only for you.’
But Ada could be stubborn when necessary. ‘Fräulein von Ulrich will come with me,’ she repeated firmly.
The nurse shrugged and said curtly: ‘Follow me.’
They were shown into a pleasant office. This room had not been subdivided. A coal fire burned in the grate, and a bay window gave a view of the Wannsee lake. Someone was sailing, Carla saw, slicing through the wavelets before a stiff breeze. Willrich sat behind a leather-topped desk. He had a jar of tobacco and a rack of different-shaped pipes. He was about fifty, tall and heavily built. All his features seemed large: big nose, square jaw, huge ears, and a domed bald head. He looked at Ada and said: ‘Frau Hempel, I presume?’ Ada nodded. Willrich turned to Carla. ‘And you are Fräulein . . . ?’
‘Carla von Ulrich, Professor. I’m Kurt’s godmother.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘A little young to be a godmother, surely?’
Ada said indignantly: ‘She delivered Kurt! She was only eleven, but she was better than the doctor, because he wasn’t there!’
Willrich ignored that. Still looking at Carla, he said disdainfully: ‘And hoping to become a nurse, I see.’
Carla wore a beginner’s uniform, but she considered herself to be more than just hopeful. ‘I am a trainee nurse,’ she said. She did not like Willrich.
‘Please sit.’ He opened a thin file. ‘Kurt is eight years old, but has reached the developmental stage of only two years.’
He paused. Neither woman said anything.
‘This is unsatisfactory,’ he said.
Ada looked at Carla. Carla did not know what he was getting at, and indicated as much with a shrug.
‘There is a new treatment available for cases of this type. However, it will necessitate moving Kurt to another hospital.’ Willrich closed the file. He looked at Ada and, for the first time, he smiled. ‘I’m sure you would like Kurt to undergo a therapy that might improve his condition.’
Carla did not like his smile: it seemed creepy. She said: ‘Could you tell us more about the treatment, Professor?’
‘I’m afraid it would be beyond your understanding,’ he said. ‘Even though you are a trainee nurse.’
Carla was not going to let him get away with that. ‘I’m sure Frau Hempel would like to know whether it would involve surgery, or drugs, or electricity, for example.’
‘Drugs,’ he said with evident reluctance.
Ada said: ‘Where would he have to go?’
‘The hospital is in Akelberg, in Bavaria.’
Ada’s geography was weak, and Carla knew she had no sense of how far that was. ‘It’s two hundred miles,’ she said.
‘Oh, no!’ said Ada. ‘How would I visit him?’
‘By train,’ said Willrich impatiently.
Carla said: ‘It would take four or five hours. She would probably have to stay overnight. And what about the cost of the fare?’
‘I cannot concern myself with such things!’ said Willrich angrily. ‘I am a doctor, not a travel agent!’
Ada was close to tears. ‘If it means Kurt will get better, and learn to say a few words, and not to soil himself . . . one day we might perhaps bring him home.’
‘Exactly,’ said Willrich. ‘I felt sure you would not wish to deny him the chance of getting better just for your own selfish reasons.’
‘Is that what you’re telling us?’ said Carla. ‘That Kurt might be able to live a normal life?’
‘Medicine offers no guarantees,’ he said. ‘Even a trainee nurse should know that.’
Carla had learned, from her parents, to be impatient with prevarication. ‘I don’t ask you for a guarantee,’ she said crisply. ‘I ask you for a prognosis. You must have one, otherwise you would not be proposing the treatment.’
He reddened. ‘The treatment is new. We hope it will improve Kurt’s condition. That is what I am telling you.’
‘Is it experimental?’
‘All medicine is experimental. All therapies work on some patients but not on others. You must listen to what I tell you: medicine offers no guarantees.’
Carla wanted to oppose him just because he was so arrogant, but she realized that was not the basis on which to make a judgement. Besides, she was not sure that Ada really had a choice. Doctors could go against the wishes of parents if the child’s health was at risk: in effect, they could do what they liked. Willrich was not asking Ada’s permission – he had no real need of it. He was speaking to her only in order to avoid a fuss.
Carla said: ‘Can you tell Frau Hempel how long it might be before Kurt returns from Akelberg to Berlin?’
‘Quite soon,’ said Willrich.
It was no answer at all, but Carla felt that if she pressed him he would become angry again.
Ada was looking helpless. Carla sympathized: she herself found it difficult to know what to say. They had not been given enough information. Doctors were often like this, Carla had noticed: they seemed to want to hug their knowledge to themselves. They preferred to fob patients off with platitudes, and became defensive when questioned.
Ada had tears in her eyes. ‘Well, if there’s a chance he could get better . . .’
‘That’s the attitude,’ Willrich said.
But Ada had not finished. ‘What do you think, Carla?’
Willrich looked outraged at this appeal to the opinion of a mere nurse.
Carla said: ‘I agree with you, Ada. This opportunity must be seized, for Kurt’s sake, even though it will be hard for you.’
‘Very sensible,’ said Willrich, and he got to his feet. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’ He went to the door and opened it. Carla felt he could not get rid of them quickly enough.
They left the home and walked back to the station. As their nearly empty train pulled away, Carla picked up a leaflet that had been left on the seat. It was headed How to Oppose the Nazis, and it listed ten things people could do to hasten the end of the regime, starting with slowing down their rate of work.
Carla had seen such flyers before, though not often. They were placed by some underground resistance movement.
Ada snatched it from her, crumpled it, and threw it out of the window. ‘You c
an be arrested for reading such things!’ she said. She had been Carla’s nanny, and sometimes she behaved as though Carla had not grown up. Carla did not mind her occasional bossiness, for she knew it came from love.
However, in this case Ada was not overreacting. People could be imprisoned not just for reading such things but even for failing to report that they had found one. Ada could be in trouble merely for throwing it out of the window. Fortunately, there was no one else in the carriage to see what she had done.
Ada was still troubled by what she had been told at the home. ‘Do you think we did the right thing?’ she said to Carla.
‘I don’t really know,’ Carla said candidly. ‘I think so.’
‘You’re a nurse, you understand these things better than I do.’
Carla was enjoying nursing, though she still felt frustrated that she had not been allowed to train as a doctor. Now, with so many young men in the army, the attitude to female medical students had changed, and more women were going to medical school. Carla could have applied again for a scholarship – except that her family was so desperately poor that they depended on her meagre wages. Her father had no work at all, her mother gave piano lessons, and Erik sent home as much as he could afford out of his army pay. The family had not paid Ada for years.
Ada was a naturally stoical person, and by the time they got home she was getting over her upset. She went into the kitchen, put on her apron, and began to prepare dinner for the family, and the comfortable routine seemed to console her.
Carla was not having dinner. She had plans for the evening. She felt she was abandoning Ada to her sadness, and she was a bit guilty; but not guilty enough to sacrifice her night out.
She put on a knee-length tennis dress she had made herself by shortening the frayed hem of an old frock of her mother’s. She was not going to play tennis, she was going to dance, and her aim was to look American. She put on lipstick and face powder, and combed out her hair in defiance of the government’s preference for braids.
The mirror showed her a modern girl with a pretty face and a defiant air. She knew that her confidence and self-possession put a lot of boys off her. Sometimes she wished she could be seductive as well as capable, a trick her mother had always been able to pull off; but it was not in her nature. She had long ago given up trying to be winsome: it just made her feel silly. Boys had to accept her as she was.