by Julie Thomas
A surge of adrenalin rushed through his body. He opened his mouth in a gasp and water flooded in. He kicked away and broke out of the tomb, his lungs aching, burning with the lack of air. He gulped and spluttered. A few feet away Pierre surfaced, his dark eyes shining and a huge smile on his face. Without saying a word he launched himself towards the beach. Levi tread water and watched the head bobbing through the waves. What was that? What should he do? If he told the guard, Pierre would get into trouble and that was the last thing he wanted. Besides, it was his word against Pierre’s, who would, undoubtedly, deny anything ever happened. Had it? Was it a trick of his mind? Was it what he wanted? Had he imagined it?
‘Come on, Levi, time’s up.’
It was the guard, standing further inshore, yelling at him and waving him in. With a sense of relief, he started towards the beach.
As always when he was confused, Levi headed for a piano to clear his mind as he played. Étude 13. Opus 25 Number 1 by Chopin, a piece with delicate fingering that challenged him. Then into Ballade Number 1 Opus 23. That felt better! The music reminded him of his father and that sent him into one of his papa’s favourite pieces, The Goldberg Variations by Bach. He went back to Chopin for the Minute Waltz and Nocturne Number 2.
By the time he finished he’d come to a decision. Pierre was just playing a silly joke, as he often did, and meant nothing. Levi would forget all about it and go back to worrying about more important things, like what had happened to his family and why he’d never had a response to any of his letters.
None of the lectures on offer that night interested him. Frank was playing cards and Pierre had gone for a walk, so Levi decided on an early night spent reading his book. It still gave him a thrill, as he read Ernest Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms, to know that he was allowed to read a book that was banned at home and, what’s more, a book that had been part of the mass book-burning their parents had taken them to in May 1933. Since arriving in London he’d gobbled up books banned in Germany: those of Bertolt Brecht, Sigmund Freud and many others.
About an hour after he’d lain down on his bed and started to read, there was a gentle knock on his closed door.
‘Come in,’ he called. Teyve often came to visit him around this time, and he enjoyed discussing the state of the war with his older friend. Newspapers were hard to get here, but the guards and the islanders were happy to tell them what they knew. The door was opened hesitantly. It was Pierre. Levi sat up and let the book slip to the floor.
‘Hello,’ he said. He wanted Pierre to know he’d forgotten all about what had happened in the sea, so he gave him an extra-large smile.
Pierre seemed relieved. ‘Hello there. How is Hemingway?’ He asked in French. They often talked in French.
‘Very sad in places. What did you do this afternoon?’ Levi asked.
Pierre sat down on the bed beside him. Usually his visitors sat in the chair, and Levi moved away to give himself more room.
‘I wrote to Heinz,’ Pierre said. Heinz was a German, only just nineteen, who’d been interred with them but had left two weeks previously to work on a farm in Kent.
‘I know you miss him,’ Levi said.
Pierre nodded and looked down at the bed. He picked at the quilting on the cover with his chewed nails.
‘I do . . . Levi?’
There was a moment’s silence. Pierre raised his head and locked his gaze on Levi’s. His dark eyes were round, with an air of innocence that reminded Levi of a puppy-dog. His olive skin tanned easily, and his teeth looked very white. For the first time Levi noticed the curls that sat on his neck, perfect circles of black hair. Something stirred in the pit of his stomach. He frowned. Did Pierre expect him to say something?
‘Yes?’
‘Did you know that Heinz and I were lovers?’ Pierre asked quietly.
The question hung in the still air. Levi was shocked. It felt as if Pierre had kicked him in the chest. His breath came in a ragged gasp.
‘No . . . No, I didn’t.’
Pierre shrugged and his body seemed to crumple a little. ‘I guess not many people did. We were very discreet. Heinz said his papa would be so angry if he ever found out. He’s an only child and he’s expected to marry and provide grandchildren. Being homosexual is not in the family plan.’
Levi nodded thoughtfully. He could hear the sarcasm in Pierre’s voice.
‘I can understand why he was scared of that. My papa would probably be upset, too,’ Levi said. As he spoke he wondered if this was true. Benjamin was a kind, caring man who was very involved in the lives of his children. Levi had seen enough of the fathers of his friends to know that this was not always the case. But this, this would challenge him. Levi knew it even as Pierre turned and took his hand in both of his.
‘But they’re not here!’ There was a new urgency in Pierre’s voice. ‘And no one needs to know.’
Levi pulled his hand away. ‘What? What are you suggesting?’ he asked.
‘I see the way you look at me. I know you feel the same way I do, even if you don’t understand it. Levi, don’t be scared. I can show you —’
Levi wanted to get up but the weight of the other man’s body pinned the cover around him.
‘No!’ he said firmly.
Pierre put his palm up and touched Levi’s cheek. ‘Has no one ever touched you like this?’ Pierre asked.
Suddenly Levi’s mind was flooded with the memory of the last time he’d seen his childhood friend, Rolf, on the night of the Kristallnacht. Rolf had wanted him and Simon to stay with their friends, a group of gentiles, hiding in a broken café, waiting for it all to be over. Before the brothers left, Rolf had hugged him and put the palm of his hand on Levi’s cheek. He’d known, without acting on it, that Rolf loved him with a feeling that was stronger than friendship. Life had intervened and torn them apart. He hadn’t realised until Pierre touched his cheek that he missed Rolf.
‘Yes,’ Levi said softly, ‘as a matter of fact someone has.’
Sometime later Levi lay with his head on Pierre’s chest, watching the moonlight seeping across the window ledge. He felt a deep contentment.
‘Will we survive this war?’ Pierre asked suddenly.
Levi stirred. ‘Of course we will, no one’s going to hurt us here. We’ll pass our days in relative comfort, and when the dictator has been crushed we’ll find somewhere to call our own.’
‘How about a farm in France? We could make cheese.’ Pierre laughed.
Levi sat up and looked down at him. ‘Cheese? Why on earth would you want to do that?’
Pierre shrugged. ‘Don’t all Frenchman make cheese?’
‘You’re not French, you grew up in Germany,’ Levi said.
‘Well, Germans eat cheese. The main thing is we can find somewhere away from judgement.’
The story paused at this point. Levi looked directly at the camera filming him in 1945. His expression was impassive, but his eyes were filled with sadness.
‘The rest of that conversation is private. But I do carry with me the guilt of leaving Pierre so suddenly. War is like that. You find friends, lovers, and you lose them, to an order or a bullet, in the blink of an eye.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The National Archives
Kew, London
June 2017
Major Stratton raised his hand. The lieutenant pushed a button and the screen froze.
‘So he was gay?’ the major asked.
The lieutenant hesitated. ‘As he says, that’s private, but there is more evidence of it later. I hope you might be starting to understand sir, why his story could be so useful. He’s very articulate.’
The major nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did he marry? Does he have family, any descendants?’ he asked.
‘According to records he had a younger brother, Simon, who was interred in Dachau and survived. They moved to America in mid-1947. We would need to locate them and let them see this, get their permission, before we could use any of it.’
‘Find them.�
��
‘Yes, sir. Shall we continue?’
‘By God, yes.’
Isle of Man, August 1940
As they walked back from the hills behind the camp, Levi resisted the urge to grab Pierre’s hand and squeeze it. A strange mixture of emotions swept through him in successive ripples: joy, wonderment, fear, guilt, and trepidation for the future. This was all so new and so dangerous.
A few hundred metres from the camp a senior officer came around the corner and stopped in front of the descending group.
‘Ah, at last. I need one of your men, sergeant. Horowitz, come with me.’
Something akin to an icy dread raced down Levi’s back.
‘Yes, sir.’
He glanced at Pierre and saw the concern.
The officer gestured towards the houses. ‘Quick man, follow me.’
Levi extended his stride to keep up with the pace of the man ahead of him. As they neared the main hall, the officer pointed to the door. ‘In there, you have a visitor.’
Levi’s stomach turned over. Who? Someone from London? Mr Dickenson? Maybe even someone from home? He pushed down the sudden surge of hope. He opened the door and walked inside. The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the sunshine. Two middle-aged men were waiting for him, one smoking and the other twisting a pool cue in his fingers.
‘Ah, Horowitz?’
Levi walked slowly towards them. His internal alarm system was ringing, but he had no option.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Levi Horowitz.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Both men were wearing suits, shirts and ties. They weren’t military. One pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down, young man.’
Levi sat on the edge of the chair.
‘May we call you Levi?’
He nodded again, but this time said nothing.
‘Would you like to smoke?’ the man with the cigarette between his fingers asked.
Levi shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I don’t smoke.’
‘Before we tell you what we want, I’d like to check a couple of things. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three.’
One man seemed to be doing all the talking. The other was now leaning on the pool cue and watching.
‘And you worked in a bank in London?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How many languages do you speak?’
Levi hesitated. ‘German obviously, English, some French and not so much Italian,’ he said.
‘Impressive. And you play the piano? Very well I’m told.’
‘Yes, sir. I started to play when I was four.’
They glanced at each other.
‘You’re Jewish, but you don’t look it.’
Levi smiled. Was this a good thing in their eyes?
‘I look like my mother, northern German, and way back they were Catholic. An ancestor married a Jew and we became the Jewish line.’
‘Did anyone ever mistake you for an Aryan?’ the man asked thoughtfully.
‘Not when I was with my family, but when I was by myself I remember a couple of people who were about to say rude things and then they looked closely at me and apologised.’
Both men nodded.
‘When did you leave Berlin?’
‘The day after the Kristallnacht. Papa got a visa for me.’
There was a silence while the men looked at him. He was growing impatient. ‘What do you want from me?’ he finally asked.
The man asking the questions drew on his cigarette and let him wait another moment. ‘Do you know what has happened to your family?’ he asked.
Levi felt another shock of dread and leaned forward. ‘No! Can you tell me anything? I write to them, but I never get any letters back.’
‘You father is Benjamin Horowitz who owns the bank on Pariser Platz.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Yes! Is the bank open? Papa had lots of government acc —’
The man held his hand up, palm towards Levi. ‘No. It is our understanding the bank was closed, Aryanised, in November 1939. We have no idea what became of your family, but there is much deporting of Jews to labour camps in Germany and east, in Poland.’
Levi slumped back. The weight of his pain threatened to crush him into the seat. Losing the bank would have broken his papa’s heart. Please G-d they still had the house and all the possessions, but that didn’t really matter, not compared with their lives. He imagined the fear his younger siblings must have felt. How would David and Rachel, the twins, possibly cope if they were separated? The man with the cigarette gave a loud cough and the noise broke through his thoughts.
‘So maybe they are in a camp, like me,’ he said softly.
‘Possibly, but I would venture to say that it is not as easy an existence as the one you lead.’
Silence again while Levi digested this comparison. ‘So, what do you want from me?’ he asked again.
‘Levi, do you ever wish you could play a more active role in defeating the Nazis? Help to free your family instead of hiding away here?’
The question stung, and his green eyes flashed with defiance. ‘Of course! Do you want me to sign up in the British Army? Or Air Force? When I was young I wanted to learn to fly. I would be very happy to enlist, even to bomb Berlin.’
The man with the pool cue spoke at last. His accent was different, like one of the men in the London bank; he was Welsh. His free arm swept around the room.
‘If we wanted to recruit for the armed forces there are hundreds of men here, some more suited for that than you. No, indeed not. We have a special job for you, Levi, one that no one else can do.’
Levi struggled to keep the flood of negative emotion concealed. He wanted to be left alone to think about, and pray for, his family and to talk to Pierre, hear his soft words of comfort. He scrubbed his face with both hands and sighed deeply.
‘Are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?’ he asked, trying to keep the resignation from his voice. ‘Have you come all this way to tell me that my papa’s bank has been closed by the Nazis?’
‘We come from the Special Operations Executive in London. You won’t have heard of us, no one has. But we have a special commission from Prime Minister Churchill, to . . . sabotage the Axis war effort. We need people with a deep understanding of Germany, the language and the country, and we drop them by parachute behind enemy lines —’
‘Back to Germany?’ Levi’s tone reflected his shock and disbelief.
‘Yes. Back to Germany. Back to Berlin. In uniform. Nazi uniform. Impersonating a Nazi officer and infiltrating their headquarters.’
Levi opened his mouth, but was genuinely speechless.
‘You won’t be sent in until you’re ready. You get commando training in armed and unarmed combat, then you get tradecraft and security and some specialist skills depending on your mission, Morse code, parachute, demolition. By the time you are given a credible back-story and dropped on the outskirts of Berlin, you will be a fighting machine.’
He couldn’t help it, he laughed. ‘Me? A fighting machine? Who . . . who am I supposed to fight?’
‘No one. You are supposed to play the piano, as brilliantly as we know you can. And keep your eyes and ears open. Your musical skill will bring you to the attention of the generals, maybe even Hitler. He loves listening to music. Our intelligence tells us he is confiscating musical instruments from the cities they conquer and taking them back to Berlin. You report back on everything you overhear, and you stay ready to act when we tell you to. You won’t be alone, there are others already in place.’
Levi looked at the ground, wondering how far he could push. What would they say if they knew his secret? A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. Do you really know what you’re getting, gentlemen? Did he want to help the English to defeat his own country, maybe contribute to the death of fellow Germans? It would mean leaving the safety of the camp and, probably, never seeing Pierre again. But, my G-d, what an adventure!
‘
And . . . if you manage to find your family, boy, if they are still in Berlin, we will do our best to get them out and bring them here.’
Slowly Levi raised his head and looked at them. His face was slightly flushed and his eyes were glistening. He blinked.
‘Then you have yourself a spy,’ he said.
CHAPTER SIX
The National Archives
Kew, London
September 2017
The National Archives was an imposing construction of concrete, glass, fountains and water. The group of five walked at Simon Horowitz’s slow pace across the forecourt and through the main doorway. David went up to the desk.
Cindy looked at Simon, who was bent over his stick. ‘Are you tired, Poppa? Would you like a wheelchair?’
Simon raised himself up and looked around him. ‘Let’s ask him how far we have to walk. If it’s a long way, I’ll say yes.’
A tall man in an army uniform came through a door and strode towards them. David stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘Major Stratton?’
The man grasped his hand with a firm shake. ‘Mr Horowitz? I’m Major Richard Stratton. Pleased to meet you.’
‘This is my father, Simon Horowitz, my wife Cindy, my son Daniel and my second cousin Dr Kobi Voight. Kobi’s grandmother, Rachel, was my aunt.’
Cindy asked the major how far they had to walk and would it be okay to get Mr Horowitz Senior a wheelchair? He agreed, left them for a moment and came back with one. Simon sank into it gratefully, and Cindy grasped the handles. The major led them to a lift and then down a corridor to his office. It was organised, neat and totally bereft of anything personal. At one end was a door through to another room, with chairs and a sofa pointing towards an impressive wall-mounted television set. The major indicated that they were to go through and take a seat in the next room, then stood in front of the screen and faced them.
‘This recording,’ he said, his expression sombre and his voice deep and resonating, ‘had, literally, been forgotten among the thousands here.’
‘When was it made?’ asked Kobi.
‘In 1945, here in London. These men and women gave great service to our country and risked their lives daily. Most did not return — they gave their lives for our war effort — but those who did were debriefed and the sessions were filmed. Some years ago the tapes were digitised to ensure they survived and then re-shelved.’