by Alex Gerlis
‘He’s fine, sir. He’s a bit slow and not very bright but a very hard worker. I’m afraid he’d doesn’t speak a word of German though. He was a late replacement, which is why the crew list is not as complete as one would want—’
‘…yes, yes, yes – I can see that. Anyway, we’re not bothering with him for the time being, or you for that matter. It’s about your other crew members.’
‘The Bulgarians?’
‘Who on earth allowed them into the town?’
János shook his head. ‘They’re not my responsibility, sir. I’m in charge of the cargo and of the journey, if you understand my meaning. The crew is the responsibility of the skipper, but in his defence the port police did give the impression they could visit the town. I hope they haven’t been causing a problem?’
‘They have defied the curfew and got themselves drunk. One of them broke a shop window and now they’re all in the police station.’
‘And a few Bulgarians getting drunk is something which requires the Gestapo?’
‘Don’t be insolent! I can arrange for you to share a cell with them if you want – you and your dumb friend here.’
‘I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean any offence.’
‘First thing in the morning I want you, your friend and the Romanian to report to the Gestapo office. I want to check all your details – that list is incomplete. For instance, your dumb Hungarian here…’
‘…István?’
‘His full address isn’t even there, it just says Miskolc after his name.’
‘That’s the town he’s from and—’
‘…not enough. I need his full address.’
‘I do understand but I have to tell you, at first light this cargo is due to be loaded onto a fleet of lorries and taken into the Protectorate. It’s essential raw material for the production of armaments and any delay is impossible to countenance. The factory in Pilsen works to a very tight schedule and any delay would be a very serious matter. There will be a military escort and I am required to accompany the cargo until it is unloaded in Pilsen.’
‘So your dumb friend and the Romanian will report to us first thing in the morning and the Romanian better bring enough money to pay the fines for the Bulgarians, understand?’
‘Of course, I understand but I need István to accompany me to the Protectorate. Maybe if I was to offer to pay the fines now and also a bit extra… to cover any damage – and the inconvenience to you?’
The moustache and the scarf looked at each other. Prince allowed himself to imagine briefing Tom Gilbey and telling him how they bribed the Gestapo. It would undoubtedly impress him but in the current circumstances the opportunity seemed quite an unlikely one. There was a long silence: the only sounds the crackle of burning coal from the furnace, the deep breaths of the Hungarian next to him, a nervous cough from the Romanian, There were undisguisable looks of greed on the faces of the Germans.
‘Very well, but only to save time tomorrow, you understand, and I warn you though, there’s a considerable amount of damage to pay for.’
* * *
Prince had felt quite unwell that night. He’d had a headache ever since the Gestapo visit, which was understandable, but now he was running a high temperature and when he woke up in the bunk sometime after midnight he was nauseous and had to hurry to the deck to throw up. As he walked gingerly back to the cabin he felt his back aching. It was only six months since he’d returned to England with typhus and although the doctor had assured him it had been caught early he’d also warned him the disease had a habit of recurring.
‘Avoid stressful situations,’ he’d said, which struck Prince as odd advice for a British intelligence medic to give to an agent about to be sent back into the field. He’d also told him to keep away from damp places.
He knocked on the skipper’s cabin door. The Romanian was sitting at his desk, a map spread out in front of him illuminated by a gas lamp. He looked like he was plotting his escape. He’d barely uttered a word since the Gestapo had left. Prince pointed to his head and then made the skipper feel his temple. Prince mimicked the motions of being sick.
Still not saying a word the other man opened a cabinet below his desk and pulled out a large tin and extracted from it a brown bottle, from which he shook out a dozen tablets. He handed them to Prince and held up two fingers, followed by four fingers and then two again… Prince assumed he was to take two tablets every four hours, though the way he felt he was tempting to go for four every two hours. He knocked them back with a glass of water and hoped he’d up be up to the next day’s journey.
* * *
János woke him at five the next morning from a surprisingly deep sleep during which Henry had joined him in the bunk and snuggled up next to him and asked him to stop messing around and come home to play with him. As he stirred into consciousness he recalled having promised his son that he’d pack his bags and come home in a lorry.
János was standing next to the bunk talking to him quietly. Outside, above them, he could hear the sound of engines running.
‘You got up during the night – are you all right?’
Prince said he’d needed some fresh air but was fine. His headache had gone and he didn’t feel nearly as ill as he had during the night.
‘The lorries are here so we need to get a move on. When we get to the factory I have to oversee the unloading of the lorries, agree the weight of the cargo – they need to be satisfied it matches what was loaded on the barges in Romania – and then sign a few forms. Don’t forget we’re dealing with the Germans. And then I return here to rejoin the barges for the trip back to Cernavodă. So maybe I’ll be in Pilsen for an hour – an hour and a half at the most. I need to be back in Passau before it’s dark.’
‘And what do you think I should do?’
János look thoughtful. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re plans are and I don’t want you to tell me but my advice would be to disappear while the unloading is going on. There is one man there I’d trust, he’s called Karel, and every time I see him he makes remarks about how the war’s going and how they do what they can to undermine the German war effort. He seems to trust me. I’ll introduce you to him.’
* * *
Prince was too exhausted to fully appreciate the irony of a British agent being protected on his clandestine mission by a German military escort. He’d taken two more of the Romanian skipper’s tablets and before he’d left he’d been given another tablet, almost too large to swallow. Whatever they were, he felt considerable better but very tired.
The convoy left Passau just after six thirty that Monday morning, Prince wedged against the door, János between him and the driver, a thin Austrian who spent the journey blaming the Jews for the state of the roads. They drove slowly, no more than twenty-five miles an hour, and at times at little more than walking pace as the lorries negotiated obstacles in the roads.
They’d headed north through Lower Bavaria, crossing the border into the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia at Eisenstein. Progress was slower after that, the few road signs were now in German and Czech, the former more prominent than the latter. Eventually the signs showed they were heading towards Pilsen/Plzeň.
As they approached the city Prince was reminded of a history lesson from school where they’d been told how people could smell an approaching Roman legion well before they could hear it and certainly long before it could be seen. And so it was with Pilsen, the smell of factory fumes and chemicals working their way into the cab while they were still miles away, the horizon eventually marked by long plumes of thick white smoke before the shadows of enormous buildings rose before them like mountains emerging from the cloud.
They came face to face with Pilsen as they reached the brow of a hill, the convoy of lorries having slowed again to walking pace. What had been flat farmland suddenly gave way to what could only be described as an industrial monstrosity, rising out of the fields like a vast metal ring that had been thrown around the city.
But it wasn’t so much t
he size of the place that shocked Prince. What took his breath away was how long it took the convoy to drive past factory after factory, all showing ample evidence of their contribution to the German war effort. Hundreds of tanks, heavy armour and military vehicles were parked under camouflage netting, some being driven onto low-loaders. It had the feel of a military parade about it and Prince felt he was travelling through the beating heart of the Nazi war machine and it was one which appeared to be in rude health. Despite all the talk back home of the tide of the war turning in the Allies’ favour, there was ample evidence here that the Germans seemed very well equipped to cope with any setbacks. With a manufacturing capacity that was on display here they could surely carry on for years.
When the convoy came to a halt to allow a dozen tanks on low-loaders to be driven out of a factory the driver left the lorry briefly, and Prince slipped the Minox out of his pocket and took a few photographs, holding the camera in the crook of his arm. He doubted it would convey much to London: a mass of grey metal. He tried to reframe his shot but then the driver climbed back in and they continued their journey.
There was a pause at a checkpoint before they turned onto a road with barbed-wire-topped fences on either side. They stopped at an entrance, a large sign above it announcing Reichswerke Hermann Göring.
‘Škoda,’ said János, his hand waving in the direction of the sign.
The lorries drove round the perimeter of the complex, signs of bomb damage clearly visible. They came to another entrance and found themselves in a vast area which was not unlike a railway marshalling yard. The roadway led onto a long platform, some six feet below which was an enormous conveyor belt. One by one the lorries manoeuvred onto the platform, turning round and then reversing so the back of the vehicle was just above the conveyor belt. Once he’d parked the Austrian driver jumped out. Prince had already slipped the Minox camera out of his pocket and started taking pictures.
‘For Christ’s sake be careful, there are so many people around,’ said János. ‘Do me a favour and wait with that thing, all right? Let’s get out now. You have your backpack? Good… you see that hut over there?’ He was pointing to a wooden structure under a large metal canopy. ‘I have to go in there with the paperwork. Behind it are some toilets. Follow me towards the hut but go into the toilet. Wait there. The Germans don’t use that one. Hopefully Karel will be in the hut. I’ll tell him someone’s waiting to see him, that he can trust you. But I’ll ask him to leave you there until I’ve left. I’m sorry if you feel abandoned but I’ve done the best I can do.’
Prince started to assure János that he was most grateful but they were already climbing down from the lorry. Prince held his backpack in front of him, the camera concealed just behind it as he pointed it in what he hoped was the direction of the back of the lorries as they tipped their load onto the conveyor belt. He paused for a moment until a German sentry glanced in his direction and he saw János looking anxiously at him. Without a further look the Hungarian walked into the hut.
The toilets were filthy with a pervasive acidic odour which caused his eyes to water. Its corrugated iron walls were rotting in places, with a foot-high gap between it and the filthy floor. At the back was a series of open cubicles. The floor was damp and sticky, the only light coming from the gaps between the wall and the floor and the wall and the ceiling. Prince moved into one of the cubicles, his back to the opening, wondering how long he’d be able to stay like that.
He remained there for half an hour, during which time a few people came in but seemed in a hurry to leave. It wasn’t the kind of place where people chose to hang around. Eventually the sound of lorries revving up came from the platform area followed by shouting, as if people were directing them. Within five minutes it had gone quiet and more people came into the toilets, some chatting in Czech. He didn’t hear a word of German. Prince became uncomfortable, aware of footsteps – more than one pair – approaching behind him and then not moving.
He turned round; three men were looking at him, scanning him up and down. The oldest one, an almost scholarly-looking man with thick grey hair and an impressive moustache moved closer to him.
‘I’m Karel. János says you speak German?’
Prince nodded.
‘Jozef will search you and look in that bag too. Is there anything we should know about?’
‘There’s a Beretta semi-automatic in here along with lots of Reichsmarks – obviously I’m prepared to reward you for any help you can give. And in this pocket is a tiny camera.’
Karel nodded and Jozef moved forward, frisking Prince and opening the bag which Karel and the other man peered into, both nodding with approving looks on their faces.
‘You obviously don’t speak Czech?’
Prince shook his head.
‘What other languages do you speak, other than German?’
‘Some French.’
‘And what’s your native language?’
Prince hesitated. The three men had moved closer to him, the smell of garlic on one man’s breath, of tobacco on another. The man called Jozef was holding the backpack with the Beretta in it. Behind Karel two men were standing with their backs to them, obviously lookouts.
‘Danish.’
Karel inched closer, shaking his head in evident disbelief. The man next to Jozef had slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket. ‘I will ask you again, what’s your native language?’
Prince paused, reluctant to tell the truth but at the same time realising it would be dangerous not to. He wasn’t sure why he’d said Danish.
‘Come on.’
‘There’ll be times, Prince, when you just have to make a judgement, admittedly one upon which your life will depend. On these occasions you will have to decide whether you trust someone enough to be totally honest with them as to your identity. And you won’t have hours to ponder these decisions, weighing up the pros and cons… you’ll have seconds. And remember, revealing your role to someone is not necessarily a failure – on the contrary, it could prove to be a very wise call. It just needs to be the right one.’
‘English.’
Karel nodded and said something in Czech.
‘And why are you here?’
Prince took a deep breath. ‘I’m gathering intelligence on the Turkish chromium that’s being shipped to this factory. I’ve been following this shipment from Istanbul – that’s why I arranged to be smuggled in and that’s why I have this camera.’
Raised eyebrows from Karel as he translated. More discussions in Czech. Karel glanced anxiously at his watch. ‘My friends here, Radek and Jozef, are less trusting than I am. They say this could all be a trap. After all, they say, what British agent would turn up in a German convoy at the Škoda armaments factory of all places and announce what they’re up to? Do they take us for fools? They ask me to remind you we’re Czechs, not Slovaks. I’m more trusting, you understand, but Radek and Jozef…’ Karel shook his head as if he was genuinely disappointed in Radek and Jozef’s scepticism.
It was Prince’s turn to shrug. ‘What can I say? I’ve taken an enormous risk as it is telling you this much.’
One of the men who’d been standing guard turned round and said something and Karel looked anxious. ‘Wait in here. In about half an hour the yard will clear and Radek will come and take you into the hut. You’ll stay there until the end of our shift. I’ll come and collect you.’
Karel and the others moved away and Prince pointed to his backpack which Jozef was still holding.
‘Don’t worry – we’ll look after it for you.’
* * *
He’d been hidden in a store cupboard at the back of the hut and he was reconciled to remaining there, cold, hungry and cramped until late in the afternoon. But he hadn’t taken into account that this must have been an early shift because at two o’clock Karel returned with a pile of clothes which he instructed Prince to change into.
‘These belong to Pavel, he’s the same height and build as you and more or less the same
age I imagine. This is his identity card, his kennkarte.’
He handed Prince the small identity card, Deutsches Reich on the front cover above the Nazi eagle and swastika symbol, below them the word kennkarte. Inside were Pavel’s details on the left, a photograph of him on the right.
‘When we leave they’re more bothered to check it’s the right number of people per group. Unless they have a security alert on they don’t bother to check the kennkarte, you just need to show it as you walk past the sentry. They look more closely when we come in at the start of the shift, but that won’t be a problem for you.’
Prince shuffled along with the rest of the group – possibly two dozen of them – through the yard, past the now still conveyor belt, into an enormous warehouse and out through a side door where they joined at least a dozen other groups waiting to be let out. There’d been a light drizzle which became heavier as they waited their turn, the group turning up their collars and adjusting their hats. It was clear most of the group knew what was happening; some looked a bit tense – there were plenty of anxious glances and nervous coughs whenever a German sentry came near – but gradually Prince found himself in the centre of the group. When they were moved forward they walked at a fairly quick pace and he followed the others in holding his kennkarte towards the sentry box, only fleetingly looking in that direction himself. Ten minutes later they were on a noisy bus, the air thick with tobacco smoke, which eventually dropped them in a small but deserted square.
Prince walked alongside Karel. Jozef and another man walked in front and, as far as he could tell, there were two more men behind them. They walked in silence through cobbled streets until they reached an apartment building. They passed through the arched entranceway and Karel led Prince into a covered walkway which smelled like a urinal. They waited while Jozef and the other man disappeared through another doorway at the opposite end of the courtyard.
Not a word was exchanged; Karel looked carefully around him and whenever Prince looked at him he seemed to be checking him out. A few minutes later Jozef came down, nodded to Karel, went out into the street and back again.