Hitler's Angel

by William Osborne

  Reluctantly, Leni took out a series of documents from the folder: a membership card for the Bund Deutscher Mädel – the League of German Girls – and certificates for athletics and dressmaking, all made out in Leni Fischer's name, with her photograph where it was required. From a despised Jude to one of the master race. She glanced at the boy, her so-called brother. He was looking at the documents intently, but his expression was unreadable.

  “Your father, Kurt Fischer, was a captain with the Afrika Korps under General Rommel in Libya. KIA, unfortunately,” said MacPherson.

  “KIA?” asked Leni.

  “Killed in action. Your mother is at home in Salzburg, suffering from the bereavement. Greta is her name. She has sent you to visit your godmother while she deals with her grief. All the details are contained in these files, and I would ask you to study them carefully and commit them to memory.”

  “Do these people really exist?” the boy asked.

  “Physically, no, Otto,” replied MacPherson. “Officially, absolutely. Again with a little help from Berlin, you will find birth certificates, medical and army records, electoral registers, Nazi memberships, Gestapo record cards, everything that establishes the existence of the Fischer family beyond any shadow of doubt.” He watched them look through the other documents. “I understand it must be strange to be these people all of a sudden.”

  “To be perfect Nazis, you mean,” blurted Leni. She could feel her face reddening.

  “You'll get used to it,” said MacPherson.

  “I will never get used to it, thank you.” She knew her voice had risen, and felt close to tears.

  “I'm sorry, that was not what I meant.” MacPherson seemed taken aback.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Well then, Leni and Otto Fischer, finish your breakfast. We'll meet in the drawing room at nine o'clock. The briefing will continue then.” MacPherson swallowed down the last of his toast with a great gulp of tea, and left the room.

  “Are you all right?”

  Leni glanced up. The boy was looking at her with something like concern. She stuffed the documents back into the buff envelope.

  “I'm fine,” she said, but she felt angry and afraid and not remotely all right.

  *

  “The second island on the lake is known as Fraueninsel, and on it is a Benedictine convent. The child is being held there.”

  MacPherson was speaking in the darkened drawing room. The curtains had been drawn and a large screen erected in front of the marble fireplace. A projectionist stood at the back of the room. Leni and Otto were sitting next to each other on a leather sofa, staring at the grainy black-and-white image. The old sofa slumped in the middle, pushing them together like some inanimate matchmaker. Leni could feel Otto's leg pressing lightly against hers. She concentrated on the photograph. The nunnery was an ancient-looking stone building with an onion-shaped bell-tower.

  “Her room is on the fourth floor of the west side of the main building.” MacPherson paused. “Any questions?”

  The briefing had begun after breakfast and it was now half past ten. Their mission was straightforward, in theory. They were to be parachuted into southern Bavaria in order to rescue a nine-year-old girl from the convent where she was being held. They were then to get the child as quickly as possible to a rendezvous point at Lake Constance – or the Bodensee – on the Swiss border. There the admiral would be waiting with a plane to fly them all back to England.

  There was one question she wished to ask.

  “I have a question, sir,” Otto said, just as Leni was about to speak.

  “Yes, Otto?” MacPherson was addressing them by their cover names at every opportunity. It was vital, he said, that they become second nature as soon as possible.

  “Why me, I mean . . .” Otto shot a glance at Leni. “Why us? We're . . .” He hesitated, looking for the right word, “. . . untrained.”

  “You're right to ask,” MacPherson said. “In the normal course of events, we would choose to send in two adult agents, ideally a man and a woman. They could pose as a family travelling together. But this, we feel, is an obvious cover. We believe that, in the event of the authorities searching for the girl, three children travelling together will attract the least attention and suspicion. In addition, although we have plenty of French, Flemish and even Dutch agents to call upon – and we're sending them across into those countries as we speak – the truth is, we simply have very few suitable German agents. The Reich has agents in this country whose job it is to report on any natural-born German or Austrian they can find. We believe you two have slipped through their net.”

  Leni nodded. It made sense now to her. But her heart had skipped a beat at the mention of a hunt by the “authorities”.

  “But,” said MacPherson, staring down at the two of them, “let me make this clear: we also happen to believe that both of you have what it takes to carry out this mission. If we didn't think that, then you wouldn't be sitting here. Simple as that.”

  Leni found herself smiling self-consciously, a little embarrassed by the gruff compliment. She glanced at Otto, but he was staring ahead at the screen, frowning, deep in thought.

  “All right, moving on, next slide please,” said MacPherson. A Bavarian lakeside town appeared on the screen. “Your cover story on the way in will be that you are joining the Hitler Youth – Hitler-Jugend – camp at the village of Stock, which lies on the west bank of the Bavarian Sea, or the Chiemsee, as the lake is known in Bavaria. The camp runs throughout the summer months for children of officers serving in the Balkans and North Africa. Nobody will question your presence – another reason for choosing people of your age. Most of the time is spent swimming and sailing.”

  “And singing,” added Otto.

  “Of course, you were a member,” said MacPherson.

  “Not of the Hitler-Jugend, sir, but of the Jungvolk.”

  Leni shifted on the sofa, moving away from him. The Jungvolk was the junior branch of the Nazi Party's youth wing, for children aged ten to thirteen.

  “I didn't have a choice,” he said, defensively.

  MacPherson broke in. “Once you have got the child off the island, you will follow a pre-planned escape route taking you south towards the border. You will travel mostly by train. Your cover for this return part of the mission will be that you are visiting your godmother in Bregenz.” A map of Bavaria and the Tyrol was now on the screen, and MacPherson pointed to the Austrian town on the shore of Lake Constance. “Your mission should take no more than three days at the most. We will wait at the rendezvous point for as long as it takes.” The implication in MacPherson's last sentence was left hanging.

  “When are we going?” asked Otto.

  “In a little over two weeks, on the fourteenth of June,” said MacPherson.

  Otto and Leni looked at each other, and Leni spoke for them both. “We'll never be ready.”

  “It's my job to make sure you are,” said MacPherson. “This opportunity will not come again and we must seize it.”

  A silence fell on the room as each of them contemplated what lay ahead.

  “It is only fair, now that you know the whole picture, to ask you one last time. Particularly you, Otto, as you didn't really know what you were getting yourself into when I took you from school.” MacPherson spoke softly, but in a measured, calm voice, like a judge passing sentence. “If you wish to step down from this endeavour, please do so now.”

  Silence once again. Leni didn't dare look at Otto. Was he about to back out? If he did, she felt she most probably would, too. Then she spoke up, her voice firm.

  “Who is this child?” she asked.

  MacPherson pursed his lips and held up his hands. “I don't know, Leni. I have not been told her identity.”

  Leni studied the admiral. Did admirals lie? She supposed they did, that sometimes, in wartime, lies were necessary. But if he was lying, why?

  “But I can tell you this,” MacPherson went on. “Her name is Angelika. And i
f you succeed in your mission you will have performed a very great service to this country, your adopted country, and to the war effort.”

  At that moment, the projectionist snapped back the curtains and a shaft of sunlight cut through the darkness. Otto and Leni shielded their eyes from the brightness.

  Maybe he did know who this girl was, maybe he didn't, thought Leni, but one thing was certain in her mind. She would find out.

  CHAPTER 6

  TRAINING

  Training began in earnest straight after lunch. MacPherson had certainly meant it when he said time was short.

  They had been taken out for a long run with backpacks filled with rocks before being put through their paces on an assault course. Twice. They were nearly at the end of it now.

  Otto just found the strength to climb the next obstacle in front of him, a fifteen-foot wall, hauling himself up the rope before sitting astride the top to catch his breath. He glanced down. Leni was struggling to follow him. She had easily kept pace on the run, but now looked to be in trouble. Her face was flushed but her lips were strangely bloodless. The instructor, a stocky Royal Marine sergeant, yelled at them to keep moving.

  “Take my hand,” Otto said, reaching down. He was, as instructed by MacPherson, speaking in German to Leni.

  “I can do it,” Leni replied hoarsely. She finally managed to pull herself on to the top of the wall, and lay on it, gasping for breath.

  “You should have let me help,” said Otto.

  He could see Leni was done in, but she wasn't going to give up either.

  “What are you waiting for? Tea and biscuits?” the instructor barked up.

  They looked at the last obstacle: a long pit filled with watery mud over which a lattice of barbed wire had been strung. Leni grabbed hold of the rope to slide down. But the strength in her arms gave, and instead she half-slid, half-fell to the ground, landing with a thud. Otto grabbed the rope and followed her down. He reached out to help her up, but she pushed him away and staggered to her feet.

  “Leave me alone,” she wheezed, and started wading through the mud.

  Otto followed her. He was reminded of Dunkirk, of wading out to the boat, then the sodden rope in his hand and the water closing over his head. He lost his footing and stumbled forward, plunging head first into the mud. It seemed to pull on him, sucking him down, and for a moment he felt blind panic and terror. Fighting the instinct to breathe in, he struggled to his feet. The barbed wire caught the top of his head. He yelled in pain and ducked down again.

  “Get a move on, you lazy idiot!”

  Up ahead Leni had crawled out of the pit and was waiting for him.

  “You all right?”

  Otto nodded. They were both covered from head to foot in stinking mud.

  “Right! Time for a little swim,” bellowed the instructor, pointing to the lake at the edge of the wood. “At the double!”

  Otto looked at the dark water of the lake, surrounded by tall bulrushes. He was still fighting the panic and knew he couldn't do it. He was going to have to fake an injury, like he had done back at school when on a punishment period in the gymnasium.

  Trying to make it look real, he stumbled and fell to the ground, yelling out in pain and clutching his ankle.

  Tutting, the instructor jogged towards them, then knelt down and examined Otto's ankle.

  “I think it's broken,” Otto groaned.

  “Only sprained – if that.” He stared at Otto, his eyes narrowed, trying to figure out whether he was faking or not. “All right, you pathetic little oik, let's call it a day. Get in the jeep. Both of you.”

  Leni sank to her knees, tears of relief rolling down her mud-stained cheeks. Otto slowly got to his feet. He would have to pretend to limp till they got back to the manor, but it was worth it.

  *

  After supper that night, which was dominated by MacPherson drilling them about their cover family, Otto and Leni climbed slowly and wearily up to their rooms at the top of the manor house. They were too tired even to talk until they reached their bedroom doors.

  “You're not limping any more,” said Leni.

  “Er . . . no,” replied Otto. “It's feeling much better.”

  Leni shook her head. “You know, you didn't have to pretend to give up for me. I could have swum that lake.”

  “I wasn't pretending, I sprained my ankle,” Otto lied, then added, truthfully, “Don't worry, It had nothing to do with you.”

  Leni shrugged. “Well, if I'm being truthful, you did help me really. I would have tried the lake, but it might have killed me.”

  Otto managed a tired smile. She returned it, then went to open her door. Otto saw there was a raw channel across her palm where the rope had burnt her.

  “Does it hurt a lot?” he said.

  Leni put her hand behind her back. “It's fine.”

  But he knew it must be agonising. She was obviously made of strong stuff.

  “Goodnight, Leni,” he said.

  But he stood outside her door for a few moments after she had closed it, wondering who this girl really was and what had driven her to volunteer. All he knew for certain was that she was from Bavaria like him, or perhaps further west even. He thought he detected a Viennese accent.

  *

  The next day they spent the morning at the lake. Not swimming it, to Otto's great relief, but being taught the rudiments of handling a motor launch by another instructor. Otto didn't like the sway of the boat on the water, and found landing the launch really difficult. He was delighted when, after lunch, they were taken to the shooting ranges instead of back to the water. This was much more his scene.

  Otto pressed the butt of his Lee Enfield rifle into his shoulder and tried to line up the sights on the paper target of a charging soldier one hundred metres away.

  “Commence fire!” yelled their instructor.

  Otto squeezed the trigger and the rifle kicked into his shoulder like a sharp punch. He couldn't believe how loud it sounded. He dropped it down from his shoulder and worked the bolt, expelling the spent cartridge and sliding a fresh bullet into the breach. Then he brought the gun back up and fired again. He and Leni both kept up a steady rate of fire until their magazines were empty.

  They walked down to inspect their targets. Of their eleven shots each, Otto's paper soldier had nine neat holes drilled into the middle of his chest.

  “Outstanding! I believe we have a budding marksman,” proclaimed the instructor.

  Otto couldn't help smiling. He was better at this than landing the boat.

  When they inspected Leni's target, it was a different story. Only five hits, and most of them towards the edge.

  The instructor shook his head.

  “Probably just flesh wounds,” he sniffed. “Maybe you'll be better with handguns.”

  But it was similar story: Otto's eight rounds from his Walther PPK in the bull's eye; Leni's wide of the mark.

  “Let's try grenades,” sighed the instructor. “Nothing to them.”

  “All you need is some practice,” said Otto as they jogged after the instructor to the grenade pit.

  “It's not that,” huffed Leni.

  “I understand,” nodded Otto, “you don't like guns.”

  “What?” said Leni. “Oh, that's so typical, thinking a girl wouldn't like a gun. It isn't that at all. It's just the target is so far away!”

  But Otto wasn't convinced. It seemed to him Leni's eyesight might be a problem.

  *

  The routine hardly varied: physical training in the morning, weapons training in the afternoon, interspersed with learning to parachute, sail, and to find their way to a rendezvous point with map and compass. They even had some training with vehicles and motorbikes, and Otto was surprised how good Leni was with machines. They talked little, the long physical hours of training and the evenings spent with MacPherson going over the mission's details draining them of all their energy. By the time their heads hit the pillow they were asleep.

  But come t
he day of the mission they had developed, if not a friendship, then at least an understanding.

  Otto found Leni sitting on the veranda outside the dining room after their last lunch. A car was coming in an hour to take them to the airfield. It was very warm, and swarms of mayfly were fizzing in the air. Leni was sitting in the shade. He could see there were freckles on the bridge of her nose that hadn't been there two weeks ago. They both stared across the lawn in silence.

  “You don't have to do this, you know,” Otto said.

  “Why are you saying that now?” asked Leni. The two of them were speaking in German, as they always did when they were alone together.

  Otto looked across at her. “You're Jewish, aren't you? From Vienna, I think?”

  For a moment, Leni looked taken aback. She tucked a strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear and gazed at Otto with her blue eyes.

  “Is it so obvious?” she said.

  “Not at all,” replied Otto, “but you said you'd come to England in 1938. Why else would someone want to leave Austria when their saviour, Adolf Hitler, was just marching in?”

  “Very clever,” said Leni.

  “If we get captured and they find out who you are . . .” Otto stopped. “Look, it's too dangerous.”

  “It's my decision, Otto,” replied Leni, “And what about you? Do you think you'll get special treatment?”

  Otto shrugged. “I don't know,” he said flatly. In fact, he'd spent half the night lying in his bed wondering exactly that. His sheet had been soaked with perspiration when he'd woken that morning.

  “Anyway, why did you leave?” asked Leni.

  Otto sighed. “My father was a Communist – before I was born, I mean. My mother, too. That's how they met. When the Nazis came to power they went underground, tried to hide their past. He was a chemistry professor, so he was of some use to them. But eventually someone must have talked, and the Gestapo came and took him away. My mother and brother, too. I don't know where they are now.” He stopped for a moment, felt his eyes pricking. “Undermining the war effort, that's what the Gestapo said when they arrested him.”