The door was opened by a woman wearing curlers and dressing gown.
‘Signora Janosi, I am sorry to disturb you so late.’
A hand went to her mouth. ‘Good heavens, it’s the Ladurner child!’
She brought him in, made him hot tea, sat him by the parlour fire and roused Mitzi, who rushed downstairs in her night clothes, face wide with disbelief.
‘My God, Teo, it is really you!’
They embraced tightly, clinging together like lost relatives. Theo found himself welling up with emotion. A month on the run, living on his nerves, danger at every turn, his childhood home gone and his family scattered. ‘Thank God you’re here, Mitzi.’
Her mother prepared food while Mitzi gave him the facts. The print shop had been taken over by an Italian family, she said, in accordance with policy. In refusing to sign the Option Agreement, Josef had forfeited his right to the property, so Italian settlers had been awarded tenancy. Di Paolo they were called, a nice enough couple from Milan, who kept themselves to themselves.
‘They moved in after your grandmother left.’
‘Where are all our possessions?’
‘I believe she put them in the basement.’
‘I must get to them.’
‘You can’t, Teo, they’d report you.’
‘They are informers?’
‘They are scared, like everyone. You know the Blackshirts came looking for you?’
‘When?’
‘Two days ago. They kicked on the Di Paolos’ door and asked all kinds of questions. But once they saw they knew nothing, they left them alone. But they told them to report anything suspicious immediately.’
Theo nodded. ‘Where is your father, Mitzi?’
‘Genoa. He’s deputy manager at the port. He comes home once a month. Don’t worry, you’re safe staying with Mother and me.’
‘I couldn’t ask that. Anyway, I must leave.’
‘And go where?’
‘It’s best I don’t say. But I have one important favour to ask.’
The following afternoon he watched from a doorway as Mitzi rang the Di Paolos’ doorbell. Twenty minutes later she reappeared, laden down with climbing equipment, mountaineering clothes, rucksack and skis. Back at the house she watched as he checked it over.
‘Is it all here?’
‘Yes, everything, thank you.’ He glanced up. ‘What did you tell them?’
‘That my cousin lent you his climbing gear years ago, but now wants it back.’
‘Did they believe you?’
‘I’m not sure. They seem very fearful.’
*
The Blackshirts came early, pounding on the Janosis’ door and then ransacking the house from top to bottom. But they found no trace, for by then Theo was long gone. Rising before dawn, he’d dressed for the mountains, in extra shirts and sweaters, thick socks and boots, backpack, skis, binoculars, gloves, maps. Then his notes and papers for Grant, and a package of food from Mitzi. ‘I know you won’t tell me,’ she’d said, pushing chocolate in his pocket, ‘so I won’t ask.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But when you get there, please write and tell me you’re safe.’
‘I will. In the meantime can you post these?’
‘Of course. What are they?’
‘Letters. Important letters.’
Then they kissed and he slipped out into the darkness.
He caught the bus north to Merano. Waiting at the terminus for a second bus he picked up a discarded newspaper: Senator Retires ran a headline: … following an unconnected incident at his Rome home, Senator Ettore Tolomei has announced his retirement from politics. ‘I have striven my best to serve my leader and our peoples, but it is time for younger blood to take up the challenge…’
By mid-morning he was aboard a smaller bus, winding its way westward along the valley of the River Etsch. Swelled with icy melt-water, the river rushed by just yards from his window, while the bus toiled steadily upward. The view beyond was harsh and forbidding, the valley walls rising steeply towards craggy, ice-covered peaks thousands of feet high, their summits lost in scudding cloud. Soon all vestige of green was gone, leaving only the snow-covered valley and ice-white mountains all round. The bus laboured on, rounded a series of bends, then a village hove into view half a mile ahead.
‘What’s that?’ Theo asked the driver.
‘Sluderno. Last checkpoint before the border.’
‘Let me off here please.’
The bus driver eyed him. ‘You speak like a Südtiroler.’
‘I am. Born in Bolzano.’
‘Sign the Option Agreement?’
He knew. A lone youth, dressed for the mountains, on the bus for Switzerland: he could only be a fugitive.
‘No, sir, I’m a separatist.’
‘Good.’ The driver nodded. ‘Me too. Take that track there to the right: it leads up the side of Urtirolaspitz. Be careful of that mountain, she’s ten thousand feet and a bitch this time of year. And stay out of sight: border police watch it with binoculars. The summit marks the frontier. Once over, descend westwards by ski until you hit the road at Fuldera.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘How far?’
‘Eight or nine miles.’ He grinned. ‘But I’d say you’ve come a lot farther.’
‘Thank you. I have.’
They shook hands. Theo descended from the bus and began the long climb out of Italy.
CHAPTER 16
As Padre Pettifer predicts, Stalag 357 is indeed a holiday camp compared with the nightmare of XIB. Only twenty miles or so down the railway from Fallingbostel, the layout is similar – the usual collection of huts around a compound, plus an admin block for the Germans – but thereafter all comparisons cease. For a start I’m greeted at the medical officers’ hut by an orderly who insists on carrying my rucksack along to my ‘bedroom’, which although tiny is mine alone, featuring a real bed with sheets, pillow, blankets and bedside cupboard. After that I’m shown to a pleasant-looking ‘lounge’ with tables strewn with newspapers and magazines, a well-stocked bookcase, gramophone player, heating stove and a few scruffy but comfortable armchairs.
‘Good heavens,’ I exclaim. ‘So, er, where is everybody?’
‘Out and about, sir. They’ll be back later. Meantime Major McKenzie suggests you relax for the afternoon.’
‘Relax.’
‘Yes, sir. Help yourself to Bovril and biscuits. Supper’s at six in the dining room.’
Somewhat bemused and with little else to do, I duly select a magazine or two and settle down, Bovril in hand, to relax in an armchair. In no time I’m fast asleep. That evening over a veritable feast of Spam fritters, vegetable soup, bread, butter and Ovaltine, I meet my fellow medical officers, who are three captains like myself, an Australian dentist, and another padre. Also our senior MO, Major John McKenzie, who is a Scot. All have been prisoners for some years, McKenzie since the fall of France.
‘Dunkirk?’ I enquire over the soup.
‘No, Normandy, during the 51st retreat.’
‘51st?’
‘51st Highland Division. Got cut off and surrendered. Thousands taken prisoner.’
‘I never heard of that.’
‘It was hushed up. Dunkirk was the big story.’
His tone discourages further comment, and around the table the others too seem reticent about discussing their capture and captivity, perhaps because they’ve heard it so many times. They are, however, curious about my story.
‘You dropped by parachute?’ The dentist looks shocked. ‘A medical officer? It’s a wonder you survived!’
‘Well, I did have some training…’
‘Arnhem, you say,’ another asks. ‘How far’s that from Germany?’
‘Only a dozen miles or so from the border, as the crow flies.’
‘So the Allies could be here any time?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. The operation, at the end of the day,
must be counted a failure. 30 Corps never made it, we didn’t secure the Rhine bridgehead, we took terrible casualties, and the rest had to fall back…’
‘Sounds like another cock-up,’ McKenzie mutters.
‘Yes, well, much was learned and we’re optimistic about an early spring offensive.’
Wry laughter. ‘Haven’t we heard that before!’
Sarcasm too. And when I talk about Stalag XIB they’re openly scornful.
‘Six officers to a room? Preposterous. And no Red Cross parcels, you say?’
‘That’s right. No heating fuel either, pitiful medical supplies, sanitation’s awful, and as for the food…’
‘You should have complained!’ McKenzie’s fist hits the table. ‘Immediately and in the strongest possible terms.’
‘We did complain, sir, and still are complaining, I assure you. But the situation’s complicated. We paratroops are regarded with some hostility by the Germans, and also we’re the new boys in camp, which is largely run by the French, who’ve cornered the market in resources, so to speak.’
‘Ah.’
And in that ‘ah’ lies the rub. For here in 357 the British hold sway, and they’ve had nearly four years to fine-tune it to perfection. Which accounts for the clubby if somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere. Red Cross parcels arrive like clockwork (hence Bovril, Ovaltine, Spam and myriad other luxuries including magazines and gramophone records), the commandant apparently is elderly, docile and wants no trouble, the guards too are mostly peaceable, with many ‘tamed’ using bribes of Red Cross chocolate and cigarettes. Once tamed they have no choice but to accede to further demands – or get posted to the Russian Front for corruption, so extra luxuries like writing materials, a tailoring and laundry service, the odd bottle of schnapps and even little outings are laid on. Life therefore for these long-term inmates, if tedious, is relatively untroubled, especially for us medics who as non-combatants are regarded benignly. Furthermore, after the weary grind of XIB, the workload is absurdly easy, as I find out following an excellent night’s rest in my bedroom. Woken by the orderly bearing tea, I have a wash and shave in warm water, then a hearty breakfast of coffee and porridge sweetened with Red Cross jam, and I’m ready for the fray.
‘Stalag 357 is not a hospital camp but a regular POW camp,’ McKenzie explains, showing me round the medical hut. ‘Five hundred or so prisoners; we have a sick bay with twenty beds, but if anyone gets seriously ill they’re transferred to hospital. That just leaves routine medical matters for us to handle. We hold a daily sick parade here each morning after roll call; generally we’re all finished by lunchtime. Any questions?’
One or two, but I decide to save them. ‘No, sir. Thank you.’
‘Good. Any problems come and find me, or ask one of the others.’
With that he leaves me in a well-equipped treatment room where I pass the morning curetting warts, lancing boils and mopping out running ears. The most serious case I see is of advanced tinea pedis (athlete’s foot), which the bearer tells me he’s had since the siege of Tobruk. I deal with that using a paste made from bicarbonate of soda, he hobbles out and I await my next case. The knock comes, the door opens, and the first thing I see is the Parachute Regiment insignia on his right shoulder.
‘Waho Mohammed,’ I say, scarcely believing my eyes.
A young man enters. ‘Oh, hello, sir. Waho Mohammed. Er, where’s Dr Rawlings?’
‘He’s been posted elsewhere, so I believe. I’m his replacement, my name’s Garland. And you are?’
Jenkins, he’s a private, he’s twenty-two and tells me he’s from Wolverhampton. He’s slight of build for a Para, and rather pale and tense-looking. Once we have introduced ourselves, I wait for him to explain what’s wrong. But he doesn’t, he just sits there and talks, and some sixth sense tells me I should let him.
‘11th Battalion you say, sir? Can’t say I’ve heard of it. When was it formed?’
‘Only last year, I think. Yes, March or April of forty-three. I joined it a few months ago. What about you, Jenkins?’
‘Oh, I’m a Royal Engineer, sir.’
‘Really? Which unit?’
‘25 BD Company. Then I got to try for the RE’s Parachute Squadron in forty-two. Did my jump training at Ringway, passed OK and got posted to Africa.’
‘BD?’
‘Bomb disposal.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
‘Anyway I joined 1st Parachute Brigade in Africa just in time for the invasion of Sicily. Right caper that was.’
‘Is that where you were captured?’ Jenkins has a slight tick in his cheek, I note, and he licks his lips frequently. Also, curiously, a small teddy bear pokes out from the top pocket of his battledress. He makes no mention of it, so neither do I. Proceed with caution, I tell myself.
‘That’s right. There was this mission, to capture a bridge – Primosole it was called, somewhere on Sicily, box-girder construction over a little river. We were supposed to take and hold it for Monty’s lot to come charging through. But it was a cock-up from the start. A night drop: everyone got scattered so only a couple of companies made it to the bridge, then had a devil of a job taking it. Terrible casualties, I must say…’ He breaks off to study the floor.
‘Bridges do seem to present unique problems to paratroops.’
‘It kept changing hands, you know. We’d have it, then they’d take it back and so on. Pretty soon there’s bodies everywhere. Mates and that, dead and injured. Anyway, turns out Jerry’s rigged the whole thing with explosives…’
‘Which is where you came in.’
‘Yes.’ He turns his face to the window. ‘Me and my section.’
I wait. A minute passes, but that’s all he has to say.
‘How are you sleeping these days, Jenkins?’
‘I never sleep.’
‘Did Dr Rawlings ever discuss barbiturates?’
‘What’s the point? I’d only dream.’
‘How can I help?’
‘You can’t.’ He looks at me, his cheek twitching. ‘Nobody can.’
*
A week later, 357’s medical contingent, to my astonishment, goes into town for a drink. ‘Out and about,’ as the orderly put it on my first day, apparently really does mean ‘out’. I’m sitting in the lounge smoking a pipe (a new affectation) and reading the British Medical Journal when the dentist hurries in wearing greatcoat and cap. ‘Come on, Garland, everyone’s waiting!’
Ten minutes later we’re out of the gate and strolling down the road as though it’s the most normal thing in the world.
‘What’s going on?’ I whisper to the padre.
‘Parole,’ he murmurs.
Parole, it turns out, refers to a little-known clause of the Geneva Convention, with origins dating from Roman times. Storming across Europe, the Romans acquired more POWs than they knew what to do with, but they certainly weren’t going to bother housing and feeding them all, so on their sworn promise never to bear arms again, the prisoners were free to fend for themselves. Many simply went home. In the present context parole means extra freedoms and privileges, such as tools to build a camp theatre, provided they aren’t used for escaping, or art materials for painting lessons, on condition documents aren’t forged with them. Or even a walk in the woods, as long as we don’t wander off. Logical but mad, it’s all based upon our solemn ‘parole’ as officers and gentlemen to play by the rules.
There’s more, unbelievably. Another clause says that ‘Officers on a Journey’ are legally entitled to refreshments. This is why I was given sandwiches for my outing to Bergen, and breakfast at Fallingbostel Station. But in the case of 357’s medical officers, it means beer-at-a-pub-while-out-for-a-stroll. Mad, as I say, but who am I to argue with the law? So, accompanied by a guard hefting sackfuls of our laundry, we walk a mile or so down a cobbled lane into a pleasant village, where he leads us straight into a cosy Herberge. Seating ourselves at a scrubbed oak table surrounded by genial old men who express no surprise at our arrival,
a clandestine exchange of goods takes place at the bar which results in foaming mugs of dunkel beer arriving before us, served with a cheery wink by a suitably ample waitress.
‘Prost!’ everyone toasts, including the old men. I take a sip, taste something delicious and stout-like, and know I’m hallucinating.
‘It’s all perfectly above board,’ McKenzie explains, seeing my expression. ‘The landlord’s sister does our laundry, the guard pays in cigarettes and cocoa powder, keeps a small percentage as commission and everyone’s happy.’
Except that it’s Red Cross cigarettes and cocoa powder we’re trading in, I reflect, which doesn’t feel right, especially when Pip Smith and the others need them so badly just a few miles away at XIB. Nor, call me old-fashioned, does it feel right fraternizing so chummily with the enemy, even if they’re only old men and barmaids. And as I’m sitting there among British officers who see nothing wrong in this, I realize they’ve been captive so long they’ve stopped thinking like soldiers, and settled into institutionalized apathy like animals in a zoo. And soon a second mug of beer arrives and goes straight to my head, which is growing increasingly confused and uneasy, and before I know it I’m heading for trouble.
‘Sir, could I ask you something?’
‘By all means.’
‘It’s about one of the patients. A boy called Jenkins.’
‘I’ve seen him. Explosives chap. Talks a lot.’
‘Yes, that’s him. The thing is I fear he’s having some sort of breakdown.’
‘Really? Based on what?’
‘Well, a gut feeling.’
‘Gut feelings aren’t very professional, Garland.’
‘No, sir. But I sense he needs specialist care. Or even a medical repatriation.’
‘What!’ His eyebrows shoot up. ‘You want me to request a medical repatriation? Based on a gut feeling? That’d upset the apple cart all right!’
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