by Vic Robbie
Pickering leant across to whisper the content of the broadcast would also be printed in leaflets and dropped by RAF planes to German troops and cities. This was a common practice as they often carried out leaflet runs to disguise the fact they were also parachuting in agents behind enemy lines.
Ben wasn’t paying attention as the announcer rambled on for what seemed several minutes as he was concentrating more on what Pickering had said to him and what it was he was supposed to remember.
A new voice started speaking.
‘My name is...’ The voice sounded tinny and far away and there was an echo but it was as clear as water in a mountain stream. Time seemed to stand still and he felt as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer.
‘My name is Alena...’
Pickering perched on the edge of his seat supporting his weight on the balls of his feet as he stared at him.
Everything started moving in his mind like the blocks being knocked away before a ship slides down the slipway for the first time. It was unstoppable and Pickering saw in his eyes the pain of remembering. The memories flooded back in a kaleidoscope of sound and colour each battling for prominence. If he’d been standing such was their power they would have bowled him over. Instead, he was pushed back in his chair as they played out in vivid flashes of remembrance and he gripped the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white.
‘I want to send a message to the German people wherever you are,’ she went on.
‘Is this going out now?’ he asked.
Pickering looked irritated. ‘No, this is a recording. It hasn’t been decided when it will go out.’ And he held a finger to his lips
As though the two halves of his brain were working independently, he listened to her words and yet at the same time was seeing something like newsreel footage of their escape from Paris.
‘Although I am French, I know Germany very well and lived in your country for many years. I worked for Fonction Publique Française, the French civil service, in Paris and before the war I was sent to Berlin to work at the French Embassy. While I was there, I made many German friends.
‘As Germans, you know everywhere you go now you have to carry the Ahnenpass, which is like a passport listing up to six previous generations of your family to prove you are pure Aryan. Those who do not meet those requirements disappear as part of Adolf Hitler’s campaign to rid Europe of the Jewish people whom he detests as Untermensch, and whom he believes to be enemies of the German state. It is now illegal in Germany or German-occupied countries to consort with these so-called sub-humans, and if found guilty you can be executed or placed in work camps.’
He felt numb and was finding it hard to breathe, and Pickering offered him another drink to help relieve the symptoms of shock.
In a calm and slow voice, Alena was now recounting the story she’d told him earlier about her experience in Berlin and Freddie’s birth.
‘The man who raped me, a Nazi, kept us out of the public eye by imprisoning us in a castle near Munich where he would come to visit his son. He gave me a ring, a priceless ring with a rare red diamond. It was one of the Nazis’ spoils of war. As you may know, the Nazi hierarchy keep for their own use the treasures their troops plunder. This was part of my son’s father’s collection.’
He nodded remembering the ring Alena had given to Sebastian, the mountain guide, to persuade him to take them over the Pyrenees. It was probably worth many thousands and he wondered if Sebastian had any idea of its value.
‘As far as my family back home in France were concerned, I’d vanished and they presumed I’d died. I haven’t been able to contact them to let them know I’m still alive because the Nazis would come after them.
‘In your name, the Führer and his armies are imprisoning and killing innocent people because they are mentally or physically handicapped, gypsies or Jews.’
There was a gleam in Pickering’s eyes knowing what was coming next.
‘As I said, my name is Alena and I am French. My family originated from Russia. My grandfather and my grandmother emigrated to France.’
There were now long pauses between words as if she had to rein herself in from blurting everything out in an uncontrolled rush and in the silences he heard the loud ticking of a clock somewhere in the room.
‘My grandparents were Jews as are my parents. Therefore, I am Jewish and proud to be so.’
There was an even longer pause as if she were giving the listeners time for this piece of information to sink in.
‘Freddie, my little boy, something of beauty born out of a vile act, is also Jewish. But he also has Aryan blood from his father, a Nazi. His father, the man who raped me, has broken the laws you are now forced to live by. This man is at the very centre of the Nazis’ campaign to rid the world of Jews. Yet he has a Jewish son who he has had to hide away until now. Why can this be so if it is illegal under punishment of death to have any relations with those of the Jewish faith? My son’s father should be answerable to the German people.’
And there was another long pause.
She mumbled something inaudible.
Another even longer pause.
‘My son’s father is...’
Now the ticking of the clock seemed to dominate the silences. And Pickering was twitching with impatience.
‘The man who wants to kill all Jews has a Jewish son.’
Again she paused, gathering all her strength until she almost shouted it out.
‘The father of my Jewish son is –
Pickering bit hard on the pipe between his teeth and glanced over at Ben, who felt a painful knotting in his stomach.
‘ADOLF HITLER.’
‘Freddie is the son of Adolf Hitler.’
78
THE letterbox rattled and ben froze momentarily. Any unusual noise these days made him start and he tensed as though ready to flee. It could be entirely innocent of course, a postman pushing through a letter. Or the sound of an intruder. The afternoon was deteriorating into a foggy dusk as he loafed on a battered old armchair in his apartment off Kensington High Street reading a manuscript he hoped would become his first published book.
At first, Ben had lived with the hope of seeing Alena again, and every time a letter dropped through the letterbox he quickened his step and picked it up in anticipation. But now he doubted if they would ever be reunited. She and Freddie had disappeared behind an impenetrable smokescreen set up by British Intelligence. And when he nibbled at Pickering for any titbit of news the man, who professed to be a friend, gave a good impression of being nothing more than a messenger.
‘Wouldn’t be able to tell you even if I knew,’ Pickering would say, shrugging his shoulders and almost looking genuinely apologetic. ‘Top secret and all that, old man.’ They were alive and safe, living somewhere in the country with new identities, Pickering revealed before repeating almost without taking breath: ‘Don’t know where, I’m afraid.’
His mission was deemed a success. Divers had retrieved the platinum from the wreck of the Catalina and it was to be sold to the Americans and the proceeds used to help fund the Free French Forces’ fight against the Germans.
It was of secondary importance to him. He wanted to find Alena and was frustrated by Pickering whom he was convinced knew where they were being kept. At times when he pushed for information, Pickering looked weary as though the weight of his lies were too great a burden. Pickering stayed in touch and helped him get a job in a financial institution in the City of London, whether out of guilt or friendship he wasn’t sure. His Wall Street bank wanted him to return to New York to resume his career, but he had no wish to leave Europe. He felt part of their struggle against the Nazis and wanted to support them in any way he could and he also knew he couldn’t face the mundanity of returning home. Even though life was hard, the British, especially the Londoners, inspired him with an indomitable spirit that would never surrender. Leaving now would be like running away when your buddy was being beaten up.
He put down the m
anuscript and rose from the chair. He saw there hadn’t been a delivery, but he sensed a presence behind the door and he opened it carefully.
Startled, Pickering stepped back, his fist raised ready to knock.
‘Thought you were the postman.’ He tried not to show his disappointment, and in return received a reproving look from Pickering.
‘I suppose I do have a delivery of sorts. Car’s downstairs. Come on, got something to show you.’
Grabbing his jacket, he followed him down to the car.
During the drive, Pickering kept his hands on the wheel with his teeth clamped tight on his pipe as though struggling with a secret that might escape if he opened his mouth.
Eventually, they turned into a cobbled lane running alongside Waterloo railway station that was lined by lock-ups built into the arches of the railway bridges.
‘Here we are,’ Pickering said and halted the car in front of wooden double doors secured by a rusting chain and padlock. It wasn’t promising. Weeds poked through the gaps between the cobblestones and most of the lock-ups were neglected with their doors in need of painting. And Pickering appeared agitated and, with his collar turned up, looked like some spiv waiting to complete a black market deal. ‘You can’t rely on the buggers,’ he shook his head and swore under his breath.
They were alone and Ben felt vulnerable and the asthmatic gasping of steam engines only added to the mood.
Still muttering, Pickering strode over to the doors and tried the padlock. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said and returned to his car and, after rummaging in the back, emerged with the car’s starting handle. Slipping it through the loops of the chain, he pushed down with all of his strength until the chain snapped and fell to the ground.
He wondered what Pickering was so eager to show him as the doors creaked open. They peered into the gloom until their eyes became accustomed to the dark and he could make out the shapes before him. He gasped. It was like being transported back in time to when Bernay showed him the Bentley for the first time. Then, gleaming, she’d stood proud and magnificent. He’d forgotten the damage and blows she’d endured. The war wounds that had ravaged her body. The cracks scoring the windscreen. The front bumper hanging off and trailing on the ground. The shell holes in the bonnet. Cobwebs festooned the mascot and those large headlamps yet her class shone through the indignity of it all.
He glanced at Pickering as though requiring his permission and Pickering knew what was in his mind and nodded agreement. Trembling with anticipation, he pulled open the driver’s door and eased behind the wheel. The smell of leather still lingered and he reached to switch on the ignition and when it started with some coaxing, they both roared with laughter. As he sat there, the engine made everything around him vibrate with its naked power and above it all he heard Alena's voice and Freddie’s laughter echoing around the car. His memories seemed to play out on the dusty windscreen before him. Leaving the panic of Paris. Driving through the French countryside with Alena by his side and Freddie chirruping in the back seat. Picking up the two French children. Escaping the brigands. The perilous journey over the Pyrenees. The Spanish gangster’s attempt to steal the car and hold her hostage. The run-in with the Guardia Civil. The intrigue in Estoril. The hair-raising flight on the flying boat...yet it felt empty without her.
He didn’t care what Pickering’s motive was; he was just grateful to him. In some way being with the car brought him close to Alena again and gave him hope one day they would meet once more. Pickering knew he had promised to return to Estoril once the war was over and reclaim the Bentley, if it was still there, and give it back to Bernay’s family. But he had been trumped by Pickering, who had arranged for the car to be transported to England on a freighter out of Lisbon. He’d also arranged for some restoration work to be done on the Bentley. Ben was speechless and he glanced at Pickering with a grin spreading across his face, and Pickering understood.
While it took several weeks for the car to be restored to a semblance of its former glory, he again felt himself slipping into a despond. He realised the longer time elapsed the gulf between him and Alena was widening. Not even picking up the Bentley, which still carried some of its duelling scars although it could still turn a few heads, could entirely lift his spirits.
To celebrate his repossession of the car, Pickering suggested Ben drive down to Cornwall and join him for the weekend at his country cottage by the sea.
He was happy to get away from the privations of London and it was an opportunity to reacquaint himself with the Bentley and it would benefit from having a long run. Setting off on a Saturday morning, he headed for the coast with the windows open, and the Bentley purred like a big cat devouring the miles. And at times he imagined a Stuka bomber about to swoop out of the azure sky and he looked across at the passenger seat convinced Alena was with him.
Although a long drive, he was still relaxed when he reached the outskirts of the village. It comprised one narrow road meandering down the hill to the sea and flanked on either side by white painted cottages, many with thatched roofs. The road gave way to a slipway running down to a tiny harbour in which several fishing boats bobbed on the tide. Pickering’s cottage was the last on the left and closest to the sea and he had to park the Bentley and make the rest of the way on foot.
He pushed open the gate and knocked on the old oak door. After knocking several times, and getting no response, he entered a small sitting-room dominated by an open wood fire and low oak-beamed ceilings.
‘Pickering,’ he called out. ‘Where are you?’
As he didn’t get an answer, he went from room to room on the ground floor. There didn’t appear to be anyone about. The French windows to the garden were open so he went through them and out onto a patio with views of the sea. To the left was a small lawn with a row of trees at the bottom. As he drew closer, he saw an archway of roses between the trees and stone steps leading down to another tier of lawn and beyond a stone wall and a drop to the beach and harbour below. Halfway down the steps, he suddenly felt dizzy and stopped to hold onto a railing as his vision blurred and he had to rub his eyes to try to clear the impediment.
Someone was slumped on the bench and wrapped in a blanket and appeared as though they’d been looking out to sea and had grown tired of waiting and fallen asleep. His pace quickened as he approached and his mouth became dry and his heart rate increased.
The person on the bench didn’t move.
He couldn’t hold back and called out.
‘Alena.’
Her head came up with a jolt and she turned to see who had awakened her, yet still he couldn’t see her face as the blanket shielded it.
She unfolded from the seat and stood up and he saw her eyes still burning green like a flame. She hesitated as if not registering what her eyes were telling her and then she broke into a wide, open-mouthed smile. He didn’t know whether they ran to each other or walked, then she was in his arms with her hands cradling his head and her lips nuzzling his face and burying into his chest. And he felt the firmness of her body through the thin stuff of her dress.
‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ he whispered.
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes.
‘I love you,’ she said.
He traced her high cheekbones and the enigmatic dimple like a perfect scar with his thumb and her lips moved up searching for his mouth and it was like the very first time...
‘Ah, there you are, old man.’ Pickering had awakened from his nap on the bench and was staring questioningly at him.
Blinking hard to refocus his eyes, Ben emerged from his reverie to confront a disappointment as heavy as a blow to the chest.
‘Did she behave herself?’
‘What?’
‘Good drive?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He shook his head, feeling foolish and wondering what he’d just experienced. Was it a hallucination or a premonition?
‘Good, good! Got you here for two reasons, old man. Thought the drive would do you the
world of good but also wanted to talk to you about something I didn’t wish to discuss over the phone.’
‘Alena?’ His heartbeat increased alarmingly.
Pickering studied him and for the first time his affected speech and airs seemed to have deserted him. ‘Yes, it’s about Alena.’
‘Is she here?’
‘Afraid not, old man.’ Pickering started to set up his pipe then dropped it on the grass as if it were no longer of use to him.
‘We believe she’s back behind enemy lines...’
He stared at him in disbelief. ‘What?’ Incredulity shone out of his eyes and he heard the anger in his voice rising. ‘How could you?’
‘It’s complicated...’
‘Why in God’s name did you send her back there, you know every damned Nazi will be after her?’
‘Not my decision, old man.’
He shook his head and slumped down on the bench.
‘It’s very complicated.’ Pickering dropped his voice as if he thought someone might be listening. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this.’
‘But after that broadcast–’
‘That’s another story –’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In the world of intelligence you often have opposing views within the same camp and while we’re involved in one project, some are working on many others.’
‘Explain yourself, man.’
‘Alena’s secret is of great propaganda value to us and it’s just a case of our picking the right time to broadcast it so it will have the best possible effect. Within Germany, there are factions opposed to Hitler and we believe some are planning attempts on his life.’
‘So?’
‘Someone, very high up, has the view if the Germans themselves assassinate Hitler the people would have no stomach for fighting on and it would end the war.’
‘Who?’
‘The very top,’ Pickering said and nodded when he saw Ben understood to whom he was referring. ‘His view is if Hitler dies his followers will disappear back into their holes like the rats they are. But if they discover Hitler has a son and heir it might give them a reason to fight on and for generations the faithful would have a figurehead to rally behind even if they lost the war.’