by Mick Hare
Three
1940
By the time Dr Bauer reached the Plaza Espana in Gerona he was at the limit of his endurance. His fight with Captain Vogts, swiftly followed by the encounter with the sergeant had left him drained. As he had walked down the carpeted stairs of the hotel to the lobby he had felt like a lamb walking into the wolf’s lair. Wermacht, SS and Gestapo officers filled the lobby, smoking, playing cards and joking loudly. At any moment he expected the sergeant to come chasing after him and that he would be seized by this Nazi mob. His knees were water but his wits were sharp. At the turn in the stairway half way down, he slipped a piece of paper from his pocket and let it fall to the floor by the skirting board. It was a receipt for an aeroplane ticket from Barcelona to Madrid. It was a forgery and a false trail. But it was one the Germans would have to follow up even if they suspected its falsity.
He made it safely across the lobby and out into the street. The sun was warming the early morning and one or two people were out and about attending to their daily business. Franco’s Civil Guards patrolled in twos, armed with rifles. They acknowledged Dr Bauer with a salute and he saluted back. Crossing the footbridge he was approached by two SS men. As they drew level with him one stepped in front of him and stopped his progress. However, the man just smiled and asked him for a light. Clumsily the doctor found his lighter and lit the man’s cigarette. He was sure his nerves would give him away. The man thanked him and walked off to join his companion.
Entering the colonnade surrounding Plaza de la Independiencia he spotted the Mercedes. He was distraught to see that his driver was standing beside the car being questioned by two Civil Guards. At least, it appeared he was being questioned. Maybe they were just having a chat and a smoke to pass the time. What should he do? If the alarm had been raised and they were looking for him it would be suicide to approach. On the other hand, if they were idly killing time the longer he hesitated the sooner the assassination would be discovered and the hue and cry would begin. He moved out of the shade of the colonnade and called to his driver. On hearing him his driver looked towards him and called back. He then said something to his companions and they moved off across the square. Restraining the urge within himself to run to the car, he approached as slowly as he could as his driver stubbed his cigarette out with his foot and moved around the car to the driver’s side.
Within minutes they were pulling away from the Old City and approaching La Plaza de Toros.
For several minutes Doctor Bauer was overcome with relief and he slumped in his seat like a dead man. They glided through the city streets, passed the train station and turned south onto the Barcelona road. It was only when he found himself looking out of the windows onto fields and farmhouses set well back from the road that he realised his driver was talking to him.
He tuned into the driver’s words.
“When you are ready you must tell me what happened!” the driver was saying.
The doctor recounted the action in the hotel as his driver listened intently. The act of retelling the events served to further revive him; as if his brain was telling him that de-briefing was procedure. He had trained to de-brief. Things were becoming normal again.
“Is the General dead?” asked the driver.
“Definitely!”
“No doubt?”
“None at all!”
“What about the Captain?”
“No. Definitely not! But he is severely injured. His active participation in the war might well be over.”
“Yes,” came back the driver, “But if he is alive he may recognise you.”
“That’s true.”
“And so might the sergeant.”
“Also true,” said the doctor. “It’s a bit messy, isn’t it!”
“This is a messy business. The important thing is you achieved your main objective. If we get out of the mess alive, that’s a bonus. If we don’t – well we were expendable anyway.”
The driver slowed the car down as they reached the outskirts of a small town called Llagostera. He drove slowly through the quiet streets, careful not to draw the attention of any conscientious Civil Guards. He ignored a signpost indicating Barcelona to the right and drove straight ahead and then left following signs to San Feliu de Guixois. Once through Llagostera he pushed the accelerator to the floor and within twenty minutes they were skirting around San Feliu and pulling into a cove beside a tiny fishing village called San Agaro. Parking under a group of trees, as close as he could get to the beach, the driver got out and went to the boot of the car. From inside he got out a pair of fisherman’s boots, a jumper, an oilskin and a pair of corduroy trousers.
“Go over there into the trees and put these on. Bring your German uniform back to me.”
When the doctor returned he had also dipped his head in a trickling stream and rubbed his hair clean of the black theatrical hair colouring he had used to darken it. His blond locks were not fully restored to their former glory, but he did look quite different with this new crop of fair hair.
“Look down there!” ordered the driver pointing to the beach.
It was a beach of tiny white stones and was empty except for a small rowing boat sitting upright at a gentle angle.
“That’s your escape out of here.”
The doctor looked at him questioningly. The driver hesitated in his delivery and asked, “Will you be able to launch it?”
The doctor thought about his watery limbs. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe.”
The driver scrutinised him and seemed to be pondering a decision, “Okay,” he said finally. “Come on, I’ll launch you on your way.”
He took off the jacket and hat of his uniform, threw them in the car and set off down to the beach ahead of the doctor. The sun was well into the sky now and by the time they had walked across the beach to the boat the doctor was feeling the heat.
The driver checked on the oars and between them they dragged the little craft to the shoreline.
“Time for my final instructions, I think,” said the doctor.
The driver pointed to his left up the coastline. “Row to the north around the headland. You will be met by a fishing craft. It’s called ‘Mas o Menos’. The captain is called Miguel Massanet Gomilo. They are out of Mallorca. They will set a course for Cork in Ireland. They will go about their business, which is fishing. They are not wealthy men and they need to feed their families. Also, they need to act as fishermen act and not arouse the suspicions of Axis shipping. You will have a long journey home but I am sure you will make it. They will expect you to work alongside them hauling in the nets.”
The doctor nodded as the driver went on, “The captain will call out to you these words. First in Spanish he will say, ‘Hola Irlandesa’. Then in English he will say, ‘A cork floats well in stormy seas’. You must reply, ‘An Irish cork never sinks’.”
The doctor looked at the face of a man he would never see again. He was not a tall man but he had big features. His shiny, jet black hair framed a handsome face. His upper body was broad and strong. To this man, this Spaniard with whom he had shared a life-threatening mission, there was nothing meaningful he could say. He set his oars and pulled away from the shore. The driver walked back up the beach, put on his uniform and drove away.
As he reached the headland the Mas o Menos was already rounding it towards him. The coded exchange was delivered and the doctor climbed aboard. Within twenty-four hours he was rested and fed and embarking upon a new career as an Atlantic fisherman. By the end of that same week he was landing, exhausted, at the fishing port of Cobh, just beside Cork City, Eire and emerged into the Irish daylight as Dr Sean Colquhoun, General Practitioner.
As he stepped ashore onto the concrete quay, the wild Atlantic wind whipping his blonde fringe, he caught sight of his wife, Martha standing beside their car. She was waving to him standing on tiptoe. Her strong-featured, handsome face was framed in a tightly tied headscarf, shielding her long strawberry locks from the weather. As soon as h
e caught sight of her, he broke into a run and did not stop until they were embracing in greeting.
He looked into her lightly freckled face and felt a strong emotion wash over him. They kissed until she broke away. In that breaking away Sean had felt the emotion drain out of him. There had been too much reluctance in Martha for him not to notice. He suddenly knew that what he had hoped for had been unrealistic; that his absence would have healed the wound and they could get back to normal. But there had been something icy about her withdrawal. It was an iciness he was all too familiar with; an iciness he knew his own deceit had helped to create.
As if reading his thoughts Martha seemed to relent and said, “Come on, I’ll take you home before that skipper’s eyes pop out of his head.”
After his six week absence it was wonderful to hear her Irish voice again. Martha had never been overtly romantic or publicly affectionate. Sean would have liked that sometimes. But she had been passionate. She had saved her displays of passion for when they were alone and that had been Sean’s absolute joy and delight. She had always had a slightly gauche, intensely private, rural manner, but it had only added to her appeal as far as Sean was concerned.
She pushed him in the chest, offered him a weak smile and walked around to the driver’s door. Unlike most women of her generation, Martha Grady was an experienced driver, a skill she had acquired driving her father’s tractors on their County Clare farm. Unknown to Sean, Martha had experienced as great a disappointment as his to her reaction. She had sincerely believed that on his return the love and passion would return to overcome the resentment that had crept into their lives. She was struggling to cope with the knowledge that it had not.
Four
1936
When Sean met Martha in Dublin in late 1936, she was studying for a Bachelor of Arts Honours degree in modern languages. She was specialising in nineteenth century German theatre. A woman undergraduate in Ireland at this time was a rare specimen and as such Martha O’Grady attracted interest, particularly, but not exclusively, amongst her male acquaintances.
Sean was newly returned from Berlin where he had studied medicine at the Friedrichshain Clinic. He had been there since 1930 and was six years into his studies when he sought and achieved a transfer to complete his qualification. He had in fact achieved professional status whilst in Germany but he needed to spend two semesters at Trinity to validate his qualification. He was steadfastly reticent about his experiences there and had decided to see his return to Dublin as a new beginning.
They had first met at a tea party held by Martha’s tutor. His name was Brian Hagan and he had a pretty, little, if somewhat plump, Austrian wife, Eva. Hagan was a fanatical Germanophile and his tea parties were his way of recreating a little corner of Germany within Dublin’s Celtic environs. Meeting the Hagan crowd and especially Martha would help Sean create the kind of persona he wished to become.
Hagan’s wife, Eva, fed the guests, usually about eight or ten in number, on sausages, sauerkraut and apple strudel. Hagan arranged these gatherings for a Saturday evening following one of his frequent trips to Frankfurt where he guest lectured at the University College. He always returned with a plentiful supply of bottled German beers, schnapps and sausages to oil the party conversation. Martha was a regular guest.
Sean first met Hagan through a colleague at the hospital, consultant, Mr James Callan. Callan had become acquainted with Hagan through his own guest lecturing in obstetrics to medical students at Trinity. Although Callan had no German connection, he and Hagan had hit it off. When James Callan mentioned to Hagan that his new colleague, Sean Colquhoun was recently returned from five years of study in Berlin, Hagan immediately fired off an invitation.
And so it was in the autumn of 1936 that Sean found himself in the dining room of a well positioned house on Grafton Street, inside a tiny German colony, immersed once again in the staccato music of the German tongue.
“Your German is flawless, Mr. Colquhoun,” Hagan remarked formally.
“I never found it a problem. I took to it the moment I encountered it at school in Cork. One of our Christian Brothers, Brother Peter, was obsessed with all things German. Except Martin Luther, of course.”
The company laughed heartily.
“I have to admit that six years in Berlin has helped a bit.”
They laughed again.
“Forget Luther,” Hagan retorted taking control of the topic. “Germany has a rich seam of Catholicism running right through its beating heart. Why Mr. Hitler himself is a devout Catholic.”
And so it went on. Most evenings the party would break up by 9.30. Every so often it would drift on past that hour and a second schnapps bottle would come out. As the clock crept on past ten and the schnapps loosened tongues, the conversation would tentatively turn to the subject of Mr. Hitler and the fate of Europe. Hagan would be provocative.
“Sure he’s a great man. Didn’t even Ghandi say so? What better judge of character is there?”
Whenever this topic emerged, Eva would become agitated. Sean kept his counsel. The rest hooted at Hagan’s parlour talk.
After his third visit to the Hagan’s, Sean suspected that Martha was taking a shine to him. All the signs were there. They had been introduced on the occasion of Sean’s first visit. He had enjoyed talking to her but there were no strong feelings. He’d thought her fresh-scrubbed face a little too rural and her big smile too immature. He was also intimidated as well as intrigued by her academic prowess. There was nothing unfeminine about her; quite the opposite, but she did not fit in with the other women in the company. She could lead conversations on many topics and could often dominate an argument. However, by the end of his second visit he imagined that she was looking at him whenever she thought he was distracted. He realised he was beginning to find that fresh-scrubbed face and that toothy smile quite provocative. Sean could not help remaining partially detached, whilst at the same time feeling the natural thrill of unspoken attraction. He could be immersed in the moment and, simultaneously, view it all as if watching two other people go through the motions. But he did not do anything to discourage Martha. Before long they were spending lots of time together in one to one conversations. To Sean’s surprise they could talk effortlessly to infinity.
Leaving the porch one night and descending to the pavement, Sean and Martha for once found themselves alone together. Taking the plunge Martha ventured, “It’s a fine, warm night. Too fine to be going home. Do you fancy a walk through the park? You can leave me at my bus stop on the far side.”
Even as she was speaking Martha was wondering why she was the one to be making this move. She did not mind taking the lead but what was it within Sean that made him so reticent about moving their friendship forward. Eventually after a long moment’s thought Sean replied, “That would be grand.”
After that they began to meet by convenient co-incidence. It amused Sean and again he did nothing to halt the development of their relationship. He did nothing to correct the notion amongst their mutual acquaintances when it was starting to be assumed that they were a couple. He was attached elsewhere, emotionally at least, if not in reality. It was in this respect only that he was not completely open with Martha. In all of Ireland, at that time, he could think of no one he would rather spend his time with.
And so they were soon meeting on a daily basis by prior arrangement. Lunch. Tea. Supper. Whichever time suited Sean’s hospital commitments best. They tried every café in Dublin. Each became obsessed with the other. Martha knew instinctively that Sean liked her. But why was he always holding back. Why did she always have to take the lead in the making of arrangements? Who was this Sean Colquhoun and why was he so damned self sufficient? How could he always give the impression that if he never saw her again that damned composure would not even be dented. If that was the case, why did he always agree to meet her and why did they have so much fun together? And why was it that his independence was so attractive to her? However, because of her own determination, the rel
ationship was developing well. Sean always walked Martha to the door of her flat now. When they parted they kissed. Gently, formally at first. But gradually they succumbed to nature and their passion. Like all lovers before them, their kisses spoke distinct messages to each of them. Three weeks after they took their first walk through the park together, Martha made a bold move.