by Mick Hare
Seven
“Herr Hitler has a bigger world view than his detractors,” continued Hagan, slipping comfortably into an argument he had used many times before. “Look at Italy and Germany; look at Spain – soon to be under Franco’s fascist leadership; look at the rise of the fascist right in France. Look, for goodness sake at the welcome Hitler has received in Austria. You’ve only got to look at England and the rise of Mosley. Mark my words, in our lifetime all of Western Europe will be part of a prosperous and powerful fascist concert. Mosley will be Prime Minister and Edward VIII will be restored to the throne. Now the crucial power is America and in less than two years there will be a presidential election there. And who’s going to win that? Charles Lindbergh, that’s who! His running mate will be Joseph Kennedy, an open admirer of Hitler and an implacable enemy of that warmonger, Churchill. Lindbergh is a holder of the Iron Cross presented to him by Hitler himself and he’s already campaigning on a pro-Germany platform,” he paused for breath.
“The point I am making is that Hitler knows there is no need for war. In a few short years the democracies will crumble of their own accord. We all know they are rotten to the core. England and its empire is ripest of all. Just waiting to collapse in upon itself. Calls itself a democracy yet an aristocracy owns ninety-nine percent of all wealth and fiercely excludes other sectors of the community from power with its public schools and old boy network. And what about the British Empire? Well we don’t even have to leave this room to find first-hand evidence of the brutality and murder practised by that so-called democracy. Murderers and robbers wherever they went; India, Africa, the Middle East.”
Hagan paused in his soliloquy as he went about the room replenishing glasses and offering cigars to the men. He had loosened his tie about his broad neck and he wiped a bead of sweat from his red brow with the forearm of his shirt.
“I can feel the tide of history rising up to carry us forward,” he continued. “Soon the democracies will fall apart and the fresh face of fascism will spread its sunlight into all nations. The world will then no longer be held hostage by corrupt Jewish finance systems – nor will we be corrupted by Jewish and Negro art forms. What need of war when the tide of history is running your way?”
Hagan sat back, immensely pleased with himself, with his company and with the way history was unfolding just as he expected it to. His plump wife, Eva swished across the room to him, leaving a whiff of expensive perfume in her wake and sat proudly beside him on the arm of his chair.
As the company sipped their schnapps, Father O’Shea shifted slightly in his seat and then spoke up.
“I wonder,” he said hesitantly, “…I mean, I get the drift of your antagonism towards modern art. God knows it’s almost beyond comprehension and also often downright obscene. And I accept what you are saying about the hypocrisy of states like Britain criticising others as uncivilised when we all know what crimes she has committed. But… I wonder… I mean I’ve never understood the point about Jewish financiers ruling the world in a great big conspiracy. I’m sure I know a lot more poor Jews than rich ones and I just don’t see where that’s coming from. When I was in Italy I saw none of the anti-Semitism there that we hear from Mr Hitler. And no one can deny Mussolini’s fascist credentials. In fact he led where Hitler followed.”
Sean pricked up his ears at this careful contribution from O’Shea. This was the kind of Catholicism he thought he had been raised in. Looking at O’Shea, Sean realised he had committed his usual act of bias and dismissed O’Shea as a non-person until now. He found he often did this with priests. It was as if their celibacy removed them from the arena of true human interaction. As O’Shea spoke, Sean studied him and tried to stop himself thinking, here was the waste of a good man.
Most of the company shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Eva got up from the arm of Hagan’s chair with an irritated shuffle and began fussing with a cheese board at the sideboard. This was a subject the company preferred to take as read; a subject that had to be dealt with but not thought about too much.
O’Shea sensed the discomfort he had caused and shrank back into his chair. Hagan let out a laugh. A warm, comradely laugh aimed at dispelling the atmosphere that O’Shea’s question had created.
“Now then, Father,” Hagan said reassuringly. “Like a good man of the cloth you are always prepared to think the best of people. But you must not be hoodwinked by your Christian principles into allowing evil to prosper. Suffice to say that in serious quarters it is no longer disputed that the murderers of Our Lord and Saviour,” and here he blessed himself, causing the rest of the company to do likewise, “control banking throughout the western world. Where they don’t do it openly with their names above the door, so to speak, they do it secretly, pulling the strings of dupes and knaves from behind their conspiratorial cloaks. And yes, we know there are poor Jews. But to a man, woman and child they are a hard-hearted breed. Whatever disparagement they suffer they bring upon themselves. Which other race so hard-heartedly refuses to welcome the Saviour into their hearts? And that Saviour predicted by their own scriptures. It is a wilful, sinful, hard-heartedness.”
Sean squirmed as Hagan patronised the young priest.
O’Shea was cowed and nodded in agreement. It was not an alien thought to him that the Jew denied the divinity of Jesus Christ out of sheer hard-heartedness. Maybe that carried over into their business dealings. He was content to concede to Hagan.
Sean was disappointed that O’Shea did not take up the argument, but his opinion of the young priest remained decidedly improved. The rest of the company were pleased to let this distasteful subject drop. The conversation went on to consider the resurgence of Germany under the Nazi party and the relative merits of Hitler and Mussolini. The inevitable success of Franco’s rebellion was also discussed, as was the fabulous reception Hitler received from the Austrians following his pre-emptive surge across the border.
Later on, Martin Beatty brought them back to James Callan’s original question, “If I understand what you’re saying Brian, then your real answer to James’ question is that we are already at war. The democracies are in a fight for survival in the face of the successful rise of fascism.”
“Exactly,” pounced Hagan. “And let’s not forget – my enemy’s misfortune is my opportunity. Everyone here knows who our inherent enemy is – England. While England struggles to survive we can grasp a powerful advantage. No one in this room has forgotten that we still do not have a united Ireland. We could be on the threshold of momentous times.”
“But,” came back Beatty, “are we not one of the democracies, and if so are we not therefore also under threat from rising fascism?”
“Ah, but there is the beauty of Ireland’s position. We hover between democracy and theocracy. We are a fledgling state. We are at the birth of our freedom. We are flexible enough to move with the times. We have a Blueshirt movement of our own growing in numbers and confidence every day.”
“Wait a minute,” said Beatty. “The Blueshirts are a bunch of dangerous jokers. Most of them have criminal records. They couldn’t hold the end of an ass’ rope, never mind the reins of power.”
“That’s what they were saying about Hitler’s Brownshirts not so long ago. Mark my words. Anyway, look no further than Spain. Franco will inevitably win his crusade and overthrow the degenerate Republican Government with its scandalous policies. Legalised divorce, abortions, men no longer the bosses in their own homes – I ask you. What would Mother Church say to that in Ireland, Father? Catholic Ireland will mirror Catholic Spain. We will evolve into a theocratic dictatorship.”
It was here that Sean made his one contribution of the evening to the political discussion.
“Franco is illegally attempting to overthrow a legitimate republican government. I thought we were all republicans here.”
“We are indeed republicans, Sean. But there are new kinds of republics coming into being in this revolutionary age we live in.”
“So,” came back B
eatty, “Would you have us align ourselves with Hitler and the dictatorships and work towards the collapse of the western democracies?”
“I would,” retorted Hagan. “And don’t we have the ideal motive and opportunity? We are not long out of a state of war with England. We have won our independence by force of arms. We have given the world’s mightiest empire a bloody nose. Now we have men willing and easily armed, who will carry the fight to the heart of their cities. We also have who knows how many loyal Irish men and women living and working in every British town and city. We could be their Trojan horse.”
As they walked home to their apartment across the Liffey, just north of O’Connell Street, Sean and Martha were out of sorts with each other.
“What was the matter with you tonight?” asked Martha, obviously irritated. To her it was that secret, independent Sean that so irritated, yet so attracted her.
“What do you mean?”
“Well you hardly spoke a word to anyone and when you did it was that silly comment about republicans.”
“I don’t think it was a silly comment. Men and women have fought and died over many centuries for the cause of republicanism in this country.”
“Yes, but it was obvious in your tone. You were annoyed. It sounded spiteful, as if you were just trying to make Brian look silly.”
“Make Brian look silly? I’d have to be very good to do a better job than he does himself.”
Martha stopped in her tracks, causing Sean to halt and turn to look at her. He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged against the cold. Martha looked perplexed. She walked to catch him up, staring at him.
“What’s the matter, Sean? You sound odd. I thought you liked Brian. He’s been a good friend to us.”
Sean seemed about to speak, then as if he had second thoughts he pulled his hands out of his pockets and put an arm round Martha’s shoulder.
“Come here,” he said. “We are not going to argue about this.”
Martha did not relax into his embrace.
“I don’t want to argue either. But I don’t understand why there is a Sean Colquhoun that I don’t know. I am your wife. I don’t want to be able to read your mind but this feeling of not knowing you is growing more and more uncomfortable. We’ve been a part of Brian’s German group for a long time now. Why, that’s where we met! I always thought we were like-minded about Germany. I thought we shared adult views that could see through the vicious propaganda coming out of London. But I just sense you haven’t been wholly honest with me.”
“Look,” Sean sighed. “There’s nothing to discuss. You know I’m a Germanophile every bit as much as the others.”
“But,” urged Martha. “There’s an unsaid ‘but’ in your sentence.”
“But,” hesitated Sean.
They stood face to face, close to the base of Nelson’s column. Sean seemed to be searching for something elusive in Martha’s face. Some empathy that would give him the confidence to speak his thoughts. ‘She’s my wife,’ he was thinking. ‘She has to know.’
“But,” went on Sean, “I have lived in Germany. I saw the rise of Hitler. I watched Nazism take power. I lived beside the people and I saw what it did. I’m sure of one thing; I could never live under Nazism. I am also sure it is a far worse evil than Britain ever was. Brian is a dangerous fool. Dangerous because he has influence. Martin Beatty sits at his feet as if he is some kind of sage. And Martin Beatty has the ear of De Valera, God help us!”
Martha was dumbfounded for a moment.
“Sean, I am shocked,” she said eventually. “I never guessed you felt like this. I am also hurt. Why have you not shared this with me before? I’m your wife! It’s as if you have hidden your real self from me. It’s not that your views upset me. What I can’t understand is why you’ve kept them secret. Nobody has to agree with Brian and his opinion of Hitler, but it is as if you have pretended to do so. If you feel this way why don’t you come out and say so. Your experience is the most valid of everyone in that group. They would listen to you. Why Sean? You’re not a deceitful person so why deceive me over this? Why do you allow them to believe you are pro Nazi – because that’s what they infer from your silence? And why did I not know this about you until now?”
She turned away from him to hide the tears that were filling her eyes. Sean put his arm around her again and said, “Come on now. This is not the time. We’re tired and we’ve been drinking. Let’s go home. We can talk again in the morning.”
But the next morning they ate breakfast in silence.
Eight
1940
From his office window high above the Thames, Andrew Trubshaw could survey the damage inflicted by the previous night’s Luftwaffe raid. Down river he could take in the Palace of Westminster and, later that day, he knew he had an appointment with the Prime Minister to update him on the Norwegian project that he was currently running.
He watched for a few moments as a young woman in her twenties, face smudged with dirt and a toddler on her hip, picked her way over smoking rubble searching for something. Reluctantly, he turned back to his desk and picked up the internal telephone.
“Mrs Kitson, please bring me everything we have on the following two subjects; One, Lily Brett, works at Leicester Royal Infirmary. You could look under enemy aliens. Two, Detective Inspector Peter Herbert of Leicester City Police Force.”
He replaced the telephone in its cradle.
Large-framed and loose-limbed Trubshaw gave off an air of casual indifference. His boyish face exaggerated this demeanour. However, when he set to work he was transformed into a well-focused and decisive man of action. Mrs Kitson was not the only female won over by this endearing trait. Within minutes she entered and placed two files in front of him.
“There you are, Sir. Would you like a cup of tea to accompany your reading?” she asked.
“You’re a mind reader, Mrs Kitson. And a couple of biscuits if we have any.”
“Of course, Sir.” She then added, “I recognised the name Lily Brett when you said it. She has passed across my desk recently. I have slipped a note inside the file informing you of our knowledge of her.”
“Thank you Mrs Kitson. You are amazing.”
Two hours later, a cold cup of tea left forgotten at his elbow, Trubshaw closed the second of the files and leaned back into his armchair. In front of him a coal fire crackled healthily but it produced insufficient heat in the large office to persuade Trubshaw to remove his suit jacket.
After a moment’s pensive hesitation, he leaned forward and picked up the note Mrs Kitson had left in the file. A paper clip attached it to the letter Lily Brett had sent to the War Office volunteering her services to the Government. He reached for the internal phone and spoke to Mrs Kitson.
“Mrs Kitson, will you please reserve a seat for me on the morning train to Leicester. Get me a compartment on my own if you can. One at about 10:00am. I’m seeing the P.M. this afternoon. After that, cancel all of my appointments for one week. I will speak to you from Leicester tomorrow evening with an emergency contact number.” He then swapped phones and dialled.
“Trubshaw here. Yes. My number is 4967E and my codeword is Derwent.”
There was a short silence as the security codes were verified.
“All correct, Mr Trubshaw. How can we help?”
“I need one of our agents to get some information out of Germany. I need information on subject Lily Brett, formerly Brecht. Her father was a member of the Reichstag until the Nazi takeover. I will have her file transferred to you. It contains all we have on her. My question is, can we take her as genuine? If not, is she a sleeper?”
“How urgent is this request, Sir?”
“Well,” replied Trubshaw sarcastically. “If the war ends tomorrow you can put it on a back burner. If not, I’d like your reply yesterday.”