Jan

by Peter Haden

  ‘It’s a Webley point four-five-five that I acquired in the last war,’ he told him, ‘as well as a box of ammunition. Keep it hidden but close at hand. It might just come in useful. Also, I have given Renate enough marks to see you through the journey.’

  Jan extracted the revolver from the towel cloth and looked at the chambers, which were empty. He gave the cylinder a quick spin. The weapon was as well-oiled and slick as the day it left the factory. Quietly, he thumbed in six rounds then opened the driver’s door and placed it under the seat. ‘Let’s hope I won’t need it, sir,’ he replied. ‘But thank you, anyway…’

  Tearfully Hannah Raschdorf hugged both her daughter and Jan. Günther embraced his daughter and shook Jan’s hand. ‘I know you will look after her. God go with you both, my boy,’ he told him.

  Jan engaged first gear and they set off down the drive.

  Chapter 12

  It was a lovely, late summer morning as Jan drove westward at a steady fifty kilometres an hour. The roof was down but Renate had dressed warmly in jodhpurs, riding boots and a thick cardigan. Mid-morning, as the sun rose higher, the latter came off to reveal a modest, crisp white blouse. She was sad at parting from her home and parents. But perhaps the war would not last for long. Despite her privileged upbringing, at the age of seventeen Renate was not much travelled – only as far as Berlin from time-to-time to shop with her mother. She began to enjoy driving across Germany and looking at the passing countryside.

  They had decided to use main roads, rather than byways, but they would avoid the Autobahnen, over two thousand kilometres constructed under the orders of Herr Hitler so that his troops could move rapidly from one side of the country to the other. They would more likely be heavy with Polizei patrols and military traffic. As of now, it was fairly light in their direction but heavy going towards the front, much of it army vehicles. Several times they had to pull over to let lorries and the occasional half-track trundle past.

  At lunchtime, they pulled off on to a narrow lane leading to woodland and then reversed well back between the trees to enjoy a picnic. On opening the hamper, Renate found sandwiches on top, with more durable food underneath: cheese and a ham in the middle, tinned food on the bottom layer. To one side she found a bottle of wine and, thoughtfully, a corkscrew and two glasses, plus a bottle opener and two bottles of Pilsner beer onto which had been pasted a small notice that read “For Jan, from Frau Brantis”.

  ‘She really likes you, you know,’ commented Renate.

  It was warm in the dappled sunshine between the trees and it would be even hotter, later, in full sun. After they had eaten and replaced the hamper Renate lifted her case from the car. ‘I have to change into something a little cooler,’ she told Jan. ‘I put these on,’ her hand indicated the boots and jodhpurs, ‘because there wasn’t much room in the case and I wanted to have them with me, but I’ll just have to squash them in and put on a skirt. Wait for me in the car, please, and I’ll change behind it.’

  So Jan waited. Not realising that she had to partly unpack before taking out a skirt and a pair of sandals, and then put her things carefully back again, Jan wondered why she was taking so long. Wanting to check that she was all right he risked a glance in the mirror set onto the frame round the top of the windscreen. The reflection literally made his heart skip a beat. She was facing away from the car, wearing her blouse and a pair of what he could only assume to be French knickers, the hems trimmed with a band of lace. He had seen women’s undergarments before, of course, but only his mother’s and sister’s blue flannelette bloomers blowing on the clothes line, elastic round the waist and legs. The creamy-white silk made absolutely no secret of Renate’s pert bottom, firm and toned from years in the saddle. He looked away guiltily as she turned to reach down for her skirt.

  They drove on through the afternoon and by early evening found themselves just south of Stettin, Berlin’s Baltic seaport. Jan was tired. The sky had clouded over, so the cabriolet’s hood was now up, but he had opened a window to blow humid air onto his face. And his shoulders were beginning to ache. They came to a small hotel set well back from the road but advertised by a sign with an arrow.

  ‘Let’s see if we can stay here for the night,’ Renate suggested. ‘I know you are tired – I’ve seen how you’re trying to rotate your shoulders. Stay with the car,’ she offered, ‘and I’ll go and see what it looks like inside.’

  She was back after a few minutes. ‘They are pretty full,’ she told him. ‘A lot of people are on the move, waiting to take ship in the port. There’s only one room.’

  ‘We’ll have to drive on, then,’ said Jan wearily.

  ‘No, we won’t,’ Renate replied. ‘I’ve taken it. The idle woman behind reception barely glanced at my passport, and I told her that mein Mann would bring in the luggage. You probably know that in German that phrase is often used for a husband. I doubt she’ll bother to ask for your papers.’

  ‘What if she does?’ queried Jan. ‘After all, our names are different. Won’t she be suspicious?’

  ‘I’ll tell her we are not long married,’ said Renate, ‘and what with the war and everything I haven’t had time to apply for a new passport. Come on, load yourself up with some baggage. She doesn’t look the conscientious sort who is going to make you set everything down and put you to all that trouble.’

  Renate already had a room key. In the event they walked through the entrance area whilst the receptionist was busy explaining on the telephone that they were absolutely full and there were, unfortunately, most definitely no rooms available.

  There was a wash basin in their room, two comfortable chairs, a small table and just one large double bed. It was basic, but clean. Renate sat and then bounced on the bed. ‘It feels comfortable,’ she announced.

  Jan was embarrassed. ‘This is a bit difficult for me…’ he began.

  ‘It’s a bit strange for me, as well,’ she interrupted. ‘But after the last few days, and now all that driving, you look shattered. Besides, perhaps we wouldn’t have found another inn for miles and even then it might have been full.’

  She stood and moved to look out of the window. ‘There’s a war on, you know,’ she said pensively. ‘I suspect the old ways are gone forever. I know what you are thinking, sharing a room with your employer’s daughter and all that, but we can’t live in the past.’

  She turned to face him. ‘We’ll be all right, Jan,’ she said kindly. ‘I’ll sleep between the sheets and you can cover yourself with the eiderdown. My father gave me some money, quite a lot of it,’ she went on before he could reply. ‘I’m going to give some to you – not only will it be safer that way, also it will look odd if I have to pay for everything. Then we’ll go downstairs and see if we can find some supper.’

  The bar had a bare wooden floor and several old wooden tables. ‘A bit rustic,’ commented Renate drily, ‘but it’ll do.’ Jan bought them two beers and asked the barman about food. There was no menu, but he was offered a mutton stew and some vegetables, brought on a tray by a serving girl who also set down two large Brötchen and a crock of butter. The rolls were still warm. Jan thought that he might as well drag himself up in the world, and he didn’t want to embarrass either of them, so again he copied carefully the way in which Renate held and used her knife and fork. They finished the stew, which was surprisingly good, although he was a bit taken aback when she grinned and said, ‘Mutti would tell me off for this’, then used the last of her bread to mop up the gravy.

  They sat for a while over a second beer but they were both tired after a day in the fresh air. Jan waited in the bar for ten minutes to give Renate time to undress and go to the bathroom, then it was his turn. She was in bed when he went back to their room, her dressing gown draped over a chair. He could see the top of her nightdress above the bedclothes.

  ‘I have never owned a pair of pyjamas,’ he told her, so she turned away to spare his blushes. Jan took off his j
acket and trousers and slipped beneath the eiderdown. It felt very strange, hearing Renate’s soft breathing, and he could smell the perfume of her soap, but he was asleep within minutes.

  They breakfasted on ham and eggs. ‘Good,’ Jan told her, ‘but Frau Brantis’s are better.’ She smiled wistfully at the thought of home. ‘You carry the bags, then wait outside,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll pay the bill, so she won’t have chance to ask you for any identification.’ Minutes later they were on their way.

  Jan’s main worry was petrol. He had used both cans and they were running low. But most major urban conurbations had several garages by now, and they came across one just before leaving the greater area of Stettin.

  Jan pulled up beside the single pump and a mechanic in greasy coveralls came out, wiping his hands on a piece of rag.

  ‘Sorry,’ he told them, ‘but I’m under orders to fuel only military vehicles.’

  Jan thought for a moment, then without letting the attendant have sight of what was in his wallet he extracted one of Günther’s Reichsmark notes. ‘I also need fuel,’ he replied, holding out the note. ‘But you might not need to look for any change.’ The note was worth more than a few times the cost of the petrol. The man eyed it carefully.

  ‘All right,’ he said at length. Moving to the pump, he turned a handle that raised a weight which in turn sucked several litres into a glass cylinder. The weight at the top began to fall, pushing the contents through a hose and into the Opel’s tank.

  Whilst he was doing this Renate, who had seen and heard the exchange, got out to stretch her legs. Günther took the two cans from the luggage rack and put them on the ground by the pump. ‘And these, please,’ he requested.

  The man looked down. ‘Cost you the same again,’ he said greedily.

  Renate waited until he had filled the Opel’s tank. ‘If it does,’ she said sweetly, ‘then we’ll do without. But before we leave Stettin I shall phone the local SS office and let them know anonymously that in exchange for a bribe you have filled our tank. Your choice,’ she concluded, walking back to her door. He glared at her, but wound the handle again and started to fill the first of the two cans.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Günther said amiably to the attendant when the refuelling was finished. ‘And don’t worry, there will be no phone call.’ With that he re-started the Opel and they drove off. ‘I think in future,’ he told her, ‘we should look for petrol before we use the cans, and not after, so that we always have a reserve.’

  It was later that day, north-east of Berlin, when they came across their first roadblock. As they approached, Renate handed him Johann’s cap. ‘Slow down,’ she said, ‘then stop a few yards short and wind down your window, as if you are quite happy to talk to them.’

  Fortunately, they were civilian police, not military. Renate undid one more top button on her blouse, clutched her passport, then opened her door and walked towards them. Both men eyed the rather pretty young woman.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ she greeted them. ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘Good day, Fraulein,’ one of them replied quite politely. ‘May I see that passport, and where are you going? What is the reason for your journey?’

  Renate smiled at him and handed it over. ‘My name is Renate Raschdorf,’ she told him confidently, whilst he studied the document. ‘Karl, in the car, is my father’s chauffeur. Vati is the Kommandant of a military workshop that has been set up on our estate to support the Wehrmacht in Poland. But we are right on the border. I can give you the phone number if you want to check. I am to stay in Berlin for a few days, until the campaign is over. Then it will be safe for me to go home. Karl has been instructed to drive me, in my mother’s car.’

  The words “chauffeur” and “Kommandant” were not lost on the policeman. Neither was the reference to an estate, nor her mother’s car come to that. Hardly any families had one car, yet here was the inference that there were at least two. And he had no wish to tangle with the Prussian military. They could be very prickly. The policeman saluted. ‘Thank you, Fraulein,’ he responded. ‘That will be all. I hope you have a safe journey.’

  Renate smiled at him, murmured her thanks and returned to the car, moving her hips just ever so slightly more that she would normally. She knew without looking that they would be watching her and not Jan or the Opel. She waved politely as they drove past.

  ‘Phew,’ Jan exclaimed as they drove away, putting his cap back on the luggage behind them, ‘you were pretty good back there,’ he added in admiration.

  ‘A girl has to make the most of her assets and know how to handle you men,’ she said enigmatically, smiling to herself.

  Tadzio was, as usual, up with the daylight. He had made himself a shelter in one corner of the barn, at the other end from the door, with bales of hay. But there was a gap between two of them, giving a clear field of fire to the entrance. He had also created an emergency exit flap behind him. Having removed the stove from his mother’s kitchen and installed it crudely in his “room”, at least he had heat and could cook. These days, he slept on the floor with the Dragant by his side.

  The kitchen sink could still be used, although it was open to the elements. It was whilst he was washing that he heard someone call out… in Polish. In the yard stood a slightly older man he recognised vaguely from a local farm, although he could not recall the fellow’s name.

  ‘Józek Kowalski,’ his visitor introduced himself. They shook hands. ‘Przyjechałem zobaczyć, jak sobie radzisz i co zamierzasz?’ he said. ‘I have come to see how you are managing, and to ask what you are going to do?’

  ‘Gospodarstwo jest w ruinie,’ Tadzio told him. ‘The farm’s a complete mess. They killed my father and my sister, there’s no livestock left, and I shall probably have to survive the winter on what’s left of some earthed-up potatoes and a few carrots. Oh, and I have swedes and turnips,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘as well as the odd cabbage. To luksus. There’s luxury for you.’

  ‘Możemy ci pomóc,’ came the reply. ‘We could help you.’

  ‘And who is “we”?’ asked Tadzio pointedly.

  ‘Partyzanci,’ said his former neighbour. ‘Partisans. We live in the forest. Some of us are the family of those killed by the Germans on their way through. Others are just Polish patriots. We have a few pigs and chickens, but not the right land or facilities to keep them.’

  He paused. ‘Have the Germans been here yet, and spoken with you?’ he asked.

  Tadzio explained that he had been back only for a few days, so he hadn’t been contacted.

  ‘Przyjdą,’ came the reply. ‘You will be. And you will be told that if you work the land, and supply the German garrisons, you will be allowed to stay. Otherwise, they will threaten to send you to Germany as slave labour.’

  ‘But…?’ queried Tadzio.

  ‘W tej chwili naszym największym zmartwieniem jest zaopatrzenie,’ he was told. ‘At the moment, our biggest problem is supplies. We want to know if you will farm for the Germans, but also take some of our stock and farm for us as well. It’s not ideal keeping livestock in the forest. Provided we have food, then when we have captured enough weapons – we have only a few at the moment – we can take the fight to the Nazis. But if they find out what you are doing,’ he finished bluntly, ‘they’ll put you against a wall and you will be shot.’

  It took Tadzio less than a second to think of his father and Aniela. ‘Zgadzam się,’ he replied. ‘I’ll do it. The pig pen is still here and so is the chicken run. I can take maybe fifty birds, which will give you eggs and meat.’

  ‘Poczekamy aż do ciebie przyjdą,’ said Józek. ‘We’ll wait until you have been visited, because that’s what’s happened to every other farmer in the area. The Germans will probably provide you with some starter stock to replace what’s been looted. Obviously, we don’t know what we can add until after they have been.’

  ‘How
do I get in touch with you?’ asked Tadzio.

  ‘Nie będziesz się kontaktował,’ came the reply. ‘You don’t. We’ll know, then once you have your replacement stock I’ll be back.’

  They shook hands again. His former neighbour left the farmyard and walked across Tadzio’s field towards the woods.

  His next visitor, later that morning, was also a fellow Pole who drove into the farmyard in a battered old van. Not someone Tadzio knew, but seemingly a collaborator who said he came from Chojnice.

  ‘Gdzie byłeś?’ asked the stranger, who didn’t even bother to introduce himself. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘My mother went to visit her sister and stayed there,’ Tadzio replied, deliberately not answering the question. ‘When I got back, my father and sister had been murdered and our house burned down. I buried them on the farm,’ he added. ‘At the moment, I’m camping out in the barn. Quite honestly, I don’t know what I am going to do.’

  ‘That is regrettable,’ came the bland reply. ‘Nie chcesz wstąpić do armi?’ he was asked.

  ‘No, I’m not thinking of joining the Army,’ Tadzio replied. ‘I’m a farmer, not a soldier. And in any case, this is our land and I’m the only one left to look after it.’

  ‘Będziesz prowadził dla nas gospodarstwo,’ his visitor responded. It was a statement, not a question: ‘You will farm for us. I can arrange for a pregnant sow and a few birds to be delivered, probably later today. They were taken from other farmers who have proved less than co-operative. Is that understood?’