by Peter Haden
‘Then two years ago, in January 1937, a law was passed excluding Jewish people from most of the professions. Part of this law said that Jews were no longer permitted to teach Aryan Germans. My father lost his job. Already our land and home had been taken from us, and now we had no income to pay for food or rent for our apartment. I used to lie in bed at night listening to my parents’ conversations – they were anxious and frightened. Ashamed that he could no longer support his family, my father hanged himself. I saw his body before it was cut down. It must have been a horrible death. With not much of a drop to break his neck he slowly suffocated. Vati was a fastidious man, but he had soiled himself. With no prospect of employment, and me formally declared Jewish, my mother decided to take me back to her parents’ house in Poland.’
‘Dlatego tak bardzo nienawidzisz nazistów. Which is why you hate the Nazis so much,’ Tadzio empathised gently. ‘But not all Germans are Nazis – your father wasn’t.’
‘My father’s death broke my mother’s heart,’ Hedda went on, seemingly oblivious to Tadzio’s comment. ‘Back in Poland, because she had been studying chemistry, she found a job in a pharmacy. One day, she couldn’t take any more. Having the knowledge and access to pills she, too, took her own life. All she left was a note to my grandparents, saying how sorry she was and begging them to look after me.’
Hedda had been staring at the ground. Suddenly she looked up directly at Tadzio, her expression a mixture of hatred and resolve. ‘In 1934, the Germans gave Hitler a 90 percent vote of approval,’ she told him. ‘My father didn’t vote for him, but I hold that country entirely responsible for the death of my parents. Now the Germans have invaded Poland. Quite honestly, Tadzio, if it were in my power, I would kill every one of them that I could lay my hands on.’
She walked away for a few steps, then stopped to wipe away tears. Embarrassed, Tadzio followed to put a tentative, comforting arm round her shoulders.
‘Muszę mieć broń,’ she said bluntly. ‘So I need a weapon, and tomorrow I am going to set about finding one.’
Tadzio thought of Aniela and his father. ‘Jeśli mi pozwolisz,’ he said gently, ‘if you’ll let me, I want to come with you. Perhaps I can help.’
They were no longer living in the barn. With the roof repaired, Tadzio had put on a new door, replaced some window glass and made the rooms habitable, although everything still smelled of smoke from the fire. He walked to the barn and retrieved the Dragant from the rafters.
‘You shouldn’t have kept that there,’ Hedda told him, appalled. ‘What if the Germans had searched the farm and found it? You might have been shot.’
‘It’s years old,’ he told her, ‘and I could have explained how my father acquired it.’
She shuddered. ‘Even so…’ she insisted, ‘put it away for tonight, then tomorrow or the next day we’ll hide it properly.’
‘It’s important not to do anything near the farm,’ she explained to him the following morning as they walked along the edge of a field towards the forest, ‘because the Germans usually mount some sort of follow-up operation.’
They were several kilometres away before she found what she wanted, an unpaved track emerging from a good-sized copse, with mature trees on either side of the road. The undergrowth between the trees gave excellent cover. They settled down to wait.
Several groups of military vehicles passed in both directions. But eventually a motor cycle and side-car combination appeared, a lone despatch rider returning from the front. Slung on his back was an MP 38 “Schmeisser” sub-machine gun. ‘To też ulubiona broń partyzantów. It’s a favourite weapon with the partisans,’ she told him. ‘Our leader said that with a folding stock and a magazine of 32 rounds, it’s a standard item of equipment with the Wehrmacht, alongside the rifle and heavier machine gun.’
They waited several hours, till later in the day a combination passed by travelling in the other direction. ‘Myślę, że to to,’ Hedda observed. ‘I think that’s it. The Germans are creatures of habit. It looks as though there is one courier every day, both ways.’ Brushing themselves down, they turned to walk back to the farm. Hedda set about preparing an evening meal whilst Tadzio cleared the remaining rooms of the last bits of ash and debris. They had rescued an old table from the barn that was now in the kitchen, and as she had pointed out, they were not short of timber. As soon as he could, he intended to fell a few more young trees and construct some basic chairs and a couple of beds.
The following morning, they set off again. This time Hedda had a length of coiled bailing wire over one shoulder. In her left hand was a metal crowbar. Tadzio carried the Dragant, assembled and loaded but wrapped in cloth. Not far from where they had waited yesterday, he stood a little to one side, listening for any sound of approaching traffic, whilst Hedda wrapped one end of the wire around the trunk of a tree before leading it down to the ground. Next, she used a stick to quickly fashion a shallow trench in the dirt road, before setting in the wire and covering it over. Patted down by hand, the excavation would be invisible to approaching traffic, least of all a rider on a vibrating motor cycle and wearing goggles. Finally, she selected another tree where hefty branches stemmed from the main trunk and then forked, one branch high above the other. The wire she passed down through the fork on the upper branch, then attached the crowbar.
‘When the time comes,’ she told him, ‘all I have to do is pull the bar down, which raises the wire up from the road, and then jam it under the lower fork.’ She demonstrated, checking the height of the wire, then re-buried it. Tadzio settled down nearer the track to watch for traffic. Later, if all did not go according to plan, he would be on hand to try to cover their withdrawal. Although with any luck, he pointed out, their victim would be hard pressed to follow them on foot through the trees.
At about the same time as yesterday a motor cycle and side-car appeared, travelling at around sixty kilometres an hour. Unlike yesterday, there was a passenger in the side-car, an officer, judging by his uniform, although Tadzio was not familiar with Wehrmacht rank insignia. There was no other traffic in sight or hearing. Tadzio shouted to Hedda, knowing that he would not be heard above the noise of the machine. The wire lifted, as if by an unseen hand, and stretched taught across the track. The rider had no chance of avoiding it. In fact, Tadzio doubted whether he even saw the danger. It struck him high in the chest, before lifting to cut deep into his throat. In microseconds, the head snapped back to a horizontal position, breaking the spinal column. Finally, as the wire lifted over the rider’s face, stripping skin and tissue, there was a loud twanging noise as it parted under the quantum strain of mass times velocity. But the damage had been done. With its rider barely in the saddle, the combination turned from the road and hurtled into the undergrowth for several metres before striking a tree stump and overturning.
Both rider and passenger had been thrown clear. Whilst Tadzio covered them with the Dragant, Hedda checked each in turn for a pulse. But it was clear from the angle of their heads that they were both dead – the rider as a result of the wire, his passenger from being thrown against a tree.
‘Mamy szczęście,’ she told him. ‘We’re lucky. This is far enough from the road not be seen by passing traffic. So, when he doesn’t arrive, they won’t know where to search. Quickly, help me – the passenger’s a bonus. He’s wearing a Walther.’
Tadzio undid the officer’s belt and took the pistol, still in its holster. Hedda removed the P38 from its now blood-soaked sling. Both magazines were loaded and a quick search of the bodies yielded more ammunition. From a distance came the rumble of one or more lorries. ‘Probably a convoy,’ she said urgently. They had just enough time to remove the wire before Tadzio picked up the Dragant. Carrying their additional weapons, they ran from the scene. Not until they were well away from the road did they ease the pace.
‘We can’t hide this lot in the barn,’ she panted, ‘it’s too dangerous. The Germans probably won’t fin
d the wreck, but if they do, they might well make a sweep of the area. Later on it might be useful to have the Walther in the house. But for now, as soon as we get back we’ll oil the weapons then wrap them in sacking. We can bury them well away from the farm but it will have to be in a wood.’
‘Dlaczego?’ asked Tadzio. ‘Why so?’
‘Because if the Germans search from a light aircraft and take photographs at first or last light,’ she told him, ‘fresh digging usually creates a faint shadow. But in the woods, they won’t see it.’
Tadzio could only wonder at the knowledge she had gained from bitter experiences in so short a lifetime.
The receptionist held up an out-facing index finger, indicating that Jan should wait whilst she picked up a telephone. A few moments later a young woman looking very business-like in a pencil skirt and white blouse smiled and beckoned him to follow. She held open the door to a small office, just a short way along the corridor. A man stood and came out from behind a desk, offering his hand in greeting. He was wearing a beautifully tailored grey suit, his snow-white double cuffs and gold links visible at the wrists. His hands were immaculately clean and manicured. Jan felt rather dirty and travel-stained by comparison.
‘Jan Janicki?’ he queried, raising his eyebrows. ‘We spoke on the telephone. My name is Major Władysław Miecznikowski.’ His Polish was fluent – very cultured and upper-class. ‘Do you perhaps have any means of identification?’ the major asked pleasantly.
‘Only this, Sir,’ Jan replied, handing over his German Ausweis. ‘But it’s a forgery – my photo, but it belonged to somebody else.’
‘I see,’ said the officer with a smile. ‘I think you had better sit down and tell me your story. But first, have you had anything to eat or drink?’ – he glanced at an expensive looking gold wristwatch. ‘At this time of an evening probably the best we can do is something fairly basic.’
Jan had eaten the last of his rations hours ago, just before crossing the border. ‘Shall I tell you my story first, sir?’ he offered. ‘Then I would be very grateful for some refreshment.’
Major Miecznikowski settled behind his desk and waved Jan to a comfortable chair. Taking a few moments to collect his thoughts, he set off. ‘My people farmed near Chojnice in Pomerania, although I was actually born in Bydgoszcz. In nineteen thirty-six,’ he went on, ‘when I was sixteen…’
He spoke for about ten minutes, describing his life in Germany, his return to Poland, the death of his father and sister and briefly of Tadzio, his surviving brother. The officer occasionally asked a question but for the most part he was content to let Jan speak, although he made a few notes from time to time, particularly when Jan mentioned the workshop facility. Finally, he described the journey across Germany with Renate. ‘And that’s about it, sir,’ he concluded. ‘I left Fraulein Raschdorf with friends, walked and hitched rides to the border, and here I am. And as I said on the phone earlier today, my wish is to try to reach England, join an Army, and fight the Germans.’
‘Do you speak fluent German?’ the officer asked, switching seamlessly to that language. Again, he was well spoken, definitely “Hochdeutsch”. ‘I would like to think so,’ Jan replied in the same language, ‘although I have a trace of an eastern accent. But that’s not unusual, so do lots of people from the border regions.’
‘Hmmm…’ came a thoughtful response. ‘Most of your countrymen arrive with fellow soldiers who can vouch for them. I can authorise your passage to England, but you will be taken somewhere and detained, perfectly pleasantly I can assure you, whilst we check out your story.’ He smiled, ‘Or as best we can, anyway. After that, we’ll decide what to do with you. Would you be happy with that?’
Jan confirmed that he would. ‘I shouldn’t need too much training, Sir,’ he went on. ‘I forgot to mention it, but I’m familiar with firearms. And I can take out a boar with a head shot at two hundred yards…’ he tailed off, not wanting to appear boastful, ‘but the Dragant’s a good rifle,’ he added quickly.
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ the major replied with a smile. He stood up. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s find you some food and accommodation.’
The small detachment of military guards at the embassy were billeted in a nearby terraced house. A middle-aged woman, a local employed by the embassy, showed Jan to a small single bedroom. With the major translating from French – his third language Jan noted – he was invited to take a bath, if he wished, and then to come down to the kitchen, where he would be offered something to eat and drink. ‘Please return to the embassy in the morning, about half past nine,’ he was told, before the major wished him goodnight.
Jan blessed the fact that he had saved his last set of clean clothing and a small towel. He found the bathroom and enjoyed the luxury of his first soak in days. There were two other Englishmen sitting round the kitchen table, and the Belgian woman set about making something in a frying pan. Soon, two plates were set before him.
‘Bacon and eggs,’ said one of the men, pointing at first to one plate and then the other, ‘and bread and butter.’ Jan had learned his first words of English. Finally, her sloping hands together at an angle with her head resting against them, his hostess indicated that it was perhaps time to retire. Jan undressed and got into bed. Not realising how much stress he had been under since the first day of September, he was asleep in seconds.
The next morning he was offered three crescent-shaped loaves, fatter in the middle than at the ends, that seemed to have been rolled up. They were still warm. ‘Croissants,’ the housekeeper said, pointing at the bread whilst she set down a dish of jam with a spoon in it and a crock of butter. They were delicious, as was the bowl of fresh black coffee that came with them.
‘Have they looked after you all right?’ asked the major, once Jan had been conducted to the same room as yesterday.
Jan confirmed that indeed they had. ‘I am grateful. I learned a Belgian word this morning,’ he went on by way of making polite conversation: ‘croissants. They were delicious.’
‘They use two languages here,’ Major Miecznikowski told him, ‘but one is Flemish, not Belgian, and the other is French. Croissants is a French word, and I like them too.’
The ice politely broken, Jan was waived to the same chair. ‘I want to start by listening to your story once more, the one you told me yesterday. There are two reasons – first, you might have missed something out that you remember the second time around, and second, I won’t hide the fact that it is a checking-up process, to see if there are any discrepancies of detail.’ Jan repeated his story. There were neither.
‘Dobra robota,’ said the major after Jan had finished. ‘Well done, it’s quite a story. But tell me, I am interested in farming. How long did it take you to make the first Raschdorf 30?’
Taken aback by the question, Jan answered automatically. ‘It was before my time, sir. I don’t think we ever made a 30, only a 35 and then a 40, but that was much later. Herr Raschdorf made the first one, the 35. I don’t know how long it took for the prototype, but I can remember Herr Johann, the chief engineer, telling me that the second one took about three weeks. After that production was much quicker. That must be right, because I have worked on lots of 35s as well as 40s, but I have never come across a Raschdorf or a Derresford 30.’
Clearly the major was engaged in a mild form of probing. ‘You said you could hit a boar in the head at two hundred yards,’ he went on mildly. ‘Why yards? Surely that should have been metres?’
‘Ours was one of the American ones,’ he replied immediately. He spoke the oft repeated words… ‘“Dużo lepszy”– much better quality, my father always said, ‘niż te produkowane przez Rosjan…’ His voice tailed off, the memory still too fresh and painful.
‘I’m sorry we had to ask,’ said the major with something of a sigh. ‘For what it’s worth, I believe you. But it would help us if you wouldn’t mind handing over that forged Ausweis. We�
�ll provide you with something else, but it will be genuine.’ Jan didn’t see how it would help, but he handed his identity document over willingly enough.
‘I think you should take the rest of the day off,’ the major told him. ‘We will make arrangements for you to travel to England. Brussels is a lovely old city – take a walk, have a coffee or a drink somewhere. Do you have any money?’
Jan told him that he still had quite a lot of Renate’s marks. ‘Do you want us to change them for you? Might be difficult at the bank if you only speak Polish and German.’
With a bundle of strange notes and coins in his pocket, Jan marvelled at the sophistication of the old part of the city – the architecture, the narrow, cobbled streets and the shops, cafes and restaurants. By pointing he managed to buy some potatoes cut thinly lengthways and then fried – frittes, they seemed to be called – from a stall in the streets. Later he sat outside a cafe and having studied a metal advert on the wall, he pointed to it and enjoyed a beer in the autumnal sunshine.
That evening he sat round the kitchen table with more unknown companions whilst the housekeeper served a simple casserole of leg of lamb cooked in stock and wine above a garlic and herbed bed of potatoes and other vegetables. It was different from Frau Brantis’ style of cooking, but it was delicious. ‘Stew,’ one of his companions announced, pointing at the pot. ‘Agneau Boulangère,’ the housekeeper corrected contemptuously, rolling up her eyes but smiling nevertheless. She wagged a finger at Jan’s English companions. ‘Is lamb. In ze old days, baker cook only once on Sundays. For a few coins put villagers’ pots in ze ’ot oven.’ To Jan’s surprise, she translated for him into heavily accented German. Obviously, there had been communication from the major. ‘By the way, you are to go back to the Embassy in the morning,’ she finished.