by Peter Haden
Whilst she was carving the meat, one of the British men left the table and returned a minute or so later with two bottles of wine. The housekeeper quickly set out small glasses. She waved a finger, encompassing them all. ‘Prosit,’ she said, looking at Jan, who responded by raising his glass as the Englishmen shouted ‘cheers!’ Jan realised that they were all trying to make him feel welcome. There wasn’t much more conversation – they had exhausted their limited language skills, but even so he passed an enjoyable and convivial evening. Perhaps the future might not be too bad after all.
Major Edward Władysław Warren-Miecznikowski, known as “Bunny” to his colleagues, discussed Jan’s case with Colonel (acting Brigadier) Quentin Parry-Davies. ‘I told him I was in the British Army,’ he confirmed. ‘English mother, attached at one time as a personal assistant to the embassy in Warsaw, and a Polish father. Therefore, I have dual nationality. I added that I had been attached to this embassy to look into any cases of Polish nationals, military or otherwise, seeking to reach the United Kingdom.’
‘If you had been,’ said the brigadier with a smile, his Welsh lilt faintly noticeable in his otherwise impeccable public-school English, ‘the last couple of days would have seen the first honest work since you arrived!’
‘I saw no reason to tell him otherwise,’ said the major.
‘So, what do you think?’ asked the brigadier, who was genuinely the defence attaché at the Embassy.
‘We have no assets in that part of the world,’ came the reply. ‘What’s more, he also speaks German. And exceptionally well, I might add. He could be invaluable. We know there are partisan groups. They are tying down quite a lot of German troops and a liaison officer would help us enormously, getting supplies to them and so forth. Also, in time we will desperately need someone to identify targets and report afterwards on any bombing or raids.’ He opened his hands deprecatingly. ‘All right, I know it’s early days and we are not ready yet,’ he confessed, ‘but establishing an asset like Janicki at this stage might yield a huge dividend later on. If we are going to win the war, we shall need people like him. If we lose, it won’t matter anyway. I say we give it a try.’
The Brigadier steepled his fingers. ‘I agree with you,’ he said eventually. ‘Best we send him over to UK. Meanwhile, we’ll check him out more thoroughly. After that, if he agrees to go back, we can start the training. Even if he doesn’t, I reckon one of the Polish units we are thinking of forming up would be only too glad to have him.’
Jan was a little surprised to be told that like yesterday, the rest of his day would be free, but that he would be flying to England tomorrow. He would be met off the aircraft, he was told, and taken to a holding centre. But he would not be free to leave until after a few more checks into his identity had been carried out.
Tadzio was surprised when a stranger walked into the farmyard. ‘I used to be the honorary British consul in the Free City of Danzig,’ he told them, although he sounded Polish. ‘I worked in the port’s shipping office. Mainly my diplomatic duties were to sort out problems with drunken British merchant sailors who fell foul of our police. Now I have had a communication from their Embassy in Stockholm. I want to show you a piece of paper, and if you can identify someone for me I would be extremely grateful.’
It meant nothing to Hedda, but Tadzio gasped when he saw the photographed document. Instinctively he trusted his visitor. ‘To mój brat,’ he said without thinking. ‘He’s my brother. But that’s not his name. Where is he, what’s happened to him?’
‘Last I heard,’ Tadzio was told, ‘Jan was in Brussels, but I think he is probably in England by now.’
‘Thank God,’ he replied, with a heartfelt sigh. ‘I have been worried. It’s the not knowing…’
‘Let’s be absolutely clear on this,’ the man went on. ‘It’s not his name, but the photograph on this document is definitely of your brother, Jan Janicki?’
‘Tak,’ said Tadzio firmly. ‘Yes, it is. If you can get a message to him, tell him I am well, please. And I am over the moon that he has arrived safely.’
‘I think we can do that,’ said their visitor with a kindly smile. ‘I’m not sure whether we will meet again,’ he added, ‘but if you think about it you will realise that we had good reason to make this enquiry. Thank you for your help, and good luck to you both.’
Hedda and Tadzio could only stare in disbelief as he turned and walked back towards the road. ‘Well, well,’ she said, clutching his arm. ‘At least you know that Jan is alive and where he is. But you took a risk, answering his questions like that.’
‘Raczej nie,’ Tadzio replied. ‘Not really, it was no more than the truth, no matter whose side he was on. But I think I knew instinctively that he was on the level, and that it was important for Jan.’
Renate was almost back at the farm, walking the mount kindly loaned to her by Meta to let it cool down. A man stood to one side on the track. Politely he raised his hat. ‘Fraulein Raschdorf,’ he said gently, looking up at her, ‘might I please have a word?’
Renate was not alarmed, but she took the precaution of backing up the mare so that she could either turn and gallop off or ride the man down. ‘Please don’t be alarmed,’ he told her. ‘I am here to help – I mean you no harm. ‘Wollen Sie Deutsch, Englisch oder Französisch sprechen?’ he asked her. His German was serviceable enough, but there was a faint, underlying accent that she could not trace.
Renate was proficient in both other languages. But she was astute enough to know that he was telling her, in an oblique sort of way, that this was a little more than a matter related solely to Germany. She suspected strongly that this might have something to do with Jan. ‘German will do fine,’ she told him.
‘I want to show you a photograph,’ he went on in that language. ‘All I ask is that you confirm a man’s name.’
She indicated a tree with a forked branch, about shoulder high. ‘Fold it and put it there,’ she pointed. ‘Then step well away. I’ll look at it and give you an answer.’
The stranger did as he was bid.
She nudged up her mount and unfolded the document. Realising that no matter who the stranger was working for, she was unlikely to be condemned for honesty, she gave him her answer. ‘That’s Jan Janicki,’ she told him. ‘He’s Polish. I don’t know where you got it,’ she held up the piece of paper, ‘but that’s not his name, on the document. Although it’s definitely Jan,’ she concluded confidently.
‘Danke.’
This time she handed back the document. ‘Do you know where he is?’ she asked him. ‘Last I heard, in Brussels,’ came the reply with a smile. ‘But perhaps he’s in England by now. Thank you for your assistance. I’m sure you will understand why I needed to ask the question.’
Raising his hat once more, the stranger walked the few metres back along the track to the lane. She heard a car engine start and the vehicle pulled away. Renate thought fondly of Jan. She knew that what she had done might not be in Germany’s best interests, but she didn’t care. Not after the threats that had been made to her family. Most of all she was overjoyed. Her lovely, brave, decent and kind Jan had made it to safety. She longed to see him again.
Chapter 15
Despite what Günther Raschdorf had been led to expect, it was over a week before anyone arrived to do anything about the workshop. In the meantime, Johann and Günther worked long hours to catch up on all their clients’ tractor repairs. He was in the drawing room, taking a morning coffee, when a motor cycle puttered cautiously up the drive. Its rider, wearing a long tan leather coat, matching leather helmet and large, round goggles climbed stiffly from the machine and set it on a stand. Hands on his lower back he stretched, arching his spine to ease stiffened muscles. Curious, Günther walked into the hall and opened the front door.
The rider had removed his helmet and goggles and smiled politely as he clicked his heels and bowed slightly to Günther. ‘Herr Ras
chdorf?’ he enquired pleasantly. Ever a fan of all things mechanical, Günther was more interested in the motor cycle, one of the latest BMW R12s. ‘Nice machine,’ he commented. ‘But what can I do for you?’
‘It’s the latest two-cylinder boxer engine with twin carburettors, she’s good for well over a hundred kilometres an hour,’ came the enthusiastic reply, followed immediately by: ‘Entschuldigen Sie mich bitte, please excuse me, my name is Hartmann Schultz. I have orders to report here to set up a workshop facility for the Wehrmacht.’
Schultz was a younger man, probably in his late twenties, thought Günther, but rather spindly-looking, with an academic but permanently puzzled expression. Also, he walked with a slight limp.
‘Are you in the Army?’ Günther asked.
‘Nein,’ Shultz replied immediately. ‘I am not medically able to serve, but I am a qualified engineer. So, the Wehrmacht have drafted me as a civilian to set up a facility here.’
For all that, he seemed to Günther rather a pleasant individual. ‘I was just having coffee,’ he said to his visitor. ‘You had better come in and I’ll order some more. I’m sure you would welcome a hot drink after your journey.’
‘Das wäre sehr nett, that would be very kind,’ his visitor replied.
‘I find myself in an embarrassing situation,’ Schultz began, once coffee had been served, together with a plate of Hannah’s homemade oatmeal biscuits. ‘I am told that I am to be billeted in your house,’ he paused, waving an arm to encompass the building, ‘which is very fine, and much more so than the accommodation to which I am accustomed. But I fear that this is on the orders of the Army or the Party, and I do not wish to be an uncomfortable imposition. I should like to tell you,’ he went on, ‘that I am first and foremost an engineer. And although I would like to think that I am as patriotic as the next man, I am a member neither of the Wehrmacht nor the Nazi Party.’
Günther had a feeling that this was a decent man with whom he could work. ‘I was told by the Party that this is where you would live,’ he responded, ‘and it was made clear that I had no choice in the matter.’ He decided not to go into the threats that had been made against his family. ‘Please,’ he invited Shultz, ‘enjoy your coffee. I would like my wife to join us.’
He knew that Hannah would be in the kitchen with Frau Brantis. She came as soon as he called. The introductions completed, Günther gave Hannah a brief account of their conversation thus far. ‘It seems to me,’ he went on, looking to both Hannah and Hartmann Schultz for approval, ‘that we have all been somewhat pushed into a situation. Therefore, I propose that we try to make the best of it.
‘Herr Schultz,’ he went on, ‘this is quite a large house. The ground floor we use during the daytime, and there are family bedrooms, including our own, on the first floor. We no longer have any living-in staff, but there are several more rooms on the level above. I am going to suggest that initially I have two of them converted for you to use as a sitting room and a bedroom, and you would have your own bathroom. Later, if you wished, another small bedroom could be converted into a kitchen. But for now, you would be very welcome to join us for meals in the dining room. We are somewhat solitary, these days, so it would be a diversion for Hannah and me. And Frau Brantis is a very good cook,’ he finished with a tempting smile.
‘I cannot believe my good fortune…’ began Schultz. ‘That is so incredibly kind. Thank you. But there is one more thing I must tell you,’ he added. ‘My first task is to make a report on what the workshop can do now, and what might need to be done to enlarge the facility. Although I don’t have a timetable, at some stage the SS will send back Polish workers to staff this facility. These, I believe, are to be accommodated in the floor above the workshop. But they will also send a small detachment of guards, together with a team of either military engineers or, more probably, civilian contractors to construct some sort of fence around the workshop and accommodation. I don’t know about the engineers or the contractors, but I am told you will be expected to accommodate the SS guards.’
‘Something that had also occurred to me,’ said Günther. ‘And I have given it some thought. If we try to cram everyone, less the workforce, into this house,’ he reasoned, ‘no-one is going to be particularly comfortable. And socially,’ he looked pointedly at Schultz, ‘it is not going to work. Least of all with the SS. But this estate is now mechanised. We no longer employ so many workers on the land and as a consequence we have a number of empty cottages. I can make available as many as it takes to provide a comfortable billet for the guards, and I am sure they would rather do their own thing than have to live under the immediate attention of their superiors.’
He stood. ‘Let’s get you settled in, then this afternoon I can show you around. We’ll both talk to whoever is in charge of the SS when they arrive.’ Günther looked at his pocket watch. ‘Hannah can show you a few rooms, and I’ll have your things brought up. You might like to unpack and freshen up, then join us for an aperitif just before one o’clock.’
Hartmann clicked his heels and made a bow. He could still hardly believe his luck. But neither could Günther. Schultz might have been imposed upon his household and business, but he was neither Wehrmacht nor Party and above all he seemed a very pleasant young professional.
After a light luncheon of cold meats and salad, Günther, with Johann in tow, showed Hartmann Schultz the facility that had been developed on the ground floor of the converted barn. ‘We don’t yet know what our workload will be,’ Schultz observed, but almost certainly we will have to extend. And we will need more machinery.’ They looked at the upstairs accommodation so recently vacated by Jan. ‘It won’t be that comfortable, just a dormitory,’ he observed, ‘but it will probably be enough for the workforce they initially send us.’
‘What about my own business?’ queried Günther. ‘The Third Reich will need food, food means farmers, and farmers need tractors. Am I expected to fold-up a busy civilian farming workshop and just repair military vehicles?’
‘That would not be sensible,’ Schultz replied with a smile. ‘We might have to give priority to the military, but we should be able to run the two facilities side by side. That way you would not be disadvantaged, financially, and I shall discuss with my superiors the remuneration and compensation that you will need to receive in exchange for what you will be undertaking for the military.’
It had been a sound move to make the engineer welcome into the household. Hartmann Schultz, Günther affirmed to himself, was indeed an intelligent and fair-minded man. Which was more than could ever be said for the senior occupant of a Kübelwagen that braked to a halt outside in a cloud of dust. The two of them went to meet their visitors.
Gross was extracting himself slowly from the front passenger seat, self-importantly flicking scraps of dust from his uniform. ‘Good afternoon, Herr Unterscharführer,’ said Günther evenly. An SS-Rottenführer stood by the driver’s door. Two SS-Schützen, being private soldiers, remained seated in the back, weapons held vertically between their knees.
Gross ignored the greeting. ‘His name is Neumann,’ he said abruptly, indicating the corporal. ‘I shall return to my headquarters, but he and his two men have been assigned to assist the engineer, and of course to report back to me on your progress. Later there will be SS guards, as it becomes necessary. My orders are that they will also be billeted with you.’
‘Welcome to the estate, Herr Rottenführer,’ said Günther pleasantly. The corporal did not reply but stood rigidly to attention. Clearly, he was considerably in awe of his Unterscharführer.
‘Very well,’ Günther went on, deliberately addressing the junior non-commissioned officer. ‘There is a choice. I have made accommodation available to Herr Hartmann on the upper floor of our house. Which means that there are only two small rooms left.’
‘The billeting arrangements are your concern, not mine,’ broke in Gross rudely.
Günther ignored the
interruption. ‘However,’ he turned back to Gross, ‘now that the farm is mechanised, we employ fewer men on the estate, which means that there are a number of empty cottages in an excellent state of repair, and one of these could be made very comfortable.’
‘You are questioning my orders?’ demanded Gross accusingly.
‘Not at all, Herr Unterscharführer,’ Günther replied smoothly. ‘Please, let us walk inside for a few moments. I have one or two points that are perhaps best for your ears only.’
Once inside the workshop he halted and turned to face Gross. His tone was different now, not unpleasant, but determined. ‘I’m not going even to try to guess at your motives,’ he began directly, ‘but you have invested your reputation in this project. However, without my cooperation and that of Johann and Herr Schultz, you will find it very difficult to deliver. Which will not, I expect, please your masters. So, I think it would be in both of our interests if you leave me to organise and run this facility, and in return I will keep my part of the bargain. I hope,’ he concluded, ‘that we have an understanding.’
Without waiting for a reply Günther returned to the small group outside, leaving Gross to follow. ‘Herr Rottenführer,’ he began, speaking so that the two privates in the back could also hear him, ‘this afternoon Frau Brantis, my cook and housekeeper, will show you a cottage that both the Unterscharführer and I feel will provide you with accommodation that will prove both private and comfortable. I will leave you to sort out the provision of rations and so forth with your Unterscharführer. But you should be very self-sufficient and, I would suggest, a lot better off than your comrades on the other side of the border. For this evening and breakfast tomorrow, if you will report to the barn alongside the main house I will ask Frau Brantis to ensure that you are given a hot meal.’