by Peter Haden
Jan thought about this. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to work on my cover,’ he said eventually. ‘Perhaps better than being a surprise to anyone who turns up at the farm. It might even forestall any gossip.’
‘The Bierstube was owned by Tantchen Meta’s first husband’s late father, the Bürgemeister,’ she informed him. ‘But now it’s run by Wolfgang, his nephew. He’s a nice young man. Just introduce yourself as an employee from the estate and tell him that you are staying here for a while, to help out. He’ll think nothing of it – in fact he’ll almost certainly make you welcome.’
She gave him a wicker basket for the shopping and he spent a pleasant forty minutes walking in the spring sunshine. He sensed that the shopkeeper and two other customers were curious, but no one asked any questions as he politely placed his order. ‘It’s for Fraulein Raschdorf,’ he said, holding his hand out for change, then left without further explanation.
At the beer hall, he introduced himself to Wolfgang, who was behind the bar, and they chatted amiably. Jan knew that from what he had said in the two establishments news of his arrival, who he was, where he was staying and what he was doing would soon be all round the village, such was the way of country life. But equally, it would help make him accepted – to blend into this small community. Carl, too, would probably make mention of him and the information would all neatly marry up.
Walking back to the farm, he thought that the last few days had gone rather well from an operational point of view. And he was over the moon about his new relationship with Renate. He was looking forward to a relaxed afternoon – perhaps they would sit and enjoy a bottle of wine in the sunshine, followed by a delicious supper and then another night together.
He was shaken from his reverie by the sight of a black Adler saloon parked in the yard. It was a Trumpf, not the smaller Trumpf Junior, so if this was an official visit the occupant was no underling. Jan thought for a full minute but decided in the end that he had no choice. He knocked on the kitchen door and walked in. Two men were seated opposite Renate and Carl, each with a coffee on the table. One was in uniform – which suggested that he was the village policeman. The other wore a trench coat, his hat on the table – all the hallmarks of some branch of the security services. Renate looked remarkably cool and collected, thought Jan. Carl, next to her, was clearly uncomfortable wearing his working clothes inside the farmhouse.
‘Herr Hofmann,’ greeted the civilian, without introducing himself. ‘Your papers, please.’
Jan handed over his documents, tucked into which was his medical exemption certificate. Doreen Jackman had assured him that the identity was genuine – it had belonged to a German citizen who died in the United Kingdom but whose death had never been reported to his national authorities. Only the medical certificate had been forged, but it was on the correct paper, it had the right signature and stamp, and could never be suspected.
Trenchcoat examined them carefully before placing them on the table and pushing them back towards Jan. ‘We are looking for a grey coloured horse,’ said the uniformed policeman. ‘It was seen yesterday near a military facility well to the west of here, but I have assured my colleague that I have known this family and the estate for years, and I am sure that there could never have been anything untoward.’
‘Do you ride a grey horse?’ broke in Trenchcoat.
‘Most days,’ said Jan, ‘at the request of Fraulein Raschdorf. After Herr Holzer passed away, Gunnar gradually lost condition. I am slowly trying to bring him back.’
‘I told them,’ broke in Carl, ignoring the seeming annoyance of the two visitors. ‘I work on this farm every day. I see you riding out all the time. And I don’t care what they are looking for, I watched you schooling Gunnar for a good half-hour yesterday lunchtime. You have a way with horses, Master Dietmar, and I don’t mind telling you, so do I. It takes one to know one, and it was a pleasure to watch.’ Jan realized that for whatever reason, old Carl had just given him a cast iron alibi.
‘I don’t think there is much more to be gained here,’ offered the policeman, more to his colleague than anyone else. But Trenchcoat ignored him.
‘Perhaps before we go,’ he said, looking directly at Renate, ‘I might see the animal? We have a good description, so this could rule him out absolutely.’
From elation at Carl’s gesture, Jan’s heart sank. Gunnar would match up precisely. ‘Fine,’ offered Renate, ‘he’s in the paddock. Let me know if you want me to put on a halter.’
Jan thought she had to be out of her mind. He wondered if, whilst they went to look at Gunnar, he could make a break for the wood and his cache of weapons. But a gesture from Trenchcoat made it clear that they were to stay together. And Jan was pretty sure that underneath his coat their visitor would be carrying a side-arm. For the moment, making a run for it just wasn’t an option.
‘Stay here, please,’ said Renate as they approached the gate to the paddock. ‘He’ll be startled by too many people.’
All four of them watched as she closed the gate behind her and walked up to Gunnar. As she had expected, he shied then danced round her in a circle. Jan couldn’t believe his eyes. Gunnar had two large brown patches: one on his left shoulder, up close to the withers, the other on the right side, high on his rump.
‘Thank you for your cooperation, Fraulein,’ said Trenchcoat, rather more politely now. ‘I don’t think we need trouble you any further.’
They walked back to the yard together and watched as the two visitors drove away, Trenchcoat at the wheel. ‘Kitchen,’ said Renate firmly, ‘I think we all need another coffee and perhaps a glass of something stronger.’
Seated once more at the table, whilst Renate bustled about Jan thanked Carl for his support. ‘But you and I both know that it wasn’t entirely true…’ he finished gently.
‘Served this family and this estate man and boy,’ Carl replied. ‘Always been good to me and mine. I listens to the news and reads the papers, same as anyone else. Don’t like these Nazi people. Not what they’re doing to some of our own, nor that they’re taking us into another war. I fought in the last one till I was discharged wounded. They must be bloody mad, pardon my language.’ His last few words had been directed towards Renate.
‘But where did those patches come from?’ asked Jan. ‘They weren’t there yesterday.’
With a mischievous grin Renate stabbed a finger towards her feet. ‘For dancing,’ she said. ‘For thinking,’ she went on, pointing to her head then tapping the side of her brow. ‘Gunnar was obviously a weak link if there was any kind of search, so I took care of it whilst you were away in the village.’
‘You had me worried when you offered to show them the horse,’ Jan admitted. ‘Despite what Carl said, I thought we might be in serious trouble.’
She shook her head. ‘Consider it Tantchen Meta’s contribution to our war effort, although she doesn’t know it yet. There was a good supply of hair colouring in the bathroom cabinet – L’Oréal, imported from Paris. It’s fast, it won’t wash out, and until his hair grows through again Gunnar will be a mostly grey piebald! The only thing is,’ she went on, still grinning, ‘unless Meta can order some more, which might be unlikely if we are about to invade, it looks as if she will have to finish up with some grey hairs of her own before the end of the war.’
They finished their coffee, downed a small glass of schnapps, then Carl excused himself to return to the fields. ‘That was brilliant,’ he told her, as she poured two more glasses.
‘I had intended to warn you,’ she said seriously, ‘but as you could see there was no chance. Although I think we are off the hook, at least for now. Are you intending to do anything else that might put us at risk?’
Jan shook his head. ‘I’ve warned London about the invasion,’ he replied, ‘and they’ll be marrying up my message with countless other intelligence reports from a mass of different sources. It’s up to them what they d
o about it, but although they acknowledged my message I haven’t had any further instructions, other than to keep my eyes open and not transmit again unless I have anything further to report.’
‘That makes good sense,’ she responded, ‘and besides, it’s just as well. We can’t have you seen riding far and wide on a piebald – not too soon, anyway, after what’s just happened.’
‘Yesterday was just rotten luck, that Storch flying over, but perhaps with hindsight it wasn’t a good idea to be so close to the airfield.’ He paused. ‘I think that armoured formation will be moving out any day now,’ he went on, ‘but even so, if I have to transmit again I’ll ride in a completely different direction and make damn sure that I can’t be seen from above.’
‘So for now, at least, we have some time to ourselves,’ she said more lightly. ‘I have work to do. I asked Carl to kill a chicken – it’s in the larder. Tonight, I shall try to create a Frau Brantis roast.’
‘I should visit the cache,’ he replied. ‘It’s hell’s damp out there, buried in the wood, even though everything is well wrapped up. I’ll take some oil and a rag from the barn and make sure nothing is likely to rust. I’ll be gone for most of the afternoon.’
Jan was working away with a makeshift pull-through, re-oiling a Schmeisser barrel, when there was a cough behind him. Snatching up the automatic at his side he rolled onto his stomach and into the aim. It was Carl, both hands in the air. Jan lowered the weapon, his pulse still racing. ‘Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack,’ he told him.
‘Didn’t hear a thing, did you?’ said Carl, not attempting to hide a certain amount of satisfaction. ‘I’m an old countryman, Master Dietmar. You was easier than knocking off a pheasant on a black winter’s night.’ He eyed the weapons and equipment on the ground.
‘There’s a derelict old one-roomed stone dwelling not far away,’ Carl went on. ‘Nobody else knows about it, and I’m not even sure whose land it’s on – this farm or the next. It’s completely overgrown, but I made a small entrance and re-turfed the roof a while back – it’s dry inside. I stays there awhile sometimes when the weather turns bad.’ More likely, thought Jan, to hang the proceeds of a night’s poaching. ‘Better you put them there things under cover inside it,’ Carl went on. ‘And there would be nothing to link them with either you or the young mistress.’
Jan sensed that he could trust the old man. Together they moved everything to the new hide, before Jan scuffed over the old one for the last time. Jan thanked his helper. ‘’Twasn’t nothing,’ the old countryman replied. ‘Told you afore, don’t hold with them Nazis and unlike some, the people on this estate have always been kind.’
The old hide was further away from the farmhouse. The sun was down and the light fading before he opened the kitchen door, to be greeted by the delicious smell of a chicken roasting in the oven.
‘A quick bath, get changed and then come back down,’ she ordered. ‘There will just be time for a drink before we eat.’
In bed later that evening it was slower, tender and even more loving than it had been in the morning.
They enjoyed the following days of life on the estate. Jan had no immediate need to travel and spent most of his time working with Carl on the farm. In the evenings, he sat with Renate in the kitchen whilst they listened to the wireless and drank wine until supper was ready. Jan noticed that several of his favorite “Frau Brantis” dishes were also in Renate’s repertoire. They had a particular celebration on Saturday, when she produced something of a triumph – the chicken recipe, with a pigeon flavoured cream sauce, that her mother had perfected all those years ago. Over the last few days they had talked exhaustively about what she would say to Frau Holtzer on her return.
They were drinking coffee in the kitchen on the morning of Sunday 6th May when a black Mercedes Benz 170V four door sedan pulled into the farmyard. Jan moved to the kitchen window, suffering a few anxious moments before an elegant older lady slid sideways from the driving seat, whilst a younger woman emerged from the passenger side.
‘It’s Frau Holtzer,’ said Renate in surprise. ‘I think the other person must be her daughter Gisela – her photo’s in the drawing room, although we haven’t met.’
Frau Holtzer entered the kitchen, removing her gloves. ‘Renate, liebchen, this is my daughter Gisela. Gisela, this is Renate – I told you about her – come to stay here for a while till everything sorts itself out in the East.’
The two young women exchanged a nervous smile. Renate and Jan had agreed that he would be introduced as Dietmar Hofmann. Frau Holtzer looked at the young stranger in her kitchen then, eyebrow raised, at Renate. Clearly, she was waiting for him to be introduced.
Renate was taken aback at the sudden and unexpected arrival. ‘This is Jan,’ she said quickly, without thinking, and against all that they had agreed.
The damage was done – it was impossible to backtrack now. Jan knew he had to make the best of it. He stepped forward, accepted the hand offered – albeit somewhat hesitantly, clicked his heels and bowed elegantly in the best German fashion.
‘Jan Janicki, Frau Holtzer,’ he said politely. ‘And good morning also, Fraulein,’ he greeted Gisela, again with a courteous lowering of his head. ‘Miss Renate has kindly allowed me to help her with the estate, so may I be of assistance? Perhaps you have cases in the Mercedes that I might bring inside for you?’
‘Danke,’ said Frau Holtzer automatically. Jan bowed slightly one more time and made for the kitchen door. ‘Would you like coffee after your journey?’ blustered Renate, to cover her hideous mistake.
‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ replied Frau Holtzer, settling herself at the kitchen table. ‘And in the meantime, you had better tell me all about this young man who seems to be working on my estate.’
Renate busied herself grinding beans and making coffee. Jan had deposited luggage in the hall and returned to the kitchen before Renate felt the need to launch into an explanation. It might be best, he realized, if he controlled this first meeting. He returned to sit opposite Frau Holtzer and her daughter.
‘I’m sure Renate will have mentioned my name,’ he began, addressing Frau Holtzer. ‘As you know, I used to work for Herr Raschdorf until he asked me to bring his daughter here to safety.’
‘Frau Holtzer knows that I am Jewish on my mother’s side,’ interjected Renate.
Jan deliberately waited for a few seconds before looking directly at the older woman. ‘Yet you were content to shelter Günther and Hannah’s only child, even though this would inevitably entail – in the present social climate, shall we say – a degree of risk. Was this,’ he pressed on, ‘because you felt obliged to repay a debt to an old friend, or because you did not agree entirely with the present regime, or perhaps both?’ he asked bluntly, turning his hands palms up on the kitchen table.
‘I won’t be interrogated, Jan Janicki,’ she responded firmly, although with something of a smile. Her tone was not unfriendly. ‘But I don’t mind telling you, it is probably “both”, as you put it.’
‘And you, Fraulein Gisela,’ he went on, turning to the young woman. ‘Where do you stand, may I ask, in all this?’
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But I would never do or say anything to hurt Mama.’
The older woman’s left hand moved to rest over those of her daughter.
‘I think,’ Meta said firmly, ‘that it is time for a full and honest exchange. I am not sure where all this is leading, but we cannot base decisions on ignorance, or even only a half truth.’ Meta hesitated. ‘Gisela, you have to know. I should have told you years ago, but perhaps I was too embarrassed. Renate is here because her mother is a Jewish lady, that much is true. She is also here because I am repaying a debt – happily and willingly, I might add – to her father. On his way back from the front after the Great War, Günther Raschdorf rescued me from being raped by two deserters and undoubtedly saved my life.
; ‘He stayed with me for a short while,’ she pressed on. ‘But there is another reason why I am so happy to welcome Renate into my home.’ Frau Holtzer looked at her daughter. ‘I have to tell you that she is your half-sister,’ she said, perhaps more forcefully than intended. Gisela, wide-eyed, could hardly believe her mother’s words. A hand flew to her mouth. Renate sat, impassive – her father had already made her aware of this. Meta Holtzer placed a hand over her daughter’s arm. ‘I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a shock, darling,’ she finished quietly.
Renate knew she had to seize the initiative. She moved to stand alongside Gisela and leant forward to put an arm round her shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. ‘My father only told me just before I left home,’ she told her. ‘It was a shock for me, too. I think that like your Mama, he was also a bit embarrassed.’ She paused… ‘But as soon as I saw your photograph, I knew it had to be true. We are so alike: we could even be twins.’
Gisela stood to face her mother. ‘You know I have never been friends with Hans,’ she said calmly to her mother. ‘I don’t know why – maybe he’s jealous – he doesn’t like me and I have never liked him. But what you have just told me… I think it’s wonderful news.’ With that she turned and embraced her half-sister. After a moment Meta looked away, but Jan saw that all three women had tears in their eyes.
Jan watched the two younger women embrace then coughed, gently. Renate took her chair round the table and set it next to Gisela’s, which he thought was a kind touch. Now he was facing all three of them. ‘My turn for a bit of embarrassing honesty,’ he said to Frau Holtzer. ‘Renate and I have a relationship. If you want to know more, please ask Renate, but suffice it to say that it has been developing for a long time and it finally came to a head after I arrived here during your absence.’