by Peter Haden
Both Gisela and Renate had to suppress a giggle at his choice of words.
‘I honestly think that the less I tell you, the better,’ he went on, looking first at Frau Holtzer and then Gisela. ‘But you do need to know that I have German papers – genuine ones – in the name of Dietmar Hofmann. Beyond that,’ he added, looking at the three of them on the other side of the table, ‘all you need claim to know is that I came here looking for work, I had papers declaring me unfit for military service, and I was taken on by Renate to help with the estate.’
‘Jan originally set up a sleeping area in the stable, Tantchen Meta,’ said Renate, ‘but I told him to use one of our spare rooms.’
‘Of course you did,’ Meta replied, recalling what he had said a minute or so ago and with the faintest smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t awkward, but there was a moment of silence.
‘In the meantime,’ Renate pressed on, ‘Jan pointed out that Gunnar was not in great fettle, having been only stabled and paddocked over the winter. He is a very experienced rider, and on your behalf, I accepted his offer to take Gunnar in hand and bring him back to condition. He has been riding out from time to time… I hope that’s still all right,’ she finished anxiously.
‘Thank you, Jan – or Dietmar –’ Frau Holtzer replied quietly. ‘Please continue to ride him whenever you wish. I know that my late husband would have approved.’
‘If it helps,’ added Jan, ‘I don’t think I shall be in this part of the world for much longer. I would obviously appreciate it if the present arrangement could continue, but if you are in any way concerned, Frau Holtzer,’ – he looked at her directly – ‘I can take my leave whenever you wish.’
Meta looked first to her daughters and then at Jan. ‘A lot has been said,’ she began slowly, ‘and we all know that there is much that has not, but which is nevertheless understood. I think for now,’ she concluded, ‘we will try to carry on as we are, and wait until we see how things turn out. Are we all agreed?’ she asked.
‘Renate dear,’ she answered into the silence, ‘I think we could all do with something to drink. Would you be so kind as to bring a bottle of wine? And Gisela, we shall also need glasses.’
Chapter 29
It proved an uneventful Monday. Jan exercised Gunnar and helped Carl on the farm. The three “girls” spent the morning looking after the house and the afternoon in the kitchen. Jan thought he could include Frau Holtzer in that description because she had a lively personality and a great sense of fun. By late afternoon, when he pulled off his boots and asked, in his stockinged feet, if he might have a bottle of beer, he suspected that they were no longer on their first glass of wine.
Supper was claimed to be a combined effort, but Jan detected Renate’s influence. There was a delicious veal schnitzel, beaten wafer thin, covered in flour, egg and breadcrumbs, then shallow fried in garlic and butter and served with a mound of sautéed potatoes and green vegetables. Frau Holtzer had made an apple tart, from what she said were almost the last of her stored crop, served with a topping of cream from their small dairy.
When they had washed up and settled to coffee and brandy, Jan felt drowsy and replete. There had been no follow-up visit either from Trenchcoat or the local police, and he quietly expressed the hope that things appeared to have blown over. He had no immediate tasks to perform for London and it occurred to him that he was being paid to live very comfortably, in a country that he knew well, with the woman he loved. As they went to bed Renate clutched his hand and pulled him into her room. ‘They know,’ she said softly, ‘and Frau Holtzer said she doesn’t mind. I think she rather likes you and Gisela might even be just a teensy bit jealous!’ Jan’s day was complete.
They were seated at the table with a modest Tuesday lunch of bread and liver sausage when the illusion was shattered. The kitchen door was thrown open and two uniformed soldiers with machine pistols rushed in. Between them they were holding up a semi-slumped Carl, his face badly bruised and bloodied. Clearly, he had taken something of a beating. Behind them came the man Jan thought of as Trenchcoat. In his hand was an automatic. He flipped open a wallet containing some sort of identification. ‘SS-Hauptsturmführer Scholz,’ he informed them briskly, without offering any opportunity to examine the document, before snapping his wallet shut and returning it to an inside pocket.
Jan’s mind was racing. He knew they were in serious trouble, but the three intruders were too far back to give him any chance – except of being shot for his efforts.
‘What is the meaning of this,’ snapped Frau Holtzer in her best Hochdeutsch.
‘No use coming the high and mighty with me,’ Scholz replied, his voice almost a sneer. He pointed a finger at Renate. ‘You were too smug, young lady, when I asked if I could see the horse. I knew then that you were up to something.’ His hand embraced all of them at the table. ‘I had to threaten that stupid policeman, back at the station, but rather than have his family sent to a concentration camp he came clean – admitted that he didn’t ever remember that horse being a piebald.
‘Too much of a coincidence,’ Scholz went on. ‘We suspected there had been a parachute drop somewhere in this area. We didn’t see the plane, but plenty heard it – people who know the sound of one aero engine from another. Then someone with a grey horse is seen transmitting from a wood not too far from an airfield – one being used as a major forming up base.
‘I could have arrested three of you last time I was here,’ he went on, a certain self-satisfaction in his voice, ‘but instead I borrowed a couple of men to watch the farm. Eventually, this old fool inspected an overgrown ruin. We let him leave, then took a closer look. So why, I ask myself, would weapons and a field radio be hidden conveniently nearby?’
‘I’m sorry, Jan,’ Carl mumbled through badly damaged lips, from which blood ran down over his chin and on to the bib of his boiler suit.
‘It’s all right,’ Jan said gently. ‘These women know nothing about this,’ he went on, looking to Scholz, ‘it’s me you’re after.’
‘Very noble, I’m sure, but it won’t wash,’ mocked the Hauptsturmführer. ‘I’ll accept that the Holtzer woman here and her daughter only turned up forty-eight hours ago, but I think you and this Mischling were in it together.’ Renate’s heart was thumping – obviously Scholz had checked up on her. ‘Either way, you will both talk. Rest assured, once you are in my custody there can be absolutely no doubt about that. Also,’ he turned to Jan, ‘you will transmit for me. If you refuse, or I have any reason to suspect that you are trying to disguise your “fist” or insert a hidden message, this woman will enjoy the longest sexual night of her life – in front of your eyes, and before she is shot. Then you will share her fate.’
‘Drop this idiot,’ Scholz instructed the two soldiers. Carl staggered a few paces forward then steadied himself with both hands on the end of the kitchen table. The Hauptsturmführer waved his automatic and pointed it at Jan. ‘Arrest him,’ he ordered, ‘and cuff his wrists.’
Jan stiffened, but there was nothing he could do. He would be dead if he moved.
One of the soldiers handed his weapon to the other and walked the length of the table to stand behind Jan, who was still seated. It was old Carl who broke the impasse. Turning with a speed that gave the lie to his age, with an almighty roar he threw himself at Scholz. With hands hardened from years of heavy work on the land, Carl seized his throat, thumbs digging in either side, and squeezed as hard and viciously as he could.
The soldier holding both weapons turned, trying to help his officer, who was struggling to free his pistol. There was a muffled shot. Carl’s body spasmed but he clung on, if anything tightening his grip. As his companion tried to prize away the locked fingers the soldier behind Jan hesitated.
Jan seized his chance. Diving under the table he snatched the Gewehr from its mounting. There were five rounds in the magazine. Lying flat, he put two rounds into t
he soldier attempting to help Scholz. Somewhere above, someone screamed. As Carl, barely conscious now, slipped slowly to the floor, but before Scholz could bring his weapon to bear, Jan flicked the bolt to chamber a third round. It took Scholz in the throat. Scrambling forward from under the end of the table Jan was on his feet just in time to face the remaining soldier, who raised both hands. There was no alternative. Jan took a half step towards him, pointed the rifle at his face and pulled the trigger. A shower of red and grey matter sprayed from the back of his skull. Flicking the safety, Jan worked the bolt to empty the magazine, which now held only one round. He snatched another five round clip from under the table and reloaded. ‘There has to be a driver and vehicle somewhere,’ he told them, more harshly than intended. ‘Do what you can to drag this lot outside and clean up. I’ll be back.’
Jan threw a saddle and tack on Gunnar in record time. It was as if the horse sensed the urgency – he stood there, solid and co-operative, whilst Jan rushed to make him ready. Finally, Gewehr in his left hand, reins in the right, he urged the horse from the stable. It would have been no use trying to find Scholz’s transport on foot – it there was a driver, he could enter the farmhouse at any time, perhaps whilst Jan was searching two or three fields away. That would put the entire family at risk. It couldn’t be allowed to happen.
He started to circle the house, at first close in, but gradually widening the distance till he was perhaps half a kilometre away. Eventually he saw the roof of a car on the other side of a hedge. It had been reversed into a track, bonnet facing the road. Dismounting, Jan secured Gunnar a hundred meters away and approached on foot, shielded by the hedge. As he drew closer he could smell cigarette smoke – the wind was blowing towards him, which would have carried the sound of shooting away from the farm, in the other direction. About fifty metres from the vehicle, Jan pushed himself through a small hole in the base of the hedge. There was a driver, weapon slung over his shoulder, leaning back on the vehicle and enjoying a cigarette without a care in the world.
Moving slowly, centimetres at a time, Jan wriggled into a prone firing position. He was not going to enjoy what he was about to do, but there was no choice. A single survivor would spell a death sentence for all of them at the farm.
There were four bodies in the farmyard, although out of respect they placed Carl away from the other Germans. They were heating a bucket of water when a single shot rang out. Such was the state of their nerves that all three women flinched. Frau Holtzer ran to the window when Jan drove the car into the yard. She moved to the door.
‘Leave the vehicle,’ he instructed. ‘I’ll sort it when I get back. Right now, I have to go fetch Gunnar.’ As he left on foot she took a couple of steps forward and looked through the side windows. There was a uniformed body across the foot wells between the front and rear seats. Fifteen minutes later Jan returned and led Gunnar into the stable. All four of them assembled in the kitchen.
‘One of you girls, please see to Gunnar – he hasn’t been ridden hard but we need to get that saddle off him as quickly as possible, just in case. Otherwise, please carry on cleaning up in here.’ It occurred to Jan that he had taken control automatically, issuing orders as if they were a military unit.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Frau Holtzer.
‘We have to get rid of the evidence,’ Jan responded. ‘Scholz might have left word where he was headed, but from the way he reacted when he arrived and found out what his watcher had seen, I rather think he didn’t. He seemed keen to beat up poor old Carl and then come in here and arrest us all. He probably wanted to leave us tied up under armed guard, so that he could return with more escorts and a prison van, only to report to his superiors covered in glory. Either way, we must get rid of the evidence. And if anyone does make enquiries, we have cleaned up and no-one was ever here.’
‘What do you propose to do with the bodies?’ asked Frau Holtzer.
‘I hate to do it to Carl,’ Jan confessed, ‘but I think we have to put all five of them in the car, drive it somewhere safe and set fire to it.’ He looked to Frau Holtzer. ‘I’ll do it, but perhaps you have somewhere in mind?’
‘Better than that,’ she replied. ‘There’s an old quarry not too far from here. We used to swim there when I was a child. The water’s deep. If we can drive the car over the edge, I doubt if it will ever be found. But I’ll have to come – to show you where it is.’
‘Too dangerous – if we are caught on the way we are both in trouble,’ Jan responded.
‘If you are caught on the way, we are all in trouble,’ she came back sharply. ‘Besides, with me alongside you can go straight there. You take Sholtz’s side-arm and I’ll take the Gewehr. Rest assured, if we hit trouble I know how to use it.’
Jan stripped all five corpses, removed identity documents and loaded the bodies into the back of the car, which was now well down on its springs. The weapons, with the exception of Scholz’s automatic, he threw on top. Back in the kitchen, he nodded towards the range. ‘Burn the lot,’ he told the girls, dumping clothing and documents on the floor. ‘We’ll be gone for some time.’
The journey to the quarry proved uneventful, although it was late afternoon before they arrived. A wide sandy track led down into the water, presumably to where the workings had once been, but otherwise it was surrounded by an almost vertical bank at least two meters high.
‘We used to jump and dive off here, many years ago,’ Frau Holtzer said wistfully, standing on top of a grassy bank. Jan positioned the car several metres back from the edge, leaving the driver’s door fully open, and broke off a short branch from a young tree. Snapping it to length, he wedged it between the seat and the throttle, so that the engine would be well gunned. Settling into the driver’s seat he restarted the engine. It revved into life with a healthy roar. Selecting second gear, he slowly eased his foot off the clutch. The engine did not stall and the car moved forward, rapidly gathering speed. Just before it reached the bank he launched himself from the vehicle, almost leaving it too late. He had to stretch out his arms and legs to stop himself rolling over the edge. Sitting up, he watched the car arc well out above the quarry before falling, slightly rear wheels down, into the water. Within a minute it had disappeared completely. ‘That was well done,’ observed Frau Holtzer. ‘But now we have a long walk home.’
In fact, they didn’t. A third of the way back they met Gisela on Frau Holtzer’s horse with an off-saddled Gunnar on a lead rein. ‘I’ve been to the quarry often enough,’ she greeted them, ‘and we all need to get back sooner rather than later.’ Jan and Gisela mounted Gunnar and they returned to the farmhouse at a brisk walk. It was quite sensual, her arms around his waist and the movement of the horse beneath her.
Back at the farm, in fading light, they gathered round the kitchen table. ‘We found broken cotton and panel pins underneath,’ said Renate, ‘but when did you put the Gewehr there?’
‘After Trenchcoat’s first visit,’ he told them. ‘Early the following morning. It occurred to me at the time that if things went tits up – sorry, ladies –’ he added, ‘I had absolutely no plan to fall back on. And the rifle was the only weapon we could legitimately explain away, but it was no use up in the bedroom.’
‘Thank God you did put it under the table,’ said Frau Holtzer with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Otherwise by now we would all be inside a Gestapo cell. I for one,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘am in desperate need of something strong to drink.’ She emerged from the larder with a bottle of schnapps and pulled a clutch of small glasses from the nearest cupboard. Once seated again, her first tot disappeared in one.
‘So assuming you are right, and we manage to survive today’s dreadful events, what happens now?’ she asked.
‘It’s not safe for me to stay here,’ Jan told her. And it’s obvious they have been checking up on Renate, so her refuge is also compromised, to say the least.’ He paused, turning the glass between his fingers. �
�We have to leave, both of us,’ he went on. ‘First thing in the morning, I’ll bury my cache. Whilst I’m doing that, Renate can sort out a few things for the journey. I’ve done it before – we can cross into Belgium on foot and make our way back to England from there. No absolute guarantees, but I’m pretty sure you and Gisela should be all right here, once we have left.’
‘What about Carl?’ Renate asked. ‘Won’t he be missed?’
‘He lived on his own,’ Frau Holtzer assured her. ‘I think there’s a son and daughter somewhere in the Ruhr, but he always complained that they never bothered to contact him. It’ll probably be quite some time before anyone notices he’s no longer around, and I suspect that by then we’ll be well into the next stage of the war.’
‘How will you manage on the farm?’ asked Jan, ‘I mean, without Carl, and the two of us no longer around?’
‘In the short-term, Gisela and I will just have to roll our sleeves up,’ she said bluntly. ‘I did it when my first husband was in the trenches and I can do it again. After that, we’ll have to see.’ She paused. ‘But if we are going to be at war, Gisela will be safer here than living in a city like Cologne. For us civilians, I suspect it is going to be a case of survival.’
They sat in silence for several seconds, each to their thoughts. Jan finished his drink and poured them all some more. ‘I think your plan might work,’ Frau Holtzer said eventually, ‘but the border is bound to be much more closely guarded now that we are technically at war with England and France. These days, there is a distinct possibility that you might be caught.’
‘That’s probably a risk we have to take,’ Jan replied, ‘because I don’t see that we have much alternative.’
‘I think you do,’ she argued. ‘Listen, we don’t live that far from the border and I regularly cross over to go shopping. There’s an excellent market just inside Belgium – I go there most Saturday mornings. It’s only a small crossing on a quiet rural road, manned by ordinary border police, not military, and I know nearly all of them. What’s more, they know me, they know Gisela but not that well, and they are quite used to seeing my car.’