by Peter Haden
‘What are you proposing?’ Jan asked slowly.
‘You have German papers, and they pass muster,’ she looked at Jan, who lowered his head in confirmation. ‘Renate and Gisela are very similar in appearance. You drive the car as our chauffeur, Renate takes Gisela’s passport, and the three of us cross over tomorrow morning. Gisela isn’t going to be on any list of Jewish people, and she has a genuine Aryan passport. Once over the border, we drive to the nearest railway station and you both take the first train for Brüssel. After that it’s up to you, but I might suggest Ostende and the first ship for England.’
Chapter 30
After an early start, and with everything safely buried, they were ready to leave at half past ten. Renate had prepared two rucksacks with bare essentials: a change of clothing, a few toiletries and a small pack of food. ‘I’ve put the same things in each,’ she told Jan, ‘just in case we have to separate for any reason.’
‘And I have put an envelope into each,’ added Frau Holtzer, ‘with a supply of marks. The Belgierinnen will take them near the border – I often use marks to pay for my shopping. They won’t give you a fair exchange rate, but pretend not to notice. Alternatively, you can wait till you hit Brüssel and find a bureau de change.’
Frau Holtzer had found Jan a cap. It wasn’t exactly a genuine, shiny-peaked chauffeur’s one, more like something worn by a Breton fisherman, but it was better than nothing. She and Renate settled into the rear seat. After only a fifteen-minute drive, they could see two guards at the border who made no move to draw their side-arms. Jan coasted slowly to a standstill, intending to stop well short of the barrier in case he had to reverse. ‘We’re in luck,’ said Frau Holtzer quickly, ‘I know the older one. His name’s Rüdiger Weber.’ Taking their passports, she stepped from the Mercedes and walked towards the two men.
‘I’m sorry, Frau Holtzer,’ said Weber, holding out his hand, ‘I know who you are, of course, and your lovely daughter, but I am under strict orders to inspect all documents.’ His eyes flicked sideways and there was an almost imperceptible nod towards his companion. So, thought Meta, not one of the usual people. ‘Who’s the young man at the wheel?’ Weber asked casually.
‘That’s Dietmar – Dietmar Hofmann. His papers are there.’
‘I haven’t seen him before,’ Weber responded. It was little more than an observation, no trace of suspicion.
‘He’s been working for me for some time,’ she offered. ‘Wanted to join the Wehrmacht but the poor man has a history of tuberculosis. His medical certificate is in there,’ she nodded towards the passports. ‘Now that so many young men have joined up,’ she told him, ‘the doctors suggested he help the war effort on the land. After my husband died I had only one farm worker, and Carl is quite an old man, so when Dietmar was recommended to me it seemed like a good idea.’
‘And it’s really nice to have a driver,’ Weber said with a smile.
‘It saves worrying about parking,’ she replied smoothly, ‘not to mention having someone to help carry the bags.
‘How’s your daughter?’ she asked. On a previous trip she had stopped to chat, as country people tended to do, and he had shown her a photograph. On her return journey Meta handed over a bar of really good Belgian chocolate. ‘For your daughter,’ she had said simply. At the time, she viewed it as just a small kindness. Now she was beginning to think it might have been a good investment.
‘She’s fine, Frau Holtzer, and thank you for asking,’ came the reply. ‘All’s well here,’ he turned to his companion, ‘you happy, Reinhart?’ he checked with the younger man. Obviously, thought Frau Holtzer, the older guard was not in command. But Reinhart Lehmann had noticed his colleague’s deference towards the immaculately dressed older lady, not to mention a motor car enjoyed only by the wealthy.
‘That’s fine,’ he replied, turning towards her. ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Frau Holtzer, and I wish you a pleasant day. But I am afraid the border is closed to all non-essential traffic at the moment.’
Meta’s heart sank, but she managed to hide her feelings. ‘May one ask why?’ she queried, after just a moment’s hesitation.
‘An administrative matter,’ he replied blandly. ‘I am sorry for the inconvenience, but perhaps you could make your shopping trip in a few days’ time?’
‘I’m sorry too,’ Frau Holtzer, Weber added gently. ‘But kindly allow me to escort you back to your car.’
Lehmann stood watching and lit a cigarette. If old Weber wanted to be extra polite to the local gentry, he thought, that was up to him.
Back at the car she turned to face him. They were perhaps fifteen metres from the barrier pole. ‘And I don’t want you taking that track on the right just beyond the first bend,’ he said softly. ‘It belongs to a local farmer. Goes past his cottage, then comes out again on the other side. We know about it, saves him from clogging up the border with his tractor, so we turn a blind eye. I haven’t mentioned it to him,’ again a barely perceptible flick back of the head, ‘and you didn’t hear about it from me.’
With that he threw up a courteous salute and walked back to the crossing. Jan turned the car, not without some difficulty in the narrow lane, and drove back the way they came.
Seated on his tractor he saw the black Mercedes from two fields away as it drove slowly towards the border, although the farmer could barely make out the occupants. But he made no move to acknowledge them. People like him made every effort to stay away from any possible form of Bürokratismus.
They emerged well out of sight from the barrier. Jan accelerated gently on the cobbles, which soon gave way to a paved road leading into a small market town. At Frau Holtzer’s request he parked outside the station. Meta went to the ticket office where she found enough local currency left over from previous shopping trips to purchase two tickets for Brüssel. They had three quarters of an hour to wait.
‘What will you do now?’ Jan asked.
‘A bit of shopping – some vegetables, a little chocolate and I think some expensive lingerie. In the unlikely event that I am caught using the track on the way home, at least I shall have a good excuse – something to show for my journey. And if that young guard decides to check my shopping, what he will pull out of one of my bags will turn his face the colour of beetroot! At worst, I’ll just get a ticking off…’
They lapsed into anxious silence, but the train was on time. ‘Thank you for all you have done for us,’ Renate told her. Meta hugged her tightly and planted a kiss on both cheeks. Then to Jan’s surprise he was gripped by the shoulders and also kissed. But he could see tears in her eyes.
‘You must get on,’ she instructed. ‘Have a safe journey, and if you can, let me know when you have arrived. Good luck!’
With that she turned and walked slowly along the platform towards the exit. When she didn’t look back, Jan and Renate watched till she was out of sight then boarded the train.
Had he been alone, Jan would have phoned the embassy. But he didn’t want any complications because of Renate’s nationality. So, he simply found a bureau de change and bought two onward tickets to Oostende. After asking around, he managed to secure passage on a good sized vessel whose skipper intended to make an overnight crossing to England. Only when they had cast off did Renate truly feel safe.
Chapter 31
There was a long queue at Dover customs and immigration, but eventually they stood before a uniformed officer who asked briskly for their passports. Jan handed over his Dietmar Hoffman document and Renate the one borrowed from Gisela.
‘German,’ he observed, not very enthusiastically, thought Jan. And certainly not very welcoming.
‘Yes,’ Renate replied. ‘But not my own. And I’m classified as Jewish, which is why I am here.’ She was speaking slowly, but her English sounded proficient to Jan. ‘This gentleman can explain,’ she concluded.
‘And I have a Polish passport,’ said Jan,
nodding towards the one held by the official. ‘But that German one’s a fake – it was made for me in London.’ He had no intention of revealing his true, Polish identity to a junior official, not least because he might need it again for another mission in the future.
The immigration officer looked as though someone had dropped a bombshell into what should have been a routine day.
‘You need to ring a number in London,’ Jan told him. ‘If you can’t do that, ring the local police and ask them to send round a plain clothes officer. But either way, someone has to make that call.’
‘How do I know I can believe you?’ the official asked bluntly. ‘So why should I do either?’ Jan realized that he was just trying to save face, but after what he and Renate had been through, he was in no mood to suffer fools gladly.
‘If you do not do as I ask,’ Jan said through a humourless grin, ‘you will be acting completely against the best interest of your own country. And mine now, come to that. Interests that this young lady and I have spent a very dangerous time trying to protect, if that makes you feel any better. We are not refugees; it is more a case of having made a very fortunate escape.’
Jan sensed that the officer was wavering. ‘Try and put two and two together, from what I have said,’ he went on, ‘because you just don’t have the security clearance to know any more.’ He paused… ‘It will all come out eventually, at a level far above your own, so please make just one phone call. The alternative, I can assure you, is that my superiors will probably make sure that you spend the rest of the war cleaning toilets.’
Slowly, the official’s hand moved to the phone. ‘If you are calling London, then whoever answers, please just say that their Polish gentleman is here.’
A minute later, as instructed from the other end, he handed the receiver over to Jan. ‘There are two of us,’ he said in answer to the question. ‘But I can’t explain here, or on an open line.’ He listened for a moment then handed back the phone.
‘Yes, Sir,’ the immigration officer kept repeating, as if they were the only words he knew. Finally, he replaced the handset.
‘You must be important,’ he said. ‘So please forgive me for doubting, at first.’
Jan could afford to be magnanimous. He smiled, suggesting that he understood. ‘I’m arranging transport,’ the official told them. ‘You are to be taken to a local hotel. It’s a very good one,’ he hastened to add, sounding impressed. ‘London are sending a car for you – it will pick you up around lunchtime. In the meantime, they are arranging for a room and you are to order whatever you wish.’
It was late afternoon when Jan introduced Renate to Doreen Jackman and Bill Ives. ‘I suppose you could say they are my handlers,’ he told her.
‘I would prefer to say colleagues,’ said Doreen kindly to Renate.
‘We have a lot to tell you,’ said Jan. ‘But Renate has been at my side from the moment the mission started. In fact, I could not have succeeded without her. She is a German national, but the Nazis have classed her as a Mischling, to use their horrible word, because of her Jewish mother. So, she has to be given asylum. There can be absolutely no question of internment. And that’s the very least she is owed by this country.’
Doreen Jackman looked at her colleague. ‘I am quite sure that we can come to an arrangement that will suit both of you,’ she said gently, only too aware of what the young girl had probably been through.
‘And that was a brilliant transmission,’ Ives added. ‘We had other intelligence, of course, and the RAF have flown some very courageous high-level reconnaissance sorties, but there was nothing to beat your description of a camouflaged-up armoured formation on that airfield, not to mention what you overheard from that officer, Hans, about being at war in ten days. It was absolute gold dust, and will save a lot of lives.’
‘My dear,’ said Doreen Jackman, who seemed to have taken a rather motherly liking to the young German woman, ‘I give you my word that we will look after you. There is absolutely no question of internment, so you have nothing to fear.’ Jan suddenly realized with a start that she was speaking to Renate fluently in her own language. ‘Please come with me,’ she asked politely. ‘I want to hear your story. The crusty old colonel here will debrief Jan. There’s nothing sinister in this – we take two separate versions, then put them together. If there are any discrepancies, we iron them out between us. That way, we make sure that the final account is as accurate as is humanly possible. You must be tired,’ she concluded, ‘so we’ll be as quick as we can today, and we’ll probably have another chat tomorrow.’
She stood. ‘Would you like our English tea and biscuits, or would you prefer coffee? I’ll have it freshly ground, the way you might like it.’
Renate instinctively trusted the Englishwoman. With no more than a quick, slightly anxious glance towards Jan she followed her from the room.
The debrief did not take too long. At the safe house a middle-aged housekeeper offered them a light supper and they talked over the events of the day.
‘Do you know what’s going to happen?’ he asked her.
Renate shook her head. They were speaking in German, to the housekeeper’s obvious disapproval. She stopped hovering and disappeared into the kitchen to attack the washing up.
‘But Frau Jackman said that they would find some form of employment for me, and that I shouldn’t worry at all about being interned. I believe her. She said it’s just not going to happen and she obviously has the authority to make sure that it doesn’t. Thank you for insisting on that,’ she said softly, placing her hand over his. ‘First, though,’ she concluded, ‘it seems I have to improve my English. Mine is apparently good but a bit basic. So, what about you?’ she asked in return.
‘The colonel said that they don’t want me back in the field just yet,’ he replied. ‘He asked how I would feel about a course with their English armoured school, perhaps followed by a tour passing things on to Polish volunteers. Always wanted to drive a tank,’ he finished with a schoolboy grin. ‘But either way, the war be damned. The old colonel gave me this – said it would improve my education.’ He produced a bottle. ‘Apparently it’s a single malt whisky. A bit peaty,’ he said, in a fair imitation of the colonel’s Scottish accent, ‘but if we are going to be stuck here for the duration, it’s a taste we might do well to acquire.’
‘Pour me a glass,’ she said with a tired smile. ‘And offer one to that poor lady doing our washing up. Then when she’s gone, take me to bed.’
The following morning, Germany invaded the Low Countries.
Acknowledgement
During the early days of writing this book I was fortunate to secure the services of Agnieszka Bolek, a professional Polish/Russian/English translator and genealogy researcher living in northern Poland.
Agnieszka far exceeded her brief, not only undertaking translation but also offering much cultural input, with valuable information about life in rural Poland during the years before the Second World War. From documents still in my possession she was also able to discover the location of Jan’s original family home. Today it is the site of an evangelical church. Jan, a staunch Roman Catholic throughout his life, would not have approved!
Agnieszka’s contribution has added greatly to the authenticity and atmosphere of this book, for which I am most grateful. She can be contacted at [email protected] or www.polishrelish.com