A Kiss for the Enemy

by David Fraser

  The lieutenant felt immense excitement. What a day! A man in SS uniform stood by the door of the monitoring office, alert and interested.

  ‘A very illuminating run of signals,’ the latter said contentedly, ‘very illuminating indeed!’ He took a copy of the tape as the signal ended and pinned it to several others of the same kind.

  Berlin. 19.30.

  ‘Arzfeld, you heard the broadcast?’

  ‘I did.’

  There was silence between them and after a little Frido said, ‘Well, goodbye.’

  At half past six that evening all radio programmes had been interrupted for a special announcement. It stated that, in spite of rumours, the Führer was alive and well, and that later he would speak to the German people. At seven o’clock the Propaganda Minister, Dr Goebbels, had broadcast that a dastardly attempt had been made to kill the Führer and overturn the Government. The attempt had been made in order to strengthen Germany’s enemies. It had failed.

  Nobody was allowed to leave the Bendlerstrasse that night. At half past nine Frido walked slowly down to the main entrance. Soldiers of the Berlin Guard Battalion stood at the door both inside and outside the building.

  ‘All movement is forbidden, Herr Hauptmann.’

  ‘By whose orders?’

  ‘General Fromm.’

  So Fromm had been released from arrest! Frido did not at the time know that all troops were acting under the directions of the Commander of the Berlin Guard Battalion, Major Remer, who had received orders from Hitler himself. Fromm was exercising a little authority but it was to be shortlived. Frido retraced his steps. There were tanks at the end of the street, clearly visible from the windows. Tanks had been part of the ‘Valkyrie’ plan. But whose orders were they now obeying? And what were those orders? Nobody seemed to know.

  And Frido did not dare ask too much. Colonel von Stauffenberg was certainly not in his office. Casually, Frido said to one of the colleagues in his room,

  ‘Has anybody seen the Chief of Staff since he returned? He must know what’s going on.’

  ‘Must he?’ Frido met a hard stare. Men were talking in whispers in every office.

  It grew dark – a hot July night. Frido, for the hundredth time was walking down the stairs, making an excuse to visit another office, range the corridors. Many doors were locked.

  Suddenly he became aware of an extraordinary phenomenon. The main staircase window, which opened on to the Bendlerstrasse car park, was admitting, from blacked-out Berlin, a blaze of light. Astonished, he climbed higher, shifted the corner of a blind and peered out.

  The car park, in defiance of all regulations, was illumined by what appeared to be searchlights – probably, thought Frido, the headlights of military trucks lined up for the purpose. He became aware of figures moving in the shadows and some shuffling on the edges of the brilliant pool of light. He could only imagine one explanation. He turned away from the window and closed his eyes. A few minutes later he heard the shots.

  They were walking, Becker and he, in the Grunewald once again. It was an evening ten days later, the first occasion when both had found it possible to keep a rendezvous.

  Frido was beginning to piece things together. He had been interrogated twice: Becker so far not at all. Frido had, he thought convincingly, expressed ignorance of anything except what had been apparent. Yes, of course everybody knew that Colonel von Stauffenberg had flown to the Führer’s Headquarters. Yes, he had heard rumours of an accident at Rastenburg during the afternoon. Certainly he was aware that Colonel von Stauffenberg had returned – not as a matter of dramatic import but expectedly: somebody had said, quite casually, ‘the Chief of Staff’s back’. Certainly he was aware ‘Valkyrie’ had been ordered, although his own responsibilities were not concerned with operations but with future organizational planning which had fully occupied his day. No, he’d not found the ordering of ‘Valkyrie’ ‘suspicious’. It seemed a natural precaution if there really had been some sort of disturbance at Supreme Headquarters, it was what one would expect. Yes, he had been aware of an order informing all Districts and Field Commanders that Field Marshal von Witzleben was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. The order had originated from the Wehrmachtamt, as one would expect, and had reached Home Army – in another part of the same building – as a matter of course. Naturally, everybody had been surprised, because it was generally thought that the Field Marshal suffered ill health, which had earlier led to his resignation from the position of Commander-in-Chief West. It was, he had to admit, curious but it was certainly no part of a captain’s duties to question the matter. If the Führer were incapacitated, which was the presumption, it was not for junior officers to have opinions about his choice of who should be entrusted with the command of the Armed Forces of the Reich.

  As to ‘later events’ that evening, he had been stunned and, naturally, deeply upset. Everybody had admired Colonel von Stauffenberg as a brave and highly efficient soldier. Frido had, he explained patiently, only once met General Olbricht. No, he had never had the slightest suspicion that either of these – or others whose names were repeatedly put to him – were not devoted patriots.

  ‘And that,’ said Frido grimly as they walked dejectedly along the same path they had trod in a very different mood a week earlier, ‘was the exact truth.’

  Becker knew pretty accurately what had occurred in Berlin.

  ‘The Commander of the Guard Battalion, Remer, thought something was odd when he heard “Valkyrie” was ordered. On his own initiative he went to the Propaganda Ministry. He saw Goebbels, and told him that he had to take his orders from General von Hase, his immediate superior, and that these were to deploy his battalion around the Government quarter and await further orders from von Hase. Goebbels handed him the telephone. It was Hitler himelf – from Rastenburg. Goebbels had explained to Hitler that Remer would shortly be with him, and our Führer was able not only to show he was alive – Remer recognized that voice – but gave him direct orders and power over everybody in order to carry them out. Then it was simply “Jawohl, mein Führer!” Our people were prisoners.’

  ‘And of course,’ said Frido with despair in his voice, ‘within minutes of German commanders everywhere being told that Hitler was dead and Witzleben was Commander-in-Chief, they were hearing from Keitel that this was false, treasonable nonsense. We lost about three hours. They might – they just might – have made the difference.

  Becker said, ‘I doubt it.’ He knew the doubt would be unpopular with his companion. ‘I doubt it. Too many things were wrong. Nobody secured the radio transmission centres. In spite of what was done at Rastenburg the other side were able to communicate. I still think Commanders of Districts, Army Groups and so forth were unlikely to obey anyone else’s orders once they knew Hitler was alive. And, as I told you last week, I’m sure the soldiers wouldn’t have done so, whatever their superiors did.’

  Frido disputed nothing. He looked as if he would never smile again. He said, ‘It’s all over now. It failed. I’m not ashamed to have been a small part of it. I’m proud.’

  Becker looked at him shrewdly. He was fond of von Arzfeld but thought him rash. Frido’s sombre defiance made Becker uneasy. He hoped his friend would not court martyrdom.

  ‘Have you heard much about the – er – enquiries?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frido indifferently, ‘they’ll be pursued in the usual way. Nobody dares speak of it, there are whispers, murmurings in corners – General so-and-so, Colonel such-and-such. You know Fromm was arrested after all? The Gestapo have got him. I’ve no pity for him. It was he that had Stauffenberg, Olbricht and the others shot that night. He called it an “instant Court Martial”. It was murder – he thought they’d implicate him in the end, although they’d arrested him. He’d been nodding and winking for a long time. Then he told Beck to shoot himself. The old gentleman made a mess of it and Fromm had him finished off. They shot Stauffenberg and the rest in the car park. I heard it.’

  They walked
on in silence. After a little, Frido said softly,

  ‘I’m sorry we involved you in this. They’ll pursue every scent – even after us little ones. They’ll not give up. For myself, I’ve cared about nothing else for a long time. I’m proud. But you were new to it. I sincerely hope –’ He halted and said rather stiffly,

  ‘I hope no harm will come to you, my dear Becker.’

  Becker said gently, ‘I’m proud too.’

  ‘At present nobody would understand that. We’re hated. Not only by him and them. I think most ordinary, decent Germans also hate us, think we’ve tried to betray them. As for him, he’ll have an orgy of revenge. Did you see the article last Sunday in the Party paper?’

  ‘“We must exterminate the entire breed!”’

  ‘That’s it. The entire breed. What our Führer in his broadcast that night called “a very small, aristocratic clique … ambitious, unprincipled, criminally stupid officers”. Well, I’m happy to be of their number.’

  ‘Ach, well,’ said Becker evenly. He took his friend’s arm, ‘Maybe one day it will all be understood.’ Becker was Swabian, with a Swabian’s stolidity. He spoke without emotion, ‘Maybe one day they’ll all understand.’

  Chapter 19

  It was three months later, in October, 1944, that Robert Anderson walked into Oflag XXXIII.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it, that day in 1940,’ said Anthony, ‘that day when I got hit. And you of all people turned up!’

  ‘No, it was you who turned up. I was where I was meant to be.’

  ‘And then I simply ran into you in London, out of the blue. And now you’re here! What would war be without coincidence!’

  He felt better than he had since captivity began, twenty-two long months ago. For several weeks he and Robert were engrossed in exchanging experiences. As far as Anthony could make out, officer prisoners were moved at intervals of not more than twelve months from one camp to another. When first captured he had been shipped to Italy and handed over to the Italians.

  ‘A bit of grenade got me on the left hip. At first I felt as if half my leg was blown off, but in fact there was little more than bruising, although it hurt like hell, and I passed out.’

  ‘You’re even more accident prone than me,’ said Robert. ‘Any bomb or grenade that goes off near you seems to hit you.’

  ‘But never seriously. Anyway I soon found myself in Italy. And you can imagine the relief when we were taken over by the Germans, after the Italian surrender a year ago.’

  Robert couldn’t. ‘Relief?’ Captured himself in Italy by the Germans, in the Rapido valley at the start of General Alexander’s offensive in May, 1944, he raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Relief! The Italians were hell. One never knew what would happen next. No system. No discipline. I reckon that in military as in political life anarchy is crueller than oppression.’

  ‘You haven’t changed!’ Nor had Robert. He still frowned at the same time as he smiled. He still appeared furiously indignant with everything or nothing. He had acquired from battle or captivity no trace of tolerance. It was, Anthony thought, pure joy to see him. For a little, an old friend’s companionship, the warming experience of being able to talk of shared memories, could dissolve the parched boredom of Oflag XXXIII.

  Robert’s regiment had sailed from England to Sicily in July, 1943 to take part in the invasion of the island. They had been committed to the Italian campaign in November and had taken part in the slow, bitter push through the mountains from Naples to Cassino. Then, at the beginning of the attack that would take the Allies to Rome and north to the Gothic Line in the Appenines, a German mine had smashed Robert’s lower leg. A German patrol had found him. The leg was treated efficiently and was mending fast. Six weeks in hospital had been followed by a month in transit of one kind or another. Robert still limped but declared he was as active as ever. Oflag XXXIII was his first regular camp.

  They talked of the Italian campaign, of the North African campaign. They speculated on how things were going in northwest Europe. They talked endlessly of Oxford, and discussed the possibility of taking their law studies further in prison.

  ‘I’ve done a certain amount,’ said Anthony, ‘but not as much as I should. Perhaps with two of us – one might…’

  Robert was frowning. He changed the subject. They talked of the possible course of the war. For the first heady days of September every British bulletin, eagerly and surreptitiously devoured, spoke of the great breakthrough that had taken the Allied Armies almost to the Rhine. Robert still felt something of that euphoria.

  ‘We may be overrun in a matter of weeks if they go on like this!’ Anthony felt sceptical.

  ‘The winter’s coming on. And the Germans must fight for the Ruhr even if they pull troops out of Italy and Russia. Mind you, before our people get here they’ll probably move us again. East.’

  Anthony had been in Oflag XXXIII for three months, a camp set in wooded country between Brunswick and Magdeburg. This was his third camp, smaller than some. About one thousand officers shared the twenty identical wooden huts. Anthony and Robert were, inevitably, in different huts. The most recent batch of inmates included Robert and were housed together, while Anthony was settled in another part of the camp with a number of old-timers who had arrived with him. The two spent, however, much of every day together. Anthony explained everything to Robert – the ‘Appels’ – roll calls where the prisoners were interminably counted off by fives to check total numbers, courses of instruction, camp entertainments.

  ‘The older prisoners will tell you that food was terrible at first. Now we’re getting one Red Cross parcel a week. Not bad at all.’

  Anthony described too, the ‘parole walks’ – outings by individual prisoners strictly on parole.

  ‘And parole strictly honoured, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course. What sort of a criminal lunatic would throw everybody’s privileges on to the rubbish heap, as would certainly and rightly happen?’

  At first Robert showed impatience with the petty mores of the camp. ‘Surely I could swap places with somebody in your hut, if we explained it?’ The huts were divided into rooms in each of which eight prisoners occupied four double-decker bunks.

  ‘Then we could mess together. Because I was in hospital I’m not with anybody from our division, there’s nobody I ever knew before. It would make a big difference – after all the Germans leave the running of the place to us, we can order it as we want, it seems to me.’

  Anthony told him the proposal was out of the question.

  ‘It would cause great offence to suggest such a thing and it certainly wouldn’t be agreed. This is a very special sort of community you know. People – especially people who’ve been prisoners a long time – are sensitive. Very touchy.’

  ‘But still,’ said Robert softly, ‘I suppose we could pair up for an – adventure – couldn’t we? Or would that, too, run counter to protocol?’

  Anthony considered him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think perhaps we could.’ Quietly, tentatively, they began to discuss that difficult, controversial question among prisoners: the possibilities of escape.

  In earlier life Anthony had often deferred to Robert. Robert, with strong opinions and impatient, had liked to have his own way and Anthony had often smiled and let him have it. They had always been complementary and their temperaments seldom jarred. Robert always said exactly what he thought with a candour which could be brutal. Anthony, despite his charm, could sulk and be moody but he was seldom other than courteous. In prison he had not been bored by solitude, but had often been irked by enforced companionship. He disguised this, and had the name of a ‘first class man’. Robert, a much franker personality, was from the start regarded as awkward and argumentative.

  ‘Talks as if he knows the bloody encyclopedia by heart,’ they muttered. ‘Lays down the law.’ But a few who got to know him better warmed to his openness and honesty.

  And now it was Robert who had all to learn, Anthony who knew about prison l
ife.

  ‘There’s an escape committee in the camp, of course. Anybody who has an idea puts it to the committee. It has to be approved. Then those who thought up the idea have established a sort of copyright. If they’re sensible they do not talk about it, except to people who need to know. Of course any escape attempt generally involves a lot of people in preparation and back-up, besides those actually making the break.’

  It was characteristic of Robert’s restless nature that their first serious conversation about escape took place only a few days after his arrival, in the middle of October. Anthony explained the fundamentals of the challenge. An escape could be conceived as four different problems. The first of these was how to get out of the camp itself.

  Oflag XXXIII consisted of two separate compounds. On one side of a partition wire were the prisoners’ huts, on the other a camp for the German guards and staff. Surrounding the whole complex was a double wire perimeter fence about ten feet high, the inner and outer fences separated by a catwalk about five feet wide. The fences were strong, supported on poles bedded in concrete. Rolls of concertina wire were extended in the catwalk. It was a formidable obstacle.

  At each corner of the camp rectangle there were watch towers, manned at all times by sentries equipped with machine guns, searchlights, and in telephone communication with camp headquarters, the guardroom and each other. By night, the perimeter wire was illumined by lights set in high stanchions at thirty yard intervals. By night, too, intermediate watch towers were manned (the longest sides of the perimeter fence measured about nine hundred yards) and additional sentries on foot were posted outside the fence at hundred yard intervals. And by night, mobile patrols operated outside the wire.

  ‘There are dogs, too,’ said Anthony. They enjoy showing them oti to us – savage brutes, I’d not like to be brought down by one. I imagine they track pretty effectively as well. I’ve never come on dogs before – they’re a rarity at Oflags. You could say we’re unlucky.’