by Peter Watt
‘You’re a long way from home,’ Matthew said. ‘What brings you out here? Not bad news, I hope.’
Ben shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I am now a member of one of Captain Orde Wingate’s Special Night Squads, fighting Haj Amin al-Husseini’s Arab uprising,’ he replied. ‘We need your help.’
Matthew knew about the Arab uprising: protests against the flood of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution from Hitler. The Arabs of Palestine wanted the occupying British to quell the flow of new arrivals and expel those who were already there. The uprising had escalated in violence and the British armed forces had found themselves caught between the feuding parties of Jew and Moslem. General Archibald Wavell had been sent from England to command the British forces, and an eccentric but brilliant young officer, Captain Orde Wingate, had been posted to train and control the Jewish self-defence forces. Wingate was a devout Plymouth Brethren who perceived the flow of Jewish refugees back to Palestine as one of the signs for the second coming of Christ. Despite being a Christian, he was highly respected by the Jewish fighters he led as they waged a guerrilla war against the Arab militias.
The tea was delivered and Matthew poured for them both, handing Ben a cup. ‘How can I help?’ he asked. ‘And, if I help, will it get my company into trouble?’
Ben glanced up with a hint of a smile. ‘You sound like my father,’ he said. ‘All this worry over a simple request.’
‘I know your father,’ Matthew chuckled. ‘Nothing asked in the Rosenblum name is a simple favour.’
‘I am also a member of the Haganah,’ Ben said, referring to the underground Jewish militia formed to protect the kibbutzim settlements. The Haganah was not officially recognised by the British administration, but the British government did give tacit support to the military organisation. ‘We need better weapons, and more of them, if we are to survive. We have an order with the Czechoslovakian arms traders for a supply of machine guns and ammunition. The trouble is that we need the weapons now, and the fastest way to get them is by air. That is where you come in.’
Matthew sat down at his desk and picked up a pencil. ‘I suspect that your mission is not condoned by the British administration,’ he said, tapping the pencil on a pad of blotting paper. ‘And such a mission would cost me my licence – if not my freedom – if things were to go wrong.’
‘I am authorised to pay all costs,’ Ben said, ignoring Matthew’s concerns. ‘We will also pay a generous fee for your services.’
Matthew did not answer immediately. His mind was racing through the multitude of potential obstacles to the task of flying into Europe and returning to Palestine. But he also knew that he could not refuse a request from the young man who had risked his life to save Matthew’s during the war.
‘Just give me time to work out costs and we can go ahead,’ he sighed and saw an expression of relief on Ben’s suntanned face. For a moment, gazing at Ben, Matthew was cast back thirty-six years – seeing Ben’s father, Saul, in a shallow trench at the South African river crossing during the Elands River siege, when the two men fought a desperate battle against the heavily armed force of Boers who poured machine-gun and artillery shells into their poorly defended Australian position. ‘You are welcome to bunk down at my place,’ Matthew said, rising from his chair. ‘My last house guest just flew out for Germany.’
*
The days turned into weeks in Dachau. The work parties, the drilling and exercise parades, the lack of food – supposedly designed to re-educate the prisoners into better Germans – simply acted to wear them down and break their spirits.
At least David had somehow been able to avoid the attention of the guard he had encountered in the Berlin café. That seemed a lifetime ago now as he drilled with the others for hours, occasionally feeling the lash of a whip across his shoulders if he faltered.
At night he stared at the wooden planks of the bunk above, occupied by Günter Schmidt whom he had befriended. In his dreams David was once again on his grandmother’s New Guinean copra plantation under a warm tropical sun, only to wake to the living hell of the concentration camp. He prayed that Sean was looking for him and using all his powers to extract him from the camp, but there had been nothing to indicate that this was the case and his hope was turning to despair.
In the early morning drizzle he fell out onto the parade ground in front of the barracks. The weather was turning cold as winter crept closer and the prisoners shivered miserably. The smartly dressed guards prowled up and down the ranks, occasionally delivering blows to anyone not standing to strict attention.
To David’s horror, the man he had knocked down in Berlin approached him in the ranks. He had a twisted smile on his face.
‘You thought that I was not aware you were here,’ he said, leaning into David’s face. ‘But I have been biding my time and that time has come, Englisher.’
David stood to attention, staring past the SA man’s shoulder.
‘To show how humane he is, the commandant has chosen to allow you swine a little sporting activity,’ the SA man continued. ‘In three days’ time, after the morning meal parade, you will be the main attraction in a boxing match with our SS heavyweight champion to see if you are as good as you boasted to us in Berlin.’ Satisfied that he had unnerved David, the SA man moved on.
David began to tremble with absolute fear.
‘You cannot win,’ Günter hissed. ‘If you win they will ensure that you have an accident and disappear. You must lose, to prove to our guards that they are the master race, and they may just let you live.’
David thought that winning was a forlorn hope as he had already lost a lot of weight and was severely weakened by the starvation diet.
‘Not much chance of winning, anyway,’ David muttered, and gazed bleakly into the drizzling rain.
*
Sean Duffy had moved back to Berlin after his short stay with General von Fellmann. He was haunted by not knowing where David was or even if he was still alive. So far he had not informed David’s grandmother that her precious grandson was missing, possibly a prisoner in a German concentration camp; he could not bear breaking the news to her. Sean had contacted the British embassy about David’s disappearance, and they had been polite but unhelpful. One official had explained that if David had broken any German laws, then it was out of their hands.
At his hotel Sean had virtually sat by the telephone for days on end; and finally it rang late one afternoon. It was Kurt von Fellmann. He did not reveal his identity but gave instructions to meet at a certain street corner not far from the hotel. Sean grabbed his hat, cane and an umbrella and made his way to the rendezvous. When he arrived he saw the general wearing a civilian suit, standing and reading a newspaper. As Sean limped closer the general turned and commenced walking slowly down the street. Sean caught up with him and they walked side by side among the many pedestrians towards a park whose trees had lost their leaves with the coming of winter.
‘The precaution is necessary,’ Kurt said quietly, leading Sean to a park bench. Very few people were in the park as a chill wind puffed at the dead leaves littering the grass. ‘The Gestapo have a habit of watching foreigners.’
Sean sat down beside Kurt and the two men gazed across the sea of brown leaves. ‘Has it come to this in Germany?’ he asked sadly.
‘I am afraid it has,’ Kurt replied, looking down at the open newspaper as if reading it. ‘Discrete questions have confirmed David as a prisoner in Dachau,’ he said. ‘He is under SS control and out of my reach. Himmler does not entertain any interference in his operations.’
‘God almighty,’ Sean answered. ‘At least he is alive, but the little I have heard about that place is that many do not return. How in hell are we going to free him?’
Kurt folded his paper and stared straight ahead. ‘I am afraid that we have no chance of protesting his imprisonment as the SS are already closing ranks on his case. It seems they have evidence that David is a spy for the British communist party. They were tipped off b
y one of your countrymen.’
Stunned, Sean knew there was only one person with reason to lie about David being a communist.
‘Sir George Macintosh,’ he whispered. Sean knew that David’s uncle had visited Germany for the Olympic Games and stayed on in the country on business. It had been George’s own wife Louise who had told Sean about her husband’s trip. ‘It had to be that bastard.’
‘Sir George and his children were guests of mine a few days ago,’ Kurt commented with a note of surprise. ‘Why would he betray one who is of his blood?’
Sean turned to Kurt with a bitter smile. ‘The Macintosh family is not a happy one,’ he answered. ‘You see, George needs David out of the way to take complete control of the Macintosh companies. I don’t know how in hell he knew David was in the country, but he has to be the one behind turning David in to the SS on trumped-up charges.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ Kurt said with a sigh. ‘Sir George is highly thought of by the Hitler government and wields some influence. This makes our task of saving David even more difficult.’
‘If I know that slimy bastard, he will have done everything he can to ensure that David does not leave Dachau alive,’ Sean said bitterly. ‘Time is short. I beg you to help as much as you can.’
‘I have a plan,’ Kurt said. ‘But it is one that requires the utmost of secrecy and trust.’
‘Anything to get David out of that camp,’ Sean said.
‘I would give my own life to save him.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ Kurt said. ‘The only people capable of getting David out are the SS themselves. But I do not hold any influence with Himmler’s men. However, I know someone who has access to their uniforms and identification papers, as well as stamped forms that would pass scrutiny. The man was once one of my soldiers in the war and I trust him. There are a lot of Germans opposed to Hitler’s government but it has proved futile to openly oppose the Führer. I also know someone who would be willing to impersonate an SS officer as he has no love for them. In fact, it could be said that he belongs to the resistance, but that is no matter. What I need is another man to impersonate a military intelligence officer.’
‘May I ask whom you have selected for the rescue?’ Sean asked.
‘My son, Heinrich,’ Kurt said and Sean was stunned that Kurt would put his beloved son in peril. Sean had no doubt that if things went wrong Heinrich would also end up in the dreaded prison, or worse, tortured and executed as a traitor.
‘I think I know a German officer who might help,’ Sean replied. ‘But I cannot guarantee his co-operation at this stage.’
‘We would need at least two men to get David out,’ Kurt cautioned. ‘We Germans are creatures who invented modern bureaucracy. It will take two men in the guise of SS officer and army intelligence for the story to be plausible. We will meet at another place the same time tomorrow to discuss final plans for the mission. I bid you good day, Major Duffy,’ the general said, using Sean’s old military title with a note of respect. It signalled that they were going to war. This time they would be on the same side.
Sean stayed on the bench for a short time as Kurt strolled away, his coat collar pulled up against the bite in the wind. Sean sat reviewing the plan; he knew how dangerous this mission would be and he wondered whether German citizens would really be prepared to put their lives on the line to rescue a foreigner they had never met.
It was a matter of clutching at straws but it was time to talk to the air force pilot, Fritz Lang, again and sound out his thoughts on defying his government. Sean had spent a lot of time among men and sensed that the young pilot might be prepared to assist. If he was wrong, and Lang betrayed the plot to rescue David, Sean and Kurt were surely dead men.
5
‘I will do this because my mother told me that the greatest comfort she had after the war was learning that my father did not die alone,’ Fritz said. ‘Captain Duffy could have left my father, his enemy, to die alone in the desert, but he stayed with him.’
‘I know what great peril you are putting yourself in,’ Sean told him. ‘You have already interceded to help save David once before. This is dangerous business.’
‘I am an airman,’ Fritz replied. ‘I have long learned to live with death.’
The two men spoke quietly in English. They wore civilian clothes and attracted little attention from the café patrons around them. With the German pilot’s assistance, Sean knew there was at least a slim chance that the very risky mission to save David might succeed.
‘You will be impersonating an army intelligence officer who has orders to take David into your custody for interrogation,’ Sean said, leaning forward and speaking even more softly. ‘Your uniform and papers will be given to you and we carry out the task at Dachau.’
‘What if David is already dead?’ Fritz countered. ‘I have heard disturbing rumours that not all those detained by the SS and Gestapo come out alive. Accidents and reports of prisoners being shot while attempting to escape are whispered on the streets.’
Sean gave a pained expression; he dared not entertain that option. ‘Then the mission will be cancelled,’ he said. ‘You will meet the man who will accompany you on the mission to go over the plan tonight,’ Sean continued, passing a slip of paper under the table to Fritz containing the address.
As the two men parted and Sean limped from the café along the street he swore that he saw a dark car parked not far away, containing two men wearing the uniform of Gestapo officers. Sean had an uneasy feeling that he was under surveillance. His fear was confirmed when the vehicle pulled out from the kerb and followed at a discreet distance. From now on Sean would have to ensure that he made no more contact with the conspirators, as his presence would mean unwanted attention from Hitler’s secret police. All he could do now was live in hope and wait by the telephone.
*
The morning of the fight had arrived and David queued to receive his meagre breakfast ration. Behind him stood Günter also waiting patiently for the tiny piece of bread to be doled out.
‘I have to warn you that the guards intend to kill you,’ he said quietly. ‘I overheard them talking about it last night when I was cleaning the floor of their barracks. They are madmen who see the boxing match as an entertaining way of watching you be executed.’
‘Did they say how I would be killed in the ring?’ David asked, shuffling forward and feeling the hunger pains in his stomach.
‘They did not but they said your death would be a lesson to us all,’ Günter replied softly. ‘I am sorry for you, my friend, but at least you will be permanently free of this hell on earth.’
David tried to fight the panic rising in his chest. He was only nineteen years old and he felt cheated by life. Since that afternoon in the Berlin café garden his fate had spiralled out of control, and now he was facing execution. Where was Sean? Was he searching for him? Deep down David knew that he would be, but any assistance was going to be too late to save his life.
A tiny lump of stale bread was dropped in his battered pannikin and David moved on to eat the little nourishment he had before the fight. He had hardly finished the ration when he saw the dreaded figure of the SA man push his way towards him with a sneer on his face.
‘You will come with me,’ the SA thug said, pushing David in the chest with a short hardwood club. ‘We get you ready for the fight.’
David followed and was taken to a large parade ground where a rope had been strung between four metal pickets. Already the guards and selected prisoners were assembling as spectators, and when David looked closer he saw the man he was obviously meant to fight enter the ring: a giant, blue eyed, blond-haired man stripped down to a pair of silk shorts.
‘We have a book on how many punches it will take to knock you out,’ the SA thug said. ‘I say it will only take ten blows to finish the fight, so don’t disappoint me, Englisher.’
David felt himself pushed towards another SA man holding a set of leather boxing gloves. He stepped forward an
d allowed the gloves to be fitted. When he looked over at his opponent preparing for the fight he saw with a sickening realisation how they were going to kill him. Metal knuckledusters were being fitted inside the opponent’s boxing gloves. The man he was about to fight had been tasked to prove the superiority of the master race. This was not a boxing bout but a thinly disguised execution, just as Günter had warned.
When David scanned the faces of the prisoners paraded to watch the match he could see in their expressions that they also knew David had no chance of surviving. They knew they were simply here to see a legitimised killing by their custodians; it was a lesson in the futility of their resisting Hitler’s Reich.
Gloved up, David ducked under the single length of rope defining the improvised boxing ring. His opponent raised his arms to the cheers of the guards. An SS officer wearing full black uniform and polished boots also climbed into the ring and David guessed he would be the referee. The uniformed man gave a short speech to the cowering prisoners, telling them the fight would demonstrate the superiority of German manhood over that of a foreign communist agitator with a supposed reputation as a world-class boxer. David stood with his hands by his sides and wondered how many hits he could take before the death blow. If he was going to be beaten to death he had nothing to lose and for a fraction of a moment he experienced a soaring flame of hope.
‘The Englisher, prisoner number four thousand and sixteen . . .’
‘My name is David Macintosh and I am an Australian,’ David said defiantly.
‘You will fight now,’ the SS officer snarled.
A bell rang and David immediately went into the fighter’s pose, gloves ready to deflect any punches to his head. The first blow caught him in the chest and he felt its power as his ribs cracked. David’s opponent was a very strong young man and had every intention of finishing the fight as quickly as possible. Maybe the SA thug would win his bet, David thought through the pain. But he was determined that it would take more than ten blows to fell him, and he knew that he was fighting the greatest bout of his short life.