The Talisman

by Allan Jones

  The captain’s eyes never left Klaussen’s as Johnson spoke. He mused for a while, then reached his decision. “Provided he leaves that Luger with me, he can remain your prisoner.”

  Klaussen hurriedly drew the pistol and, holding it by the barrel, offered it to the captain, who took it and examined it. “A fine souvenir,” he said as he pocketed it.

  “Then please also accept the holster to go with it, Captain,” Klaussen said, unclipping it from his belt.

  The captain thanked him and took it. He spoke to Johnson. “He has intelligence, you say? Hmm, yes, he’d better keep out of sight for the time being…Very well, you can use my cabin; won’t be needing it myself for a while, I reckon. There’s quite a fine brandy in there, but save me some, won’t you? I’ll join you for a drink when we make port.”

  He turned to the commander. “Show them the way please, Mr Bailey.”

  “Aye,sir.” Bailey motioned the way and they followed him toa stairwell. At the top, Klaussen turned, stood to attention and gave the captain a crisp British salute. “Thank you, Captain,” he said.

  “Don’t drink all my brandy,” the captain replied as he returned the salute.

  Five minutes later, with their boots off and relishing the warm glow of the brandy inside them, they fell into an exhausted sleep. They never noticed the ship getting underway to take them to England, nor were they aware of the armed guard who stood beyond the door at the captain’s orders.

  CHAPTER 5

  Amelia sat on her suitcase in the corridor of the train as it puffed its way north to Scotland. She had declined, with a feigned shy smile and a shake of her head, the many offers from the soldiers and sailors of a lap to sit on. Eventually, the offers declined amid mutterings, and she was left alone. She had contacted Hutchison and, after several more conversations, had agreed to be recruited into the grandly named organisation the Special Operations Executive, which had recently come into being under Churchill’s orders. What her part was to be she was still unsure, but for now, she was being despatched to somewhere in Scotland: all she knew was that this train would take her to Fort William and then a car would take her to heaven knows where.

  She fervently hoped that she would be able to get a proper seat soon. She knew, from the talk of the sailors, that some of them would leave at Liverpool, others at Glasgow; perhaps she would be able to move into a compartment then. Her backside was beginning to ache, so she shifted her position a little. As she did so, her skirt rode up a little, prompting overt glances from the men around her, until she tugged at it to cover her knees again. Finally, she could stand it no longer, got to her feet, stood at the window and watched the countryside rolling by.

  Eventually, the train chugged into Liverpool, and she had to flatten herself against the side of the train as the tide of disembarking passengers threatened to carry her along with them off the train. The compartment nearest her emptied and, seizing her chance, she fought her way against the tide, forced herself into the compartment, and gratefully sat down nearest the door. At the window seat diagonally opposite her, a man remained, his hat covering his face, apparently asleep. She regarded him for a moment: he was a big man, about 6ft 4in, stockily built, with blond hair showing beneath his hat. His shoes were old and scuffed, needing polishing, and all of his clothes were on the shabby side.

  She glanced at the rack above his head and noticed an equally shabby and battered brown suitcase. Turning her gaze back to him, she idly tried to fathom his purpose. He looked fit enough to be a serviceman; perhaps he was on leave or was in a reserved occupation, a commercial traveller perhaps, or maybe he wasn’t as fit as he looked…maybe he’d been invalided out; he could have a wooden leg!

  She laughed inwardly at the thought. She decided that she had nothing to fear from him and relaxed into her seat with a contented sigh. An elderly couple appeared at the door of the compartment, so she scooted across the seats to place herself opposite the man. She stood and turned her back to him to lift her suitcase on the rack. As she did so, he lifted his hat and he was rewarded with a grand view of her bottom as she tiptoed to reach. He noticed that the seams in her stockings were not quite straight as he regarded her shapely calves.

  She turned and flopped down and almost gasped as she saw his face: he was so like Bill, her dead husband. Not exactly, as there were differences, but such as a brother might resemble a brother. She quickly averted her eyes in confusion. Memories of Bill flooded through her, forcing her to bite her lip and fight back the tears she thought she had conquered. She felt his eyes upon her and pointedly kept her eyes looking out of the window, as the train got underway.

  Presently, she watched his reflection in the window as he replaced the hat over his face, crossed his arms and settled his head against the window. A few minutes passed, then she felt safe to look at him again, re-appraising the resemblance to Bill. There were differences: his hands were smaller, he was blond, a bit more heavily built, his nose a little longer perhaps, but the eyes? So alike! She hadn’t had time to see their colour, but the long lashes! She hoped they weren’t brown, like Bill’s.

  She took in some deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. It had been a shock, but it was no more than coincidence. A few times she had imagined glimpses of Bill in the street, passing on a bus, entering a shop, each time causing her heart to leap, then fall as she realised her mistake. She was annoyed at herself for getting so disturbed; she knew that she still had a long way to go to get over Bill, and such things weren’t helping.

  She looked over at the elderly couple. The man was reading a newspaper and the woman was sleeping on his shoulder. He had the newspaper folded so that she could not read any of it. “Wouldn’t be any good news anyway,” she thought, as she turned back to the window.

  The train rumbled on, night began to fall and she dozed for a while, keeping her thoughts away from Bill and focussing instead on the days ahead. She was woken by the bustle of the elderly couple gathering their things as the train slowed as it approached a station. Momentarily confused at her whereabouts, she asked them, “Excuse me, what station will this be?”

  The man replied, “Carlisle, my dear.”

  “Oh, thank you, not my stop,” she smiled.

  “I hope you have a pleasant journey,” the man said, putting on his coat. He felt his pockets and drew out a package. “I’ve some sandwiches here, cheese, would you like them? We’ll be home soon, we don’t need them, you’re most welcome.” He proffered them with a smile, his wife beaming encouragingly at her from behind him.

  Not wishing to appear ungracious, she took them. “Thank you so much, it’s very kind of you.”

  “Not at all. Well, come along, my dear. Goodbye, Miss.”

  “Goodbye, and thanks again,” Amelia smiled. The man nodded and they left the carriage. She looked over at her companion: he hadn’t moved.

  The train left Carlisle behind and pulled on into the night. Amelia felt uncomfortable now, alone with this man, and considered moving from this compartment, but dismissed the thought. She tried to doze, but her thoughts prevented her, and when he shifted his position she fixed her gaze firmly out of the window. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him remove the hat and stretch. “Oh God, he’s waking up,” she thought in a panic.

  He spoke. “You’re still here,” he said. “Hello.”

  She could not avoid it. She looked at him, calming herself. “Yes… hello.”

  “I’m Paul,” he said.

  She noticed with relief that his eyes were blue, strikingly blue, and she offered her hand. “Amelie…” She corrected herself: “Amelia… Du-Clos.”

  He took her hand, hanging on to it a moment more than propriety allowed. “Pleased to meet you. Du-Clos is a French name, isn’t it? Are you from France?”

  “Originally, yes. My father was French; I was brought up there. Later I came back to England with my mother.”

  “Your mother was English then?” he asked.

  “Yes, she was from Guildford,
” Amelia replied. There was a long silence.

  “I too am half-English,” he announced.

  He paused, clasping his hands together and shifting in his seat, looking out of the window as he waited for a response. There was none. He seemed to make up his mind and drew a long breath, then he said in a lowered voice, “And half-German!” He looked earnestly at her; she said nothing, but her eyes were rivetted on him. Why had he told her this? “To my shame,” he said sadly.

  She didn’t want to ask, but eventually her curiosity overcame her. “Go on,” she said.

  “I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you… Please forgive me.”

  There was an awkward silence, until Amelia broke it. “It’s quite all right,” she said, favouring him with an encouraging smile.

  His head had lowered; he looked up apologetically. “My father is German, my mother English. From Herefordshire; do you know it?”

  “No,” she replied.

  He continued: “I was brought up to be a German, always. My mother left when I was quite young, maybe eight or nine. I went to live with my aunt, my father’s sister. He was a soldier. I only saw him whenever he came home on leave. My mother then married an American; she’s in Boston now, I think.”

  “So how do you come to be here, in England?” she asked.

  “Now there’s a story,” he said. “I’m not sure you’d want to hear it.”

  She gave an involuntary shiver, but her curiosity was piqued; so, in spite of herself, she said, “No, I do… really. Please go on.”

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  He reached in his jacket pocket and produced a hip flask. “I have some brandy,” he said, unscrewing the lid. “Please have some; it will warm you.”

  “I don’t know,” she began.

  “Please… I insist; it will be good for you,” he said, holding out the flask to her.

  Her eyes drifted to the cheese sandwiches next to her. “Only if you’ll share these sandwiches,” she said.

  He smiled. “It’s a deal,” he said warmly.

  She unwrapped the sandwiches and exchanged one for the proffered flask, and took a healthy swig. It burned her throat momentarily, but the warmth as it went down was very welcome. She handed it back and he too drank. There was silence as they ate the sandwiches; neither had realised how hungry they were. He watched her as she ate. She was remarkably beautiful, and tall; he liked that. She had an almost elfin beauty, he mused; she reminded him of that silent movie star… “What was her name?” he thought. “Louise Brooks?...Yes! But with longer brown hair, the same almond-shaped brown eyes.” Pabst had brought Brooks to Germany and made her into a star; he remembered seeing the films as a teenager.

  He appraised what he could see of her body and was impressed: the long slim legs, the full breasts; he had already seen her from the rear! She was indeed a rare beauty. They finished eating and brushed the crumbs from their laps. She looked at him expectantly, as once again she took the brandy flask from him.

  “Until recently I was a Hauptmann in the Wehrmacht,” He announced.

  She almost choked on the brandy, but managed to swallow. “You were what?” she gasped, not sure now if she shouldn’t be frightened.

  “Please,” he said urgently, “there’s no cause for panic. I mean… I mean you no harm, really.”

  She took another pull on the brandy to mask her confusion.

  “I have come over to your side; what’s it called…I’ve defected?” She nodded. “I have always been a soldier, like my father. I joined from university, and I was a good soldier. I liked it, I was proud…” His face darkened. “Until the Nazis came.”

  He paused. “But I am not a Nazi, never was. I was just a soldier doing his duty. For his country! They crept up on us, deceived us; we were blind. We all were. We couldn’t see! I was so caught up with the honour of serving my fatherland, I… I ignored things… Germany had risen from the ashes, things were getting better…people had work! When Hitler annexed the Sudetenland we cheered; then Austria, we cheered louder. There was talk of war, but nobody believed it. Hitler was running rings round the European powers and getting away with it! When Czechoslovakia happened, we were ecstatic! We were invincible! It seemed we could do anything and no-one had the guts to stand against us. Hitler once said – ‘the German people have no rights, only duties’; well, that should have told us something, but we missed it! I missed it! We ignored it! He struck a chord there, though; we Germans love to be led, it’s in the German psyche: whether it’s for good or ill, we can see no difference. We buried our heads in the sand and ignored the bad things, like the treatment of the Jews. We were blinkered, only seeing the good things, the prosperity, the shops full of wonderful things again, plenty of work.”

  He paused and lowered his head; when he raised it again, there was wetness in his eyes. She handed him the brandy and he took a long swig. “Then there was Poland,” he said quietly. “I was there.”

  She listened intently as he described the horrors he had witnessed. He spared her no detail. This was the first time he had spoken about it to a real person as opposed to an interrogator; it was cathartic to him and, as he went on, his voice became softer and calmer. He told her of the decision he had been forced to make, of how he had used his father’s influence to get transferred to Guderian’s army, which was by then gearing itself up for the Western offensive.

  He spoke of how he had stolen documents, highly secret documents, and had copied them meticulously and replaced them. He had been trusted, admired even; he was the model soldier after all, the blond, blue-eyed Aryan ideal. Then he told her of his flight, of the events that got him to Dunkirk and thence to England.

  After her initial horror, she was at last relaxed as he spoke, and a little in awe of him; he had experienced so much! “Then, when I got to England, I was unceremoniously thrown into jail: Pentonville,” he said bitterly.

  “Didn’t they believe you?” she asked.

  He smiled wanly. “I don’t think anyone knew what to do with me. So! Chuck him in jail and forget about him.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Hard to say. I was kept apart from the other prisoners; time meant nothing. To be honest, I was glad of the privacy, the rest; sort of needed to be alone, gather my thoughts. Think things over.”

  He was silent for a while, until she prompted him. “And…what happened next?”

  “Then? Well, then I was grilled morning till night, accused of being a spy, threatened with a date with the hangman, grilled some more. Just when I thought it was over, a new team of interrogators came and started it all over again. This went in spells; sometimes I saw no-one for days, then they were back, going over it again and again, checking this detail and that.”

  “Must have been awful,” she remarked.

  He grinned. “The food was the worst thing,” he said.

  She laughed. “I’m sure it was,” she said.

  “Then I was left alone for a long while. I thought I was going to be there for at least the duration. Then another man came to see me, quite different from the others. He was more the friendly type, but you could tell he was as sharp as a razor. Funny looking fellow; reminded me of an owl. His name was Hutchison.”

  She started at the mention of the name. “Greying brown hair, white moustache, pudgy with round spectacles?”

  He sat up straight .“That’s him… you know him?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He…” She paused. “He…sort of… recruited me!”

  “Ah… now I see: a French speaker and a German speaker, both on the same train, going to the same place, I think.”

  She smiled warmly at him. “It seems so,” she said.

  She looked away as her nervousness returned. The situation had changed: he was no longer a stranger on a train, but someone who would likely be around her more often. When he had been talking, she had watched his emotions, which had run the whole spectrum from rage to tears, and sh
e had begun to feel for him, sympathy perhaps, but he had such depth! She felt something between pity and admiration. He clearly was an unusual man, steeped with a strong sense of honour, but flawed by an arrogant individual streak which had cast him adrift.

  Unforeseen events had placed her here, on this train, taking her to an unknown future; but with him it was different, he had made it happen.

  The silence became awkward till he spoke. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No… no, I was just thinking, that’s all, about where we’re going, what to expect and, well, what I’m doing here really. Funny how things turn out.”

  “We all have our war to fight,” he said. “I just want to make a difference. I want to count, to be a real player, a Knight not a Pawn. Do you understand that?”

  She thought for a while before answering. “Yes… yes, I do. I suppose I feel something similar. I can’t stand the thought of doing nothing, or not enough. I can’t step aside and let others do it. People are dying, giving their lives to fight this madness, this evil. I have to do something! But not just anything.”

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  “Before Hutchison found me, I was a secretary. What I was doing was important, I guess, but when I was reading the reports to be typed up I felt…outraged! How dare someone threaten us like this! What gives them the right? I was frustrated that I couldn’t do anything, and angry with myself for it. Now, since Hutchison, I feel more alive, more involved, more in control, more empowered, more able, as you say, to make a difference.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly it.” He paused, looking intently at her, then he said: “There’s something else, isn’t there? You’re covering up something… sadness?”

  She caught her breath and looked away from his piercing eyes. “Yes,” she said. He waited for her to continue. “They took my husband from me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. She looked angrily at him, but saw that he really meant it. She was in danger of losing control, but took a deep breath and continued. “We had only been married for a short while. His Hurricane went down over the channel. His comrades said he had no time to bale out. They told me it would have been quick; he would have blacked out before he hit the water.”