by Thomas Wood
It had been a long time since he had worn a suit, but it felt good to finally have an excuse to wear one, instead of the overalls and boots that he had become so accustomed to wearing as he did odd jobs around the town that he lived in, for next to no money. The German had bought him a hat to complete the image, instructing him to pull it low over his face, in case anyone might recognise him from when he previously lived there.
Stefan was not stupid, he knew that that wouldn’t be the reason for the headgear, but that it was far more likely to be for his own safety. Whatever it was in the cases would be of a great importance to some of the authorities, and it would make his life far easier if he wasn’t arrested further down the line after being recognised by an official.
As Stefan gave it some more thought, he realised it was probably for the German’s safety also; if he avoided the authorities, then he was far less likely to give up the description of the SS man who had paid him so much interest, getting alongside him like some sort of pseudo-father.
The suit and hat nevertheless made him feel good, like he was playing the part that the Standartenführer had wanted him to play, however ill-fitting the suit was.
It was loose around his body, not so much that it was plainly baggy, but there was a noticeable gap to Stefan between the fibres of his clothing and his own skin, only coming into contact with one another if he was to push down on his stomach or press at his sides.
It was only then, as he shuffled the waistband of his trousers around on his hips, obviously secured with a leather belt, that he realised how much weight he had lost in recent months.
His family was poor, even poorer after he had lost his job on the railways, and it became increasingly difficult to fund a regular evening meal, quite often opting instead for a meagre mug of coffee as his only sustenance before going to bed.
Today was different though, thanks to a full three course meal courtesy of the SS Standartenführer, who had become his best friend. Standartenführer Schröder had become a permanent fixture in Stefan’s life, to the point where he was almost looking forward to meeting up with him again, once he had done what he had come to the station to do.
Schröder was going to a meeting a few blocks away, shortly after he had dropped Stefan, if the rate that he flew down the stairs was anything to go by. He would come back, with his driver, in around two hours’ time, to pick Stefan up and take him back home to his mother, hopefully pockets stuffed full of Reichsmarks to begin his journey up the social standings.
The full stomach, courtesy of Rudolf was most welcome, but it did not bolster Stefan’s strength so much that he could pick up the two suitcases with ease. They were heavy, and they tugged at his arms to the point where he thought they were being stretched or, at the very least, his arms were being slowly wrenched from their sockets.
He clutched hold of them passionately, holding fast to the very direct instructions that he had received a few hours ago from Rudolf, stopping only every now and then to let the ground take some of the strain, before quickly snapping them up again like an Olympic weightlifting champion.
Every time he plonked them down on the ground, he felt as if he let Rudolf down a little bit more, spurred on by the idea that he was watching him from somewhere, or that some kindly older gentleman would help the weak pauper struggling with his luggage.
Stefan had been amazed by the station upon entering. The entrance was fairly modest and small, up a small flight of stairs which Rudolf had assisted him up before running for his meeting.
The station opened up as soon as he walked through the humble doorway, like it was some sort of trap door into a completely different world, the quiet of the small town of Tarnow, transformed into a bubbling metropolis, where shops and stalls were littered all around, doing an absolutely roaring trade.
It was impossible not to notice the sheer number of people there, especially the men adorned in a dark green, brown uniform that seemed to form the bulk of the body of people in there. Stefan marvelled at all the different parades of kit that the soldiers had to offer, a mixture of browns and greens, highly polished knee-high boots and dulled ankle high boots. Some had rifles slung over the shoulders, others had no weapon other than the box of matches that they were using to light one another’s cigarettes.
Most wore field caps, while others wore garrison hats as they herded the men around, making sure they were exactly where they were meant to be. As Stefan watched them, he realised how efficient they were, seemingly knowing when to shout at a man and when to simply push him in the direction he was meant to be heading. On the surface of it though, there seemed to be total confusion and chaos. Stefan loved it.
He looked around the main entrance lobby, making out where everything was and just staring at it all for a moment or two. There were the toilets and the first-class waiting lounge, the standard waiting room a few doors down. Next to which was the ticket booth, a small queue forming waiting to talk to the ancient man sat behind the counter, without whom, no one would be making it away from the chaos of the train station.
Stefan knew exactly what to do, courtesy of Rudolf and his incredibly precise instructions. They were so detailed, so minute, that Stefan, upon stepping into the station itself, felt like he had been there before, in a dream perhaps. As if someone else controlled what he was doing, he picked up the suitcases once again, after double checking he had his spending money, before making his way to join the back of the queue for the ancient man.
Stefan waited patiently in line, excitedly awaiting the time when he could whip out the wad of notes that Rudolf had placed in his hand and begin feeling like an adult, paying for his own train ticket, instead of having his mother watching over his shoulder.
The ticket to Krakow was almost immediately screwed up in his palm, as he gripped the handles again with vigour, before lugging them over to the ticket inspector. To make it on to the concourse, and subsequently the platforms, everyone was required to go through the ticket inspectors, strategically placed at the far end of the entrance hall. Stefan waddled his way over to one of them, before being quickly waved through without so much of a second glance at the piece of brown paper scrunched up in his fist.
The world that lay on the other side of the inspectors seemed like another world away from the calm and tranquillity of the town outside. There were shops here, stalls selling everything that you might possibly want on a trip on the train, all in competition with one another to sell the cheapest cigarettes in Tarnow. There was even a barber’s shop in the corner, doubling up as a shoe shiner for gentlemen wishing to get the full treatment.
There seemed to be more order on this side of the inspectors, the soldiers were calmer and less intent on winding up the adjutants who were now merely standing around, rather than interfere with the paths of the soldiers who appeared like they knew where to go and when.
Kids no longer ran away from their parents, but were clamped firmly together, palm in palm as adults tried to stop the little tyrants from throwing themselves under an arriving train.
Stefan didn’t need to rack his brains for too long to try and recall what his next instructions had been. Once he was in, Stefan was to grab a drink, allow himself to relax for a few moments, before going and leaving the suitcases where he had been told.
It was easy to relax, especially since he had become one of the richest men in Poland thanks to the amount of money that the SS had poured on him. They had given him so much that he thought it would all be totally worthless by the time he came to spend it, or that every single bit of it had been counterfeit in some way. Stefan perhaps had too much money to try and spend in the few hours that he would be in the station, but it had eased the Standartenführer’s mind over what might happen to Stefan over the next few hours.
Regardless, he didn’t need an excuse to be spending it, but he had been instructed that the money that he was given was to be spent today, anything left over would be taken from him. Stefan decided quickly that he would spend as much mon
ey as he possibly could in the station, and deliberated with himself over whether to get his hair cut before or after his shoes had been bulled up.
But, he remembered, the free time was only his once he had done what Rudolf had asked him to do.
He scanned the area. In front of him were four railway lines, each divided up by a concrete platform that jutted all the way out of the train station, stopping short of the giant canopy that would protect its residents from the elements. Two were for trains that were soon to be arriving, the other two for trains that would be departing from Tarnow, both of which were occupied as he stood there.
Stefan was to place the suitcases across the two inner most platforms, one case on each, at the side of the benches that stood to attention up and down the slabs of concrete. He sat down on the main departure platform and stared out nonchalantly towards the sunlight at the end of the platform.
Wondering what was in the suitcases, he became distracted by the thought that someone would soon be coming to pick them up, an agent grabbing one as he leapt onto the train just seconds before it left.
The other was to be placed on the arrival platform, and he had similar visions of someone hopping off the train before running from the station. Whatever was in them, he resolved not to deliberate any longer and, pulling out his train ticket from his pocket, began to study it, perhaps too intently.
Sighing deeply, as if he had made an error over which platform he had chosen, Stefan rose from his bench, grabbed one of the suitcases and made for the platform on the other side of the track from where he was sat.
Almost without thinking, he repeated the same process on the other side of the platform, hoping that if anyone was to see him, that they assumed he had got the wrong day altogether and that he would be back again tomorrow trying the same journey.
He felt considerably lighter now, moving much faster towards the large café at the side of the platforms than he had done when lugging the two cases around.
He wondered if he was being watched, and he began to scan faces for potential recipients of the two gifts that he had left at the platform.
Stefan decided against getting his hair cut, he decided too that his shoes were far too badly damaged for a quick bulling to have any effect on them. So, he opted for the next best thing. He went for a beer.
Selecting a table outside of the café window, so that he had a clearer view of the platforms, he was able to keep an inquisitive eye on the two cases that sat, quite lonely at the side of the now vacant benches.
As he sipped away at his beer, the coolness irritating his teeth, he wondered what sort of secrets had been housed in the two browning cases that had been his responsibility. They had two small padlocks on them so, even if he had given in to the urge to have a look, he wouldn’t have been able to anyway. In the event, Stefan had reasoned that the SS were willing to pay him a great deal of money, and anything that jeopardised that was not worth doing. The thought of opening the cases had only just now crossed his mind.
Stefan finished his beer but instead of leaving, simply decided to order another, rather enjoying the sense of freedom he now had on account of the quantity of money that he had at his disposal. All he would need to do now was make it back to Germany, and the concerns of money and wealth that had plagued his first twenty-five years, would no longer be an issue to him, in fact, he wouldn’t be looking for work for a very long time.
Stefan began to realise that he was having a thoroughly brilliant time, and not just on account of the amount of alcohol that he was able to consume. He was loving every second of it, the not quite knowing who was coming to get the suitcases, or if he would even be able to spot someone picking them up.
He smiled sweetly as he watched a group of children, about twenty of them, begin to congregate around one of the benches, two middle-aged women trying their utmost to maintain control over them. He thought maybe they had been orphans out on some sort of day trip, or possibly they were from a nearby town and on an educational adventure.
Suddenly, Stefan saw the suitcase that he had dropped second, the one closest to him, rise up of its own accord, before expanding itself outwards, like it wanted to reveal its secrets to him. The children stood beside it, transfixed by the witchcraft that had suddenly commanded it to levitate.
He got to his feet, in disbelief, thinking that he had already had far too much alcohol for this to really be happening.
Then, he saw the pressure wave, as if the whole of the station had suddenly been submerged under water, and a series of ripples were distorting the whole of his perception of the station.
As the fireball began to erupt and embrace the browning leather of the first case, Stefan watched with absolute horror as the second seemed to rise up much like the first, except much slower than before.
The windows of the carriages shattered, and large chunks flew in every direction, Stefan’s face included. Immediately, he sank to his knees, clutching at his face as the full effects of the blasts suddenly began to speed up.
He was completely blind, his eyes feeling like they were crying tears of blood rather than water. The pain was excruciating, but the more that he clutched at the burning right the way down the front of his body, the worse the pain became.
He began screaming out in agony, as people all over the place began to do the same. Stefan could no longer see anything but had opted to lie on his back and wait for help to arrive.
One of the trains that had been due to depart had a gaping hole blown into the last carriage that was parked up, none of the windows remaining intact for a good fifty yards all around.
People that had populated the platforms had quite quickly become corpses, with some still trying desperately to remain living by crawling in any way they could, towards the unachievable target of making it outside. Some dragged themselves around by their arms, others had no arms to speak of and so were pushing themselves along the floor like desperate slugs seeking help.
There was a silence for a moment, immediately after the blasts, as people came to terms with the pain they were experiencing and the ringing in their ears had started to die down. The screaming that erupted immediately after was harrowing, louder than a train’s own whistle as it departed the platforms.
Mothers cried out for their children, while soldiers began crying out for their mothers.
The bombs had torn across the platforms, leaving a trail of utter desolation and despair as people’s instincts to survive overtook their instincts to help.
The entrance lobby became a pandemonium, people crushing others and barging one another to get to the exit, none wanting to turn back and help the poor souls bleeding out all over the platform.
Stefan tried to get up, he wanted to get out, but he kept sliding all over the puddles of blood that had formed all over the solid flooring of the station.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” came a voice, whispering in Stefan’s ear, “you will be fine, you will be fine.”
Upon hearing the words, Stefan’s adrenaline suddenly ran out. Slumping into the man’s arms, he fell unconscious.
Part II
3
So that is what Geranium had been. It hadn’t been a codename for a person, it hadn’t been a moment in the world of intelligence where we had suddenly become enlightened or discovered something. It had been a plain old assassination attempt.
Who the target had been in the apparent assassination attempt however, was something that Jameson had not been able to determine, and that was as much as he could tell me about Geranium.
He had stopped the story rather abruptly, not least because the tears that had welled up in his eyes were beginning to run down his cheeks, and for the sake of appearances he needed to put a stop to that immediately. This was not the kind of world in which to be displaying your weaknesses, I had discovered that much myself already.
Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he blew into it sharply, and I watched him awkwardly as he began fumbling around and placing it back i
n his pocket, only for it to be pulled out again a moment later when his eyes decided that they hadn’t quite got rid of all the residue just yet.
As he had spoken, I had felt like bursting into tears myself, not because of the dramatic retelling that he had gone through, but because of the sheer exhaustion that I found myself in, coupled with the fact that I had just found out that it was incredibly likely that my commanding officer had had some part to play in what appeared to be an attempt to keep a lid on a very murky past.
So, Standartenführer Rudolf Schröder had been a part of the event, at least he had been the one with his boots on the ground when the bomb had gone off. I wondered what it had all done to him, as when I had met him, he didn’t come across as the cold, calculating individual that might put two cases of high explosives in the hands of an impressionable and vulnerable young man. But, then again, this war had done far stranger things to people than make them realise the sanctity of a human life.
“They killed so many children, Alf. So many.” He pushed his handkerchief back into his pocket a second time, strangely pulling himself together as he undoubtedly pictured the bodies of children strewn all over the platform. It was certainly what I was picturing right now.
It sickened me to the pit of my stomach. I thought it deplorable enough that the Germans would place a bomb in a foreign country to simply make a point, but the fact that they had dragged children into the mix, not just dragging them but blowing them up, was totally unforgiveable. I couldn’t barricade the thoughts that I had against the Germanic race that day, but it quite quickly dawned on me that any one of us, including those working in this very department, were quite capable of committing atrocities of an equally harrowing nature.
“The official number of dead is around the twenty mark. But they killed far more than that Alf, far more. They’ve been hiding the facts. They don’t want the world to know what they have done.”