Micklejohn was fed and banished to the attic again until after dark, when he was taken to Neumann’s cottage.
“They say it is safest under the lamp,” said Neumann. “I hope it is true. The house next door”—he pointed—“it is the Volkspolizeiamt.”
“Good gracious! But——”
“On the other side”—the long finger swivelled round—“the sausage factory. Herr Muller is short of labour. He had engaged a new man from Ilsenburg but the man has had an accident and cannot come. You are the new man from Ilsenburg. I have your papers here.”
“Does Herr Muller know——?”
“He does, but he will pretend not to. You will go to work like the others and do what you are told.”
“Certainly. I only hope I give satisfaction.”
Neumann smiled slowly. “To work the big mincing machine it is not necessary to have had a college education, but I expect you will make good. You will live here with me, you can go to work by the back door and never appear in the street. It may be the Vopos will never see you, but, if they do, you are working the mincing machine. Yes? Good.”
“It is you who are good,” stammered Micklejohn. “I—I cannot begin to thank you, you take all this trouble, you run these frightful risks for a total stranger, it is unbelievable—Karl and his wife too——”
“Herr Micklejohn,” said the old man, “we are poor and in misery, but we are still Christians.”
George was infuriated to find that he could not speak.
“Besides,” went on Neumann, in a lighter tone, “we lead wearisomely dull lives here. We work, we eat and then we sleep and tomorrow is like today and so the months pass. To have a secret, to make plans, to foresee difficulties, it is a little excitement, you know? It will be something to talk about among ourselves when the dark evenings come and you are safely at home in England again. Let us not get emotional about it. Emotion clouds the judgement.”
“Tell me,” said George, “something about this man whom I am to impersonate.”
“Here are his identity papers,” said Neumann, fumbling in an inner pocket. “You may as well take them at once, you will have to carry them always. Give me the other papers I made out for you. I will put them away, they may come in useful for some other unfortunate. So.”
“ ‘Gustav Ehrlich,’ ” read Micklejohn aloud, “ ‘born at Stettin on April 6, 1932'—I’ve grown three years older all in a moment—'grey eyes,’ that’s lucky; ‘brown hair,’ that’s all right, mine’s getting browner every day; 'height 175.5 cm.,’ that’s”——George engaged in mathematics with the help of his fingers. “Oh well, I shall have to slouch along with my knees bent. ‘No distinguishing characteristics,’ that’s a good thing. Be a bit awkward if he’d had a wooden leg, wouldn’t it? But what happens if he turns up?”
“He will not,” said Neumann cheerfully, “for he is dead and buried deep. He was—he was very much disliked. He was a tool of the Russians. When there was trouble among the workers at Breslau he wormed his way into their confidence and then betrayed them. When their leaders were executed some of their friends took an oath to execute Ehrlich, so he left Breslau very quickly. The Russians sent him into West Germany, to Dortmund, I think—it does not matter. He got into trouble again there, a police matter, I believe, and again had to run for it. He came in secretly over the frontier because the West German police would have stopped him at Helmstedt. But we who are not Communist were looking out for him, you understand. He had not been forgotten, no. But his Russian masters were not pleased with him either. He was in disgrace with them too, so he said he would take a job somewhere and live quietly for a little. His nerves had been affected, he said. His nerves!” said Neumann, with an angry snort. “He was coming to Ilsenburg but he did not reach it, he is dead and buried and here are his papers.”
“But,” objected Micklejohn, “quite apart from one’s natural objection to taking over the identity of that—that infernal scoundrel, is it a good idea? Because plenty of people must know him personally. I gather that he was quite well known.”
“Ach no! A very minor devilkin. Soviet Germany is full of two-mark Ehrlichs. And he was not known in these parts at all, only in Breslau in Silesia and that is a long way off. No, there is no risk of that, and those who tracked down Ehrlich and killed him will not speak. No, what we thought was this. The Russians will let him alone for a time and then it may be they will send him orders to go back to the Western Zone. That would suit you very well, would it not? To be ordered into the West Zone?”
George said it sounded almost too good to be true. An ideal arrangement if it came off. “But tell me, was it in fact this Ehrlich whom Herr Muller had engaged to work his sausage machine?”
“Ach, no. That is only the story he tells. It is true that he wants another man, but if Ehrlich had come I think he would have gone into the mincing machine. There are always dogs to be fed,” added Neumann savagely. Young Micklejohn shuddered; the old man saw it and changed the subject. “Now then, I have something here to show you.”
He opened a book which lay on the table and took out a photograph, an unmounted print, small but very clear. It showed a broad-shouldered man against a background of pine trees. He held a pair of binoculars in his hands and appeared to be looking up straight at the camera.
“Do you know this man?”
Micklejohn studied the print and shook his head.
“I don’t know him at all, never seen him before to my knowledge. An Englishman, by his clothes. Who is he?”
“He is an Englishman staying at Goslar in order, it is said, to enquire about you.”
“Oh, really? Indeed. I suppose he is someone my father has sent out to look for me. What is his name?”
“Hambledon.”
George shook his head again. “No. But can one get a message through to him? My people must be getting anxious.”
“I am trying to arrange for that, but it is not easy.”
“No, I know. I am beginning”—George smiled apologetically—“to realise the state of affairs over here. You told me that I did not and you were quite right, but I am learning fast. I tell you what I think: this man would be a good person to send these papers to, if one could.” He fumbled inside his shirt. “Ouch! That cobbler’s wax has got warm and stuck to my skin. This man, Hamilton or whatever his name is, if my father has sent him out he will be a good chap. Capable, you know. Where did this photograph come from? How did you get it?”
“The Vopos took it, they have telephoto lenses on their cameras. This man was seen repeatedly along The Wire, examining it and looking across. So they took the photograph and circulated it so that he could be recognised, you know. One of the prints went astray, as it were, and came to me. The name is Hambledon, you had it not quite right.”
“Hambledon, yes. I have torn the covering paper on this packet getting it off my skin, and the Smirnov Plan is falling out.”
“One moment, I have paper and string here.”
“There ought to be a covering note,” said Micklejohn, “don’t you agree? It’s a thousand to one this man Hambledon cannot read Russian and he will not have any idea what it is. Too bad if he only used it to wrap up sandwiches, after all our trouble.”
“The Herr is quite right——”
“I will write a note on the back of one of these sheets.”
“No, no. English handwriting is very unlike German. If this packet is intercepted it will announce that you are still within the zone. I will write it.”
“But suppose Hamil—Hambledon cannot read German either?”
“He must know German or your father would not have sent him out to make enquiries. But if it is in German anyone here would be able to read it; you are right, it should be in English—I have it. Do you write the message in English and I will copy it in German script. Thus we shall have the best of both worlds. How refreshingly unusual!”
Micklejohn wrote a short message in block capitals. Neumann copied it out, the draf
t was burnt, and the message enclosed in the package.
“There,” said George, “all neat and clean again, what an improvement! I seem to have come off a bit on the other wrapping, what a horrid idea. Can I possibly, do you think, need a bath?”
“You English and your baths, they are famous! You shall have a wash in a hand basin before you retire. Tell me, you speak of your father, is he connected with the Herr Augustus Micklejohn of your British Foreign Affairs?”
“The Foreign Secretary. Yes, that’s him. I mean, he is my father.”
Neumann’s jaw dropped. “But this is very serious.”
“Why? Does it matter?”
“You are very young,” said Neumann severely, “but there is no necessity to be childish.”
Micklejohn thought this was a little much and threw his chin up. “No doubt I am excessively stupid,” he began, but Neumann’s hand closed upon his arm.
“Do not be offended with me, I only mean that you are evidently an innocent in these matters. Your father is now in Bonn endeavouring to persuade the West German Government to arm themselves with atomic weapons.”
Micklejohn nodded. “He is going all round Western Europe offering people atomic missiles,” he said. “I don’t take any interest in politics, myself. I’ve had them talked over my head ever since I was in the nursery and I’m bored stiff with them. I have trained myself not to listen, but I did read something about it in the Hanoversche Presse at Goslar——”
“Listen,” said Neumann impressively. “The Russians are very angry with your father. They do not want the nations armed with atomic weapons——”
“I don’t blame them.”
“If they had you in their hands they could bring pressure to bear on your father.”
“What do you mean? Threaten to bump me off if he didn’t give up the idea? That’s ridiculous, it wouldn’t work. Why, even if my father resigned his post—which he wouldn’t—some other man would take it on. It is the policy of the Government, not a private scheme of my father’s.”
“But such pressure would cause a great deal of trouble and probably delay. You must not be discovered, whatever the cost.”
Micklejohn thought this over for a moment and a slow smile spread widely across his face.
“Poor old Dad,” he said, “would be livid.”
* * *
Britz came to the Drei Bullochsen a few days later.
“There is news,” he said. “The Herr Micklejohn escaped the Russian search and is now being hidden elsewhere.”
“I am delighted to hear it. Where is he?”
“In the same village but in a different house. Formerly he was in a woodman’s hut at the edge of the forest, outside the village. Now he is in a house in the village itself. It is said that he has obtained employment of some kind, but I do not know what, mein Herr.”
“Good lad. What is the name of the village?”
“Waldecke, a little south of Ilsenburg. It is very small and unimportant, but the Herr will find it on a good map.”
“Do you know what name he goes by?”
“No, mein Herr.”
“Or the name of the people who are sheltering him?”
“No, mein Herr.”
“Find out for me, will you? The name he goes by, whose house he lives in, where he works.”
“I will do my best,” said Britz dubiously, “but it is all very difficult, as the Herr knows.”
I should know by now, said Hambledon to himself, you have said so often enough. “Would it be possible to get a message to him, if necessary?” he added aloud.
“I will try to find out. A verbal message, perhaps, not a written note.”
The two men who had appeared to be taking an interest in Hambledon were still in evidence. He continued to see them at increasingly frequent intervals, though he told himself that the increased frequency might be due to the fact that he was now looking for them. It seemed that whenever he went out he saw them at some time or other; if he went into a café for a drink, they dropped in for a glass of beer. If he strolled about the town, they also would be deciphering Gothic inscriptions on mediaeval houses or admiring ties in Karstadt’s windows, but they never appeared to look at him or display the slightest interest in him. Only, they were always there.
One was lean and saturnine, the other stouter, fair-haired and rubicund, and both were well dressed. Hambledon asked about them from a café proprietor whom he knew, a policeman, and one or two others, but no one knew who they were or where they lived. “They speak good German,” said the café proprietor, “not a local dialect, mein Herr. I thought myself that one of them came from the Rhineland.”
The policeman shook his head and said that they were strangers to Goslar, not local residents, but the town was full of visitors, as the Herr knew; these men might come from anywhere, being on holiday.
One evening Hambledon decided to turn the tables and trail them. He was good at trailing people, having had much practice at that most difficult art, but they seemed to have a sixth sense in such things. They turned down a side street; when Hambledon reached the corner they were not there but when he returned to his hotel for dinner they were there before him, having soup at a small table in the window. Why not? The restaurant was open to the public.
Hambledon sat down to his own dinner and a little later a Swede who was also staying in the hotel came to his table. His name was Petersen, a cheerful and friendly soul though not, perhaps, quite so abstemious as his best friends might have wished. He was on holiday and intended to enjoy himself in his own way; if this involved getting tipsy every evening, at least he was never noisy or tiresome and Germans are notably broad-minded about drink. The hotel staff used to help him to bed at night and send him up strong coffee in the morning. Hambledon rather liked him. He was refreshingly carefree in a town where everyone seemed to be apprehensive and uneasy. The people of Goslar, one feels, do not sleep soundly at night.
Petersen asked if Hambledon was coming up to the Zwinger. “There is what they call an International Evening laid on tonight, it’s quite good fun. Parties, you know, from the various nationalities staying in Goslar; Norwegians and Danes and Dutchmen and even some English people, and lots from my own country. This town must be packed out with visitors. Oh, and a lot of the locals, of course. It’s quite a place, the Zwinger, you ought to see it.”
“Oh, really? Where is it?”
“Down near the—what is it—something Chapel. It’s all that is left of the old cathedral which was pulled down before it fell down. Don’t you know? Oh, well, you go across the Markt-Platz and down by the side of the Kaiserwerth Hotel—you know that, I’ve seen you there. Yes, you go down that street and on and bear left and there you are. It’s a round tower, there’s a sort of park and a lake. Very pretty, I’ve been there in daylight.”
“I know whereabouts you mean,” said Hambledon. “It’s quite a hike.”
“Oh, we’re having a bus affair, one of those little ones. That fellow who drives you about, you know, it’s his. He’s coming here for us at about nine. Besides, there’s going to be a storm, it’s raining already. Oh, come on, it will be fun. The proprietor is a great character, huge fellow with a face like a full moon, everybody calls him Onkel Otto.”
Hambledon was rather tempted; it would be a pleasant change to see people enjoying themselves even if they were only passing visitors who did not “realise the state of affairs” in that region.
“I expect you’ve got a busload already, have you?”
“I don’t know,” said Petersen vaguely. “Always squeeze one more in, can’t you?”
“I’d like to come,” said Hambledon. “I will if I can. Don’t wait for me if I’m not here when the bus comes.”
Petersen nodded and took himself off.
Hambledon decided to go if he could shake off his shadowers. They had finished their dinner and gone out. In any case they could not have heard what was being said at Hambledon’s table. But it would be better
to go in the bus and not walk alone in the narrow, winding, and ill-lit streets which are so picturesque at night and so empty. The centre of Goslar from the Markt-Platz up to the station is cheerful and thronged with visitors, but away in the maze of ancient streets behind the bright lights, the shopping centre and the cinemas, it is very different. The streets are empty but for an occasional passer-by in a hurry; the windows are curtained; all the corners are full of shadows and all the doors are shut. When night falls, Goslar takes cover.
When the bus came to take the hotel party to the Zwinger, Hambledon’s two followers were nowhere to be seen. The rain was coming down heavily, so he slipped into his raincoat.
“Perhaps they’ve turned a sharp corner too quickly and both fallen down a well. I hope there’s a dead cat in it,” said Tommy viciously, and climbed into the bus with the others.
As he did so Britz turned in the driving seat and handed him an envelope. “Excuse me, please. The Herr asked for his account.”
“Oh, thank you, yes,” said Hambledon, and put the envelope into his wallet. As soon as he could do so without being overlooked, he opened the envelope and drew out the slip of paper it contained; on it was written simply: “Gustav Ehrlich. Otto Neumann’s house. Sausage factory.”
Hambledon put it away carefully in the innermost compartment of his wallet.
The Zwinger is a massive round tower built in about the year 1500 as part of the defences of the city wall and is as good as new to this day, which is not surprising since it is immensely strongly built, with walls twenty feet thick. In these degenerate days it is what the Germans call a Gaststätte, which is a restaurant-beer-hall-café all in one. Instead of defensive earthworks it has a coffee garden; instead of gun emplacements a parking place for cars, and its dungeons contain the landlord’s stores of wine and beer instead of prisoners mouldering in chains. Otherwise it is very little altered and indeed it is difficult to see how anyone could alter it unless he were to blow it up with dynamite and even then it probably would not be blown. One can more easily imagine the baffled dynamite bursting downwards to disrupt, severally and collectively, the entire sewage-disposal system of Goslar while the massive Zwinger still sat calmly in its place, unruffled and unmoved.
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