A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

by Margaret Graham

  He pictured the lovely Sir Anthony, his trust in people, the packages he had carried for him, Heine’s hunger for them. All thoughts of the dynamo he had been working on completely receded as he rose and stood by the window. The sky was grey, but clearing. Soon it would be blue.

  He had thought to walk at lunchtime, but longed to be out in the air now, smoke drenched though it was, and busy with trams, cars, lorries, buses, hawkers, shoppers, the employed, the unemployed, because they were his people, his traffic, his smoggy air. Instead he opened the dirty window and leaned out, just a fraction. He didn’t want to go to Berlin. But Dr and Mrs Gerber were out of the camp – soon they’d be here – so he had a bargain to which to hold firm.

  The telephone buzzed again. It was Anthea. ‘It is your own private secretary here, and now that’s two sherries you owe me. It is a Mr S-m-y-t-h-e wanting to talk to you now. I know that it’s with a “y” because I repeated Mr Smith, and he spelt it. Cheeky beggar, as though I care how he spells his name. So, shall I put the idiot through?’

  Tim was laughing as Potty came on the line. It was the name they’d decided upon. ‘Are you there, dear boy?’ he bellowed. ‘Give me a tinkle in an hour or so to discuss that little job on the side.’ Click. Tim looked at his design and sighed. He had proper work to do, but that seemed irrelevant to Potty.

  He put in almost an hour, then sprinted down the stairs. ‘Taking an early lunch,’ he said as he hurried out.

  ‘Huh,’ sniffed Anthea. Her hair was red this week, burnt auburn, she’d called it. She was married to a sailor and loved him to the heavens, she had told Tim last week, after his ship had set sail for six months and her eyes were swollen with crying.

  He had thought that described his feelings for Bridie. Or did it? Sometimes he didn’t know what was real, what was imagined, because the change in his feelings had been so sudden. All he knew was that when he saw her, or thought about her, everything else faded to nothing. She was so beautiful, such a bloody handful, so different from everyone, but then she always had been. Today, just as every day, he ended up pushing Bridie away, because it was one muddle too many.

  He telephoned Potty from a different telephone booth. He had discovered last week that Potty’s telephone number connected to a central switchboard, from where it was transferred to whatever office he was working in at that moment.

  Potty answered. ‘You’ve had a telephone call.’

  ‘Is my telephone bugged, or is his?’

  ‘Now, now.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Anthony has been in touch, Potty. He would like me to take a package to Germany, but this is Sir Anthony we’re talking about, for goodness’ sake, the best man in the world.’

  A lorry revved as it passed, the fumes noxious. He coughed. Potty was saying quietly, ‘We’ve been watching Sir Anthony for some while, fearing he is accessing files within his sphere of information, and passing them through you, or whoever else, to Heine. He started by just sending his own plans of the Neave Wing, when he met Millie and Heine “by accident”. As you say, he is the best, a good-hearted, peace-loving plum, ripe for the picking. Like Topsy, though it’s growed. Oldest espionage trick in the book.’

  ‘What do you mean, growed?’

  ‘The dear old lad thought it was hands across the sea – “none of us want another war”. He must have thought it so wonderful to meet like-minded Germans. Then, wonder of wonders, after the Neave Wing plans, perhaps some photographs of suitable sites in Britain, so they can find comparable sites in Germany. They will now have this in a file, for use in an invasion. Then it was plans for a dam of an existing British reservoir, to service a drought-stricken area.’

  ‘A dam?’ Tim queried.

  ‘Ah, Tim, my innocent boy. Once you know how it’s built, you know its weakness – a short cut to destruction. A great gush of water is a powerful weapon. This, too, will have been popped into a file. Then perhaps the minutes of meetings, because there is no way out now for Sir Anthony, except ruination, and how will that damage his son? Who knows how many others are doing the same thing, because they’ve been hooked in the same way, or are doing it out of conviction, or for money?

  The pips were going. Tim fed in more coins. Above the sky was clearing as he had thought it would, and blue was showing. Was it enough to make a pair of sailor’s trousers? So many questions, so few of the answers he wanted to hear.

  ‘So, what happens to the Sir Anthonys of this world?’

  ‘Finally, as it goes on, one has to lay a few traps, unpleasant though it is. A further piece of misinformation has been left, in plain sight, just to prove to ourselves . . .’

  ‘A further piece?’

  ‘We don’t rip people’s hearts out unless we absolutely have to, so it’s best to test them with information that is of no use. I’ve tried to chat around the subject, when we have met in the club. But ever the gentleman, he sticks to banalities. He is not looking well, and that could be because he is being squeezed by your esteemed step-father. It must be doing Heine’s career no end of good.’

  ‘What about Herr Bauer? I hope you’re keeping an eye on him. He knows too many people and is always there, like a black spider.’

  ‘Leave me to deal with Herr Bauer.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay too long over there.’

  ‘Don’t, just tell him you’re busy at work. He’ll be interested in that. Provide some innocuous information, if you will.’ Click. He was gone.

  Tim arrived in Berlin just a few days later, to an atmosphere that was euphoric. The Hitler Youth were, as ever, marching in the street, but probably a new intake, another load of youngsters for the Hitler-mill. His taxi gave a squad a wide berth. Tim forced a smile. Once there, he almost ran across the foyer to the lift, waving to the block leader, pressing the button. Come on, come on. It came. He pulled the gate shut. It rose, stopped. He walked along the passage, touched where the mezuzah case had once been. Potty had said the plans to bring the Gerbers home was complete, and soon to be put into operation. He braced himself, and rang the bell.

  His mother opened the door, hugging him, drawing him in. He dropped his bag, held her, breathing in her perfume. It smelt expensive. He explained that it was a flying visit, as work was so busy. ‘So sad, so usual. You are a busy boy, and you must tell Heine all about it, darling Tim.’

  She pulled him through to the sitting room. She was holding out her hands, showing off her wedding ring. ‘I am officially Mrs Weber.’

  He feigned delight. ‘How wonderful! If I’d known I’d have brought a present.’

  ‘We can go and buy one. Let’s try KaDeWe, on Lutherstrasse. I went not long ago with a lovely couple, the Edgers. He’s a Sir, you know. So, don’t take off your coat. I’d like a jacket for the summer, so much to celebrate. What fun, darling Tim.’

  He followed her back into the hall. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer something for the apartment that you could enjoy together?’

  She laughed, almost running to the lift. ‘Good heavens, why? We have everything we could possibly need.’

  As Tim shut the lift gate he muttered, ‘Of course, how could I forget?’ Then caught himself. ‘After all, you deserve it.’ His mother’s frown changed to a smile. She really was the most stupid of women, he thought, but knew that he needed to keep a close watch on himself, in case he found traces of her in his character.

  They took a taxi to Lutherstrasse, and swept into the Kaufhaus des Westens department store, and for the next hour he experienced hell, as she went from one overheated floor to another. In the end she chose a pale blue lightweight jacket, and a more expensive necklace to go with it. The necklace she paid for, thank God. Her wallet was stuffed with notes. Everywhere there were excited shoppers; the talk was all of their success, or the wonderful Führer. He pretended he could understand none of it and in the taxi home she chided him for his lack of progress with the German language.

  He said again, ‘We have so much work on.’

  Again she said, ‘You must tell Heine.�
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  Again they passed a Hitler Youth Brigade. He watched them but said, ‘So, the wedding. Did his family come? Where did you say he was born?’

  ‘Somewhere near Marburg. You wouldn’t know the village. Such a department store, isn’t it, Tim? Nothing like that in sad old England, just pits and slag heaps and a few nobs on the hill.’ Tim gripped her parcels too tightly, but it was better than slapping her.

  They arrived, and waiting for them in the sitting room, by the card table, was Heine. Tim strode across, his hand out. ‘I hear congratulations are in order, Father.’ He laughed. After a moment, Heine laughed too. There were bags under his eyes, and a frown deep between his eyes, but walking into other people’s countries was tiring, Tim supposed. Though there were those who said that the Austrians had welcomed them with open arms.

  Heine was tapping his foot. ‘Is there anyone in? Or are you asleep?’

  Tim realised he had been deep in his thoughts. ‘So sorry, did you say something?’

  ‘The package. Please, so sorry, but it’s very busy in Berlin at the moment, as you can well imagine.’

  ‘Ah yes, I can indeed imagine. Our own work is extremely busy too, which is why I’m really just on a turnaround trip, though I had to come, to catch up. It seems too long since the last time. So pleased I came, especially as you have just married Mother, and I needed to thank you for James’ release too. Perhaps we should go for a meal, or to a club?’ He was diving into his inside pocket. Potty had met him at Dover, at the laundry, where he had photographed the contents, then resealed it. Heine examined the seal, noticed nothing and opened it. They were carbon copies of minutes of a meeting, Potty had told him. Real minutes? Who knew? The trap around Sir Anthony had closed. But they would do nothing, yet.

  Watching Heine, Tim felt sick. Poor, stupid Sir Anthony. Out of his goodness, his panic to avoid death and injury to others, he had misjudged. There were some people you could only stand up to, or stand against, but he must know that now that he was in their web.

  The doorbell rang. Amala answered it, and called, ‘Frau Weber.’

  Millie left. It was the telegraph boy, with a message for Tim. Millie brought it into the sitting room. ‘Not bad news, I hope?’

  He ripped it open. Who? Not his da, or Mam? Only they knew he was here, apart from Potty and Sir Anthony. ‘We require you to return immediately stop work is pressing stop apologies to your mother stop be at the station at eighteen hundred hours. Smythe’

  Potty. What the hell? He checked his watch, handing the telegram to his mother, who read it aloud. Tim said, ‘I must leave, it’s five already. But first, may I use the conveniences?’

  He went into the room which was his bedroom. He did not use the bathroom, but instead snatched a photograph frame from the dressing table, and a small porcelain pot. But the loss might be noticed, and if it was, Amala would be blamed. He put them back. He hunted for something else to give the Gerbers when they arrived in England, whenever that was. He checked the drawers. There were hatpins, several. He took two, stuffed them in his pocket. There were also some hair ribbons. He took two of those too.

  He returned to the sitting room. ‘That’s better. But I must rush.’

  Heine smiled. ‘I would like to hear your work problems, so I will come too. We will use my car or you will not be there in time. When you are safely embarked, I will then proceed to the office. We workers, what lives we lead.’

  In a rush they used the stairs, as there were already three queuing for the lift. Tim’s brain ached as it searched for some sense in the telegram.

  The traffic seemed to part for Heine’s black car. Did the other drivers know it was SS? Perhaps from the number plate? The driver knew the back ways, which helped. Heine pumped him for information, and Tim talked of a mythical problem, and the difficulties the warships were experiencing because of it. Potty would call it misinformation, dear heart.

  They drew up at the station. Heine said, ‘I will come.’

  He left the driver, and as they hurried to the concourse, Tim’s mind was racing. What had happened, why that train?

  He heard someone shouting, ‘Heine, how delightful, and Mr Forbes. How extraordinary.’ Herr Bauer was hailing them, hurrying from a booth which sold refreshments. Tim checked his watch. Herr Bauer flashed a Heil Hitler towards Heine, and pumped Tim’s hand. A note was passed. Tim’s hand closed over it, and he tried not to stare at Herr Bauer, who had moved between Heine and Tim, taking the SS officer’s arm.

  ‘Well, this is a delight, Heine. I need to talk to you on an urgent matter, how fortuitous.’ He turned to Tim. ‘And you look as though you are on your way to a train, Mr Forbes, please, don’t let me stop you. Now, Heine.’

  Firmly he led Heine, pristine in his uniform, over to the booth. The crowds parted before the SS officer, as though they were the Red Sea. It was fear, Tim saw that now, but there was admiration in the eyes of some. Tim called after them, ‘Goodbye. I must rush.’ They were too far away to hear.

  He headed for the train, checking over his shoulder. No-one followed. He read the tiny note, cupping it in the palm of his hand:

  Expected package (Dieter) in seat 12 and (Bernat) 17 Carriage 9. Your seat 14. Make contact carefully. Paperwork with them.

  Agent unexpectedly unavailable. Be alert.

  Tim coughed, with his hand to his mouth. He ate it, thinking that the spy novels he was reading were surprisingly helpful, and realising that the package must be the Gerbers.

  He clambered onto the train, the whistle blowing as he did so. Sweat was pouring down his face. He checked Seat 12. A middle-aged man was there, his hat pulled down, reading a newspaper. His hand was skeletal and trembled. There was as yet no-one next to him. Tim sat, then made a show of checking his ticket. He said, in bad German, ‘Wrong seat, my apologies, Herr Dieter.’ The man looked closely at him. Tim nodded, and smiled gently.

  He moved along, to Seat number 17. He took the spare seat there, and said something similar to the painfully thin woman, who also read a book, upside down. As he left, he turned it up the right way, and smiled. She looked petrified. He patted her hand. He found his own seat, saying to the woman sitting next to him, in English, ‘I find foreign travel very trying. I get confused.’ He showed her his ticket, in the face of her incomprehension. She nodded, and turned to the window.

  His heart was beating out of his chest. What the hell had gone wrong? Was an agent even now in some stinking cellar spilling his guts to the Gestapo? Would the Gerbers be picked up as they travelled across borders on their way to Calais? Would he fight for them? He felt sick with fear.

  And Herr Bauer? God, the man must have nerves of steel to live such a lie, because it was now clear that he was Potty’s man.

  By the time they reached the ferry, at fifteen hundred hours the next afternoon, Tim’s clothes were damp with sweat and he felt he’d aged fifty years. There were only the embarkation papers to come, but so far, the Gerbers had floated through all controls. They did so again, with Tim a pace behind, steadying them with his presence, it seemed, though not a word was spoken between them. The gulls were soaring and screaming as they, along with many others, made their way up the gangplank, and at last, onto the deck. Within moments, the ferry set out for Dover.

  It was then that Frau Gerber sank to her knees, weeping. Her husband and Tim helped her up, and to a bench along the side of the boat. Frau Gerber said, ‘We leave our daughter beneath the earth, but she is with us, in our hearts, always. She was twelve, ill, and we had no hospital that would take a Jew. Yes, she is in our hearts.’

  The Gerbers sat together; Tim sat a space away. Tim said, looking at the surging sea, ‘Would you like to go inside? I can’t, it makes me sick. I’m not a good traveller.’

  Herr Gerber smiled. ‘If you had extra hands, you could press an energy point on your wrists. It would help. But no, we will sit here, if it is safe for you to be seen with us.’

  ‘I think it is safe, but just in case, let us look at the hori
zon, not at one another. I will also “read” my book.’ He dug out his book, The Thirty-Nine Steps, which he had brought to give him courage, looking around for over-curious passengers. The weather had changed to a light drizzle, however, and no-one was daft enough to remain on deck. He withdrew the cigarette case from his pocket. He took it with him when he visited Heine, to reinforce his assimilation into the fold. He had hoped that one day he could return it to its rightful owners. ‘My step-father gave me this. I believe it is yours.’

  He placed it on the bench between them, while looking at the horizon. Herr Gerber took it, tracing the worn menorah. ‘It is my father’s. You have no idea how important it is to us. My brother lives in America. He will be so pleased too.’

  The couple who must be in their late thirties, if that, looked much older as they fingered all they had left of their life in Germany. Their tears fell when he also placed the hatpins and the ribbons on the bench. They had used the ribbons for their daughter’s hair, Frau Gerber murmured.

  Tim said, ‘I wanted to bring more, but it would have been noticed, perhaps, and the maid would have been suspected.’

  ‘So much for you to think about. So much,’ Herr Gerber replied. ‘We can never thank you.’

  Tim shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. It is my mother who lives in your apartment.’

  Herr Gerber shook his head. ‘Your mother is not you. A man whose face we never saw came to our camp, at night. We didn’t believe him. We thought, if we went with him, he would lead us to our deaths. He explained. He is a brave man. We don’t know who he is. If you do, please thank him. And we thank you, all of you. I am a doctor, I heal the sick, but could not heal my own child, though I helped a former patient, a Gentile. For this, we were sent to camp.’

  Frau Gerber leaned forward, as though to see the waves more clearly. Behind her hand she said, ‘Remember, you are not your mother. Now, should we move to sit elsewhere? For your safety, as there are people now?’