A Dangerous Act of Kindness

by A Dangerous Act of Kindness (retail) (epub)

  Lukas found a thick wool coat with a collar of velvet, worn down to the yarn along the edge like an overused armchair. Dead men’s clothes, he thought and there she was again, kneeling on the floor, looking through the drawers in that cold bedroom, a faint band of darker skin on the nape of her neck where last year’s sun had tanned it.

  They were herded outside and as Lukas watched the prisoners break away in twos and threes to begin their endless circuit of the huts, he knew the British had drawn another tooth from their fangs. How could they retain their pride, shuffling around like refugees, some in coats that swamped them, others in coats so small they were like strait jackets? It seemed impossible that these men were ever members of crack drill units.

  Lukas remembered well the spirit that gripped him, the first time he marched in harmony with the other ensigns, the first time all their boots came to attention together and not, as their Gefreiter said, ‘like the sound of a cow shitting.’

  They’d stolen the show at Nuremberg. When his platoon reached the parade line, he knew they were being watched by Hitler, Göring, Hess and Goebbels. The order ‘Achtung!’ rose above the clamour of military music, two clear paces and they stepped into ‘Achtung Marsch’ as one man.

  The platoon was only meant to high step for the hundred and fifty metres past the dignitaries but their platoon had a plan. They didn’t relax. In superb, polished style, they continued high-stepping until the end of the stadium and the effect on the crowd was electric. The roar of approval filled the air as the crowd rose to their feet, clapping and cheering until the platoon was lost from sight. He remembered the pride he felt but now it seemed a foolish, pointless thing.

  He stared out through the wire, across the great expanse of scrubby moor, letting the rest of the prisoners shuffle past him. His attention was caught by a glint of light and he spotted the roof of a car in the distance. It held his attention, more because it subtly changed the static landscape than for any particular interest, but then he realised it was heading for the camp.

  The staff car arrived at the gatehouse and he saw the shadow of a passenger sitting in the back. They raised the barrier promptly. Someone important. The car drove up to the administration block and stopped. The driver came round, opened the back door and a man stepped out.

  He wasn’t tall but he had an erect, military bearing and his uniform was immaculate. He had a thick file of papers tucked beneath his arm. As the officer gazed around, taking in his surroundings, Lukas recognised the dip in the bridge of his nose, the shine on the skin across his forehead.

  This was the captain who interrogated him in the London Cage.

  Lukas turned away and went back to join the others. What was this officer doing here? They’d all been interrogated, all been vetted and categorised. He felt a creeping sense of anxiety, a certainty that the officer was here to speak to him. He dismissed the feeling, remembering the captain’s parting words, ‘We will not be meeting again.’

  Surely he was here for some other reason – and yet Lukas couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was very wrong.

  He walked on round the circuit. Fischer caught up with him and fell into step.

  ‘I need your help,’ he said. ‘I’ve got hold of an English newspaper. I need your excellent brain to tell me what they’re saying.’

  When Lukas didn’t reply, Fischer scuttled ahead a few paces, turned and walked backwards, his grin crooked, his frown puzzled.

  ‘Are you worried about going to Canada?’ Lukas didn’t reply. ‘Don’t be,’ Fischer said, cuffing Lukas playfully on the shoulder. ‘Haven’t you always wanted to see America? Now we’re getting there for free, courtesy of King George of England.’

  When Lukas kept walking, Fischer fell in beside him, glancing across every now and then as if trying to read his thoughts. Lukas heard one of the prisoners, a scared-looking boy called Werner Dengel, huge ears, bright red nose from the cold, say he wished he’d lost a leg like Völkner.

  ‘Shut up, Werner,’ Lukas said angrily. ‘You don’t mean that at all.’

  ‘They’re staying in England,’ Dengel said, ‘all those men in the hospital camp.’

  Lukas grabbed hold of the boy’s lapels, pulling him close.

  ‘Because they’ll never fight for their country again. Do you want that?’

  ‘Lukas,’ Fischer said, taking him by the arm and leading him away. ‘Leave him alone. He’s young and frightened.’

  ‘He’ll get a good beating for being a defeatist if the wrong people hear him.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Look,’ – Fischer lifted the edge of his jacket, revealing the newspaper – ‘I got it from one of the guards,’ he said. ‘It’s about Hess.’

  ‘What about him?’

  Fischer looked around to make sure they couldn’t be heard and said, ‘He’s here, in Scotland. Let’s find a safe place and you can tell me what it says.’

  Chapter Forty Four

  They weaved their way through the groups of men standing around the Nissen huts, smoking and chatting. Lukas and Fischer continued walking until they spotted a gap between the huts that was free of prisoners. Fischer hurried him down it. When they reached the opposite end, they had a quick check left and right, then sprinted across the rough grass to a ventilation shaft housing which stuck up several feet above the ground.

  Dropping down behind it, they watched for a minute or two to make sure they hadn’t been spotted and then sat down with their back against the peeling green paint.

  ‘All right. Let’s see,’ Lukas said and Fischer drew his treasure out from his jacket.

  Nazi Leader Flies to Scotland, the headline read.

  ‘What does it say?’ Fischer said.

  ‘It says that Hess has run away from Germany.’

  ‘Never. He’s Deputy Führer. It’s some sort of trick, isn’t it? What else does it say?’

  ‘He was found by a ploughman with a pitchfork. Lukas looked up over the top of the paper and said, ‘I know how that feels.’ They laughed. ‘It crashed in his field at night apparently. Hess flew over in a Messerschmitt – he wouldn’t have had enough fuel to get back to Germany. They think he was heading to Glasgow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wait a minute…’ Lukas read on. ‘He bust his ankle…’

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘And was taken to Glasgow.’

  ‘It’s definitely him?’

  ‘Apparently he had photographs on him to prove his identity.’

  ‘What on earth was he doing?’

  ‘They don’t seem to know. Berlin has said he was suffering from a mental illness but the correspondent who wrote this bit says that’s nonsense. He couldn’t have flown the Messerschmitt if he was bonkers. He had to read the charts and plan the route on his own. That doesn’t sound like a madman.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  Lukas shook his head.

  ‘They don’t say.’

  ‘Christ almighty, Lukas,’ Fischer said, resting his head back against the ventilation shaft housing, ‘is it possible that Hitler’s inner circle are losing faith in him?’

  The bugle sounded midday and they scrambled to their feet.

  ‘You’d better not get caught with this,’ Lukas said, pressing the paper into Fischer’s midriff. ‘Those Rollkommandos will have you flayed alive.’

  ‘Too late,’ Fischer said, turning and making a sprint towards the Nissen huts.

  Fleischmann and four of his men pounded after them. Fischer skittered down one of the avenues and Lukas, still clutching the paper, ran the opposite direction between the other huts in the faint hope the group would split.

  They did – Fleischmann and two other Waffen-SS thundered after him. He ran towards the intersection, hoping against hope that he would hit a crowd of other prisoners, but the avenue was deserted.

  He took the corner at speed, almost lost his footing on the gravel. If he could only get out of sight for a few seconds, he could lose the paper.

  He
dived down another intersection. He could see a few prisoners heading to their huts in the distance. His chest was heaving, his legs aching but he powered on. Up ahead, he spotted a loose section of corrugated iron which had popped free of the rivets. If he could shove the paper in there, he’d get less of a beating.

  He’d almost reached it when the silhouette of the other two Waffen-SS soldiers appeared at the opposite end of the avenue. He looked behind. Fleischmann and the other two were walking up towards him, their shoulders heaving, their fists clenched. He was trapped.

  Fleischmann grabbed the paper out of his hands.

  ‘What are you? An English stool pigeon?’ he said.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then where did you get this English newspaper from? What have they got you doing? Spreading propaganda for the enemy?’

  ‘No.’

  Fleischmann pushed his face towards Lukas. When they were almost nose to nose, he growled,

  ‘You shame all Germans by your action.’ He turned to his men. ‘Take him inside.’

  One of the soldiers pulled him forward; two of them grabbed him by the arms, pushing them painfully up his back. Fleischmann stalked ahead of them, towards the doorway of the hut.

  Straining his eyes to look ahead, Lukas saw Fischer peering around the corner of the Nissen hut, then running off in the direction of the guard house.

  The Rollkommandos hauled him inside and threw him sprawling across the floor. The hut was full of soldiers, lounging around on their beds, reading and playing cards. The commotion got them to their feet. Something exciting was about to happen. They crowded round.

  ‘This man is a traitor to the Fatherland,’ Fleischmann said, holding the newspaper aloft.

  A jeering bellow went up.

  ‘He’s been translating British newspapers; retelling lies about our Deputy Führer, lies written by our enemies.’

  The crowd bayed, pushing forward as Lukas struggled to his feet. One of Fleischmann’s men grabbed him from behind. Lukas smashed his head back into the man’s face, heard the crack of cartilage. His scream was muffled by the rising howl of astonishment from the crowd.

  Lukas swung round to face the mob, full square, staring the nearest soldier in the eye. The soldier took a step back. The air became heavy with the stench of sweat and excitement. Several of them were clearly roused by the promise of violence, their trouser buttons bulging. Like wolves facing a bear, they feinted and retreated, none quite brave enough to take the first bite.

  ‘Traitors must die,’ Fleischmann roared, ‘and die by the rope. We demand our military honour,’ he said and with a howl, he launched himself at Lukas.

  Lukas grabbed him by the throat, pressing his thumb into the dip above his collarbone. Fleischmann gargled, scratching away at Lukas’s hands as he increased the pressure on his throat but the engagement was like a starting gun for the mob.

  Fists came from all sides, smashing into Lukas’s face. A boot jabbed the tendon under his calf, another collided with his ribs. The soldiers who couldn’t land a punch clawed at him. He heard a rip. They were tearing him to pieces. Fingernails raked across his neck, his hands. An agonising sting as a lump of hair was wrenched from the back of his head. His ears were filled with the noise of blows, the baying of the soldiers.

  A gunshot rang out.

  Major Campbell, flanked by two guards, stood in the doorway, his service gun pointing at the sky.

  The assault paused, then began again with renewed intensity.

  Another shot. Boots thundering down the hut towards the mob.

  Through the blood pouring down his face, Lukas saw soldiers dancing out of the way of the guards’ bayonets. They herded the mob back, stabbing the air in front of them as they inched away, shaking their fists at the guards, bellowing abuse at them.

  ‘Can you stand, soldier?’ Major Campbell said.

  Lukas nodded mutely and rose unsteadily to his feet. One of his eyelids was swelling. The Major’s face swam in and out of focus. He took Lukas by the elbow and helped him towards the open door. Once they were outside he said, ‘Get yourself over to sick bay and clean up, quick as you can. There’s a Captain Trevelyan here to see you and he hasn’t got all afternoon.’

  Chapter Forty Five

  Once he’d been patched up by the camp doctor, Lukas was escorted to a large Nissen hut next to the administration block. The guards opened the door and let him into some sort of storage facility. The captain was waiting at the other end of the corrugated iron tunnel, walking sedately up and down like a man on a station platform. As the sound of the door closing reverberated around the inside of the building, he looked up and called out, ‘Oberleutnant Schiller. Remember me? Captain Trevelyan. How pleasant to see you again.’

  Lukas began to hobble the length of the hut. Every muscle in his body ached from the beating and a steady pulse bumped through the swelling around his eye. As he made his slow progress forward, his footsteps boomed and echoed off the metal walls, as if he were walking through a huge ship’s boiler.

  The captain waited patiently beside a couple of chairs which stood either side of a makeshift desk, the thick buff file lying closed on top. As Lukas drew near, Captain Trevelyan sat down behind the desk.

  ‘That’s quite a shiner you have there,’ the captain said. Lukas frowned. He didn’t know what the captain was talking about. He pointed a pen towards Lukas’s face. ‘It’s what we call a black eye over here in England.’ Lukas dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘They gave you quite a beating, didn’t they, your fellow officers?’ Lukas said nothing. After a moment the captain said, ‘Do please sit down.’

  Carefully, Lukas lowered himself onto the chair, shifting to find a position that didn’t worsen his injuries. The captain continued, ‘How has news of this impending departure for one of our British colonies gone down among the prisoners?’

  Lukas cleared his throat and replied, ‘There is some worry, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine. It’s cold up here but it’s a damn sight colder over there. I heard a story the other day. One of the prisoners in Ontario saw an opportunity to escape and decided to make a sprint for it. He rushed outside in his shirt, no coat. Dropped dead before he made a hundred yards. Ice crystals in his lungs, you see. Now that’s what I call brass monkeys.’ Lukas frowned. The man was talking in riddles. ‘“Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey”? Is that another phrase you’ve never heard, Oberleutnant Schiller?’

  Lukas shook his head.

  ‘It is of no consequence. Your English is pretty good – good enough, in fact, for you to avoid transport to Canada altogether, should you so wish.’

  Lukas was confused. What was he suggesting? That he take over the duties of the Lagerführer when the prisoners left? That would be quite impossible. The events of the morning were clear proof of that.

  ‘Thing is,’ the captain continued, ‘our chaps are making some progress at the moment and quite a few of your fellows have fallen into our hands. We’re getting a lot of interesting intel from them. It’s putting rather a lot of pressure on our team of translators down in London. They’re a good bunch, lots of Poles of course, quite a few Jews who fled Germany before the borders were closed. They’re working round the clock already but still it piles up and speed is of the essence if we’re to steal the march, so to speak.’

  Those lashless eyes stared at him, bald as a lizard’s.

  ‘Agree to do this type of work for us and you can stay in Britain.’

  Had the man gone mad? Lukas may have expressed concerns about National Socialism when they talked in London but surely he never gave the impression that he would betray his country. Anger fizzed through him.

  ‘It is a surprise you ask me this,’ he said. ‘You must know that I do not help you to win a war against my own country.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you may say something like that,’ the captain said as reached out and slowly drew the buff-coloured file across, never once taking his eyes of Lukas. ‘But
I would urge you to reconsider – under the circumstances.’

  ‘My fellow countrymen face transportation with the same courage that we face the enemy. I accept that I face it with them.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not referring to that circumstance.’

  ‘If you mean that gang of ridiculous fanatics I was fighting with, they are of no importance to me. I am more careful in the future, nothing more.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of that either.’ The captain opened the file and began turning over the papers with a studied slowness. Lukas stared at them too, from the other side of the desk, and the captain made no effort to prevent him.

  There was his arrest photograph pinned to a form marked Top Secret, boxes filled with handwriting. He saw his date of birth, the name of his squadron, even his date of enlistment. Another sheet had details of his sorties, of his kills and then, with the next turn of a page, he saw a hand-drawn map marking the location of the crash, another photograph, this time of a German harness.

  He felt he was watching the slow drop of a china cup towards a stone floor. The turn of the next page smashed it into a thousand pieces. Two words coalesced from the loops and curls of the handwriting – Millicent Sanger.

  The lizard eyes rolled up and looked at him.

  ‘You see,’ the captain said, ‘we know all about you, Oberleutnant Schiller. We know where you crashed, we know where you buried your parachute and we know that you made your way to a farm where a young widow took you in and helped you.’

  ‘No,’ Lukas said. ‘I am not taken in. I break in. I steal from a house.’

  The captain pursed his lips and slowly shook his head.

  ‘I know that’s not true. If you’d been living rough for nearly two whole weeks on the North Wessex Downs in the middle of winter, how come you were well dressed and well fed when they arrested you? And why did you bother to spin us a tale about a farmer, his wife and child leaving their house empty and unlocked? You don’t strike me as a compulsive liar and a reluctance to accurately describe Mrs Sanger’s farm only confirms my suspicions.’