by David Boyle
She beckoned to Betty and proceeded into the darkened room indicated.
“Thank you, Jurgen. We’re coming.”
Stay polite, for goodness sake, stay polite, she told herself. It was sweaty down in the bowels of the hotel, but she realised her teeth were chattering. Her scars hurt.
“Yes, hold on a second,” said Betty.
They were motioned to sit and found themselves alone, sitting opposite a smoking Jurgen. He had bags under his eyes.
“Now ladies,” he said quietly. “We simply want to know what you were doing encouraging that crowd to make that ludicrous spectacle when the British planes came over. They were shot down, incidentally.”
“Listen Jurgen, don’t be stupid,” said Betty. “We are reporters. We follow crowds, we don’t call them out.”
“Do not, if you please, dare to call me stupid. That would compound your mistake.”
He passed the back of his hand across his temple. It had clearly been a long night.
“Sorry, Jurgen,” Xanthe intervened. “What we mean is that we needed to find out why all those people were there, perhaps as you did. We are paid to write the news, and when people gather in the street, it’s news. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Do not patronise me, I beg you. For your own health.”
“Fine, fine, have it your way, then,” said Betty getting cross. “How do you think we called them out?”
“I do not know. But I do know this. The Greeks have welcomed us as liberators. Did we not end the nine p.m. curfew imposed by the British? Why would anyone gather outside to cheer bombers which are aiming at them in their own city? It makes no sense.”
“It’s true, Jurgen. There must be a flaw in your inexorable logic somewhere. I wonder where it is.”
This was clearly the final straw. Jurgen slammed his fists on the table and stalked, insulted, to the door. When he got there, he turned.
“Very well, I have a great deal of time and I am a patient man. You can both stay here until I have time to talk to you again. By which time, I hope you will have realised it makes no sense to treat me with disrespect.”
Finding themselves shut in the dark and listening to Jurgen barking orders outside, Betty and Xanthe felt overwhelmed with the hilarity of it all. They fell about giggling, as quietly as possible. Tears ran down Xanthe’s cheeks, when they heard the key turn in the lock.
When the lights went out, they began to think more seriously about their predicament. They were almost certainly there for the night, if not longer.
“The trouble is that I have rather an important appointment tomorrow,” said Xanthe nervously.
“So do I, honey. I have a date to broadcast again, from the embassy, with Paul as my voice. If I don’t show up, I have a standing arrangement with him that he will report my disappearance and demand the Nazis to return me. It has been a little touch and go for the last few weeks and it seemed to me to be a sensible precaution.”
“Still, I’m glad I’m imprisoned here with you and not on my own,” said Xanthe. “I don’t like people like Jurgen – I’ve had trouble with Nazis before. I haven’t told you about that.”
There was one blanket for the two of them, which they had found in the corner, and they huddled together under it as the night grew cold.
6
Athens, May 1941
In the pale light of dawn, Xanthe awoke with a feeling of anticipation and worry. This was the day when she would send her precious signal, finish her time in Athens and find a way back to Indigo, waiting for her, though he was too young to know really who she was. She really could not stay here in this darkened room, if she could possibly get out of it.
It was a moment of powerlessness. There was very little she could do but hope.
“Sorry, Betty. I didn’t realise you were awake.”
“That’s ok, honey. I always wake at this time. And I’m due to broadcast at three this afternoon, for the breakfast time news in New York. But I was due to rehearse with Paul first thing this morning, so there’s every chance he’ll report me missing in the next hour or so. I don’t think the Nazis feel like a diplomatic incident with the Americans right now – not until they’ve secured Crete.”
But time, which had dashed by so quickly in the dark, now hung heavy and sluggish in the light. The sun rose through the skylight in the pavement. The heat began to rise too. Xanthe now felt desperately thirsty. She was also increasingly nervous: what if Jurgen thought too much about her name and her story? What if she said something stupid in her increasingly befuddled state – she could bring Betty down with her if she wasn’t careful.
Sometime in the morning, there was a knock on the door, and a nervous maid came in, followed by a woman in German uniform. They appeared to be bringing in a change of clothes.
“We will wash your clothes for you. Please change now,” she announced.
Feeling self-conscious with her flabby body – how many weeks now since the birth? Six? Seven? – Xanthe undressed down to her underwear and put on the long, light robes she was given. Her knickers were now disgustingly dirty, thanks to the bleeding from her birthing scars.
“They’re dressing us like nuns!” Xanthe whispered, giggling.
“It’s probably some fetish of Jurgen’s. Come on, honey. It’s time to recite poetry. I’ll start,” said Betty, confidently.
“O, Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
And something, something…
“Maybe a bit premature. Ok, now your turn.”
“I don’t know, I think I only know English poetry,” said Xanthe, feeling a little ashamed. She wracked her brain to remember her literature lessons at Simonetta College, some kind of finishing school in Cambridge.
“I know!…
“Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made…”
“Jeez, Shirley. Not bad stuff. Now I reckon we only need another round and Jurgen will be here. Do you think I’m being overconfident?”
As it turned out, she was. The hours dragged. Xanthe and Betty stopped exchanging poets and began to worry. The door occasionally opened, and they were presented with a glass of water or a bowl of figs. They slept. They got cross, they got scared, they slept again. The sunlight began to sink away.
As the hours ticked away towards ten o’clock, Xanthe became increasingly silent. She could not believe that, by allowing herself out to celebrate with the crowd, she had fluffed the meeting and probably with it, the whole operation. A great wave of shame shivered through her and she wept, unable to tell Betty why she was so upset.
“Because we’ve been here more than twenty-four hours – isn’t that enough reason?”
“It’s true, I’ve not been here this long before, but Paul will spring us. You’ll see.”
But the time had gone now, and Xanthe, feeling her body wrecked and her mind wandering, felt inconsolable. She had not even tried to send the signal. It was humiliating and, once again, all her fault.
*
They slept again and were woken by voices outside the door. The light indicated it was morning again. A moment later, the door opened, daylight flooded in, followed by Jurgen.
“Ladies, I apologise for leaving you here longer than I intended. It would not do to keep the American public waiting. Fortunately, let me say that you are free to go. Your clothes will be returned.”
“Thanks, Paul,” muttered Betty under her breath.
“But two things before you go,” he said, with an air of menace. “First, do not underestimate me – I address myself to Fraulein Shirley. I have checked up on you, and you spent some time in Berlin, have you not – attached to the American embassy. That is right, is it not?”
Xanthe nodded. Was it possible that they had connected the speedy exit of Shirley Johnson from Berlin with the suspicious disappearance of the “murderess” Xanthe Schneider? She held her breath, but ap
parently, they had not.
“Your time in Berlin. You were not working then as a journalist, were you?”
“No,” said Xanthe.
“Yet you are one now? Is that right?”
“I am.”
“It is just that your accent is, how do they say it – mid-Atlantic? You have evidently spent time also in England.”
Xanthe was clutching the chair in front of her. Where was this going?
“I do not, of course, claim you are any more than you seem. Only, when I see you again, I will know for definite. I have specific orders to check on the past affiliations of American journalists and, believe me, I will check on you.”
Xanthe glanced nervously at Betty, who stared straight ahead. She appeared to have escaped, for now.
“And one other thing, before I forget,” said Jurgen with a piercing stare. “I believe you have recently given birth. I see by your eyes that I have guessed correctly.”
Xanthe looked down. She could not glance at either her questioner or her friend.
“It is true, is it not?”
She nodded. She knew what she would have to say and she did not want to at all.
“Then may I ask who is looking after your baby? And why you came here so soon on a journalistic escapade?”
Xanthe looked up, clearly aware of the lie she must tell.
“Because the baby died and I needed the job to get away from the memory. There. Now you know.”
The tears which flowed now were quite genuine. Jurgen stared uncomfortably, unsure how to reply.
“My sympathies, Miss Johnson – or should I give your married name? You are married, I assume?”
“Jurgen! Can’t you see you’ve asked enough questions! Leave her alone, can’t you?” Betty was fierce in her defence.
“Nonetheless, and I address this to Miss Shirley, Mrs Shirley – I will check these stories. I will check. Do not underestimate me.”
“C’mon, Jurgen. We don’t underestimate you. You made your point, ok?”
Jurgen stood tall, took a deep breath and smiled triumphantly.
“And now,” he said. “It is not often given to us the chance to tell a journalist the news, but I thought I would share the latest with you. Have you heard it? No, I apologise again for keeping you cooped up. I understand that London radio reported yesterday that their battlecruiser Hood has been sunk, early that morning, and another battleship badly damaged. It exploded in action against German surface forces off the coast of Iceland. A great naval victory, against the invincible British navy too! I wanted to tell someone.”
*
Xanthe made her way on foot across the city in the late afternoon heat. There was no swastika flying above the Acropolis, as she had been led to believe.
She had been shaking, in the hours ever since she heard Jurgen’s news. German surface forces, powerful enough to sink one of the biggest warships in the world – it could only mean one thing. Bismarck was already out; it was too late. All that effort had been for nothing. The battleship was now preying on the convoys that kept Britain alive and in the war, and two capital ships had been beaten off. There was no way the navy could equip every convoy with a fleet powerful enough to fight off an attack of that kind. It was a naval disaster all right, and all because she had been delayed.
Or was it? They did seem to have been ready for Bismarck. They had pinpointed her enough to intercept, but – by the sounds of it – they would have been forced to split the Home Fleet in two to do so. It was still her fault. If only she had not dawdled so in Aegina. And now she had missed her radio operator too.
Xanthe knew about HMS Hood because of her links to Ralph, a political appointee at the Admiralty. She knew what the ship represented. Certainly, there were ships in the Royal Navy which packed a bigger punch. But Hood was, by some way, the biggest, the most famous, possibly also one of the oldest, yet the fastest, and perhaps also the best loved. She could imagine her steaming full speed through the freezing ocean and mists off Iceland at dawn, the battle ensigns flying, black smoke pouring from her twin funnels, flashing out orders by signal lamp to her accompanying ships.
It would have been a sight to see. She almost longed to have been there herself to see it, except that – if she had – she also would have been thrown into the icy sea to a quick death from exposure and drowning.
How could the navy have allowed it?
The answer was, she realised again with a pang, because they had no idea which route Bismarck would be taking to the Atlantic, and they’d had to divide their forces. With creeping despair, she realised that she had failed. She should have provided that information and she was too late. Those drowned, frozen sailors would be forever on her conscience.
She sat on the steps of the Metropolis, the cathedral, and watched the city still resting, after her exertions of two nights before, and began to think about her other worry. Betty.
Betty had not been pleased with her after Jurgen’s speech.
“Was that true, honey? Berlin and England? I mean why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I told you I had been studying in England.”
“Yes, but Berlin? I mean, why not? Because listen, honey, if you’re something you don’t seem – if Jurgen’s right to be suspicious of you – then I may be in one hell of a fix. I mean, I really took to you. I think we took to each other. Now I can’t – I mean, I will not ask you to be straight, in case you can’t. Only I didn’t think I had to ask. I mean, really… And why didn’t you tell me about the baby – I mean, I’m a reporter dammit, I should have put two and two together, but why didn’t you say?”
Xanthe felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Why should those in intelligence, who believed they were doing something straightforward, be expected to let everyone down – to betray. And she could not come clean now. Too much depended on it. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Betty, I…” She reached out towards her new friend. “What can I say? I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. I’ve loved being in your company. And yes, I was in Berlin – and I kept quiet about it because I was called something else then. I had a different name. And look, Betty, there is a story there involving love and shame, and I will, I promise, tell it to you – in full. I just can’t right now, partly, but only partly because it is just too upsetting. I can’t expect you to trust me, yet that’s all I can do.”
She burst into tears. Betty reached into her handbag and brought out a hanky.
“I’m sorry, Betty. All I can say is I am what I seem to be. I am.”
“That’s all very well, Shirley. But I have to get out of here too. I don’t want to be collateral damage to someone else’s agenda. Now, I hope to see you at my flat later but – just for a while – I’m going to calm down and do some thinking and prepare for the broadcast.”
She walked off with dignity and one backward wave. Xanthe watched her go, sadly and guiltily. Then she set her mind on the task ahead.
She had been wondering if there might be a slim chance. What would the radio operator do if she had not shown up? What would she have done in the same position? There was only one thing she could have done – try again the same time the following night.
As she sat on the steps of the Metropolis, she could think of nothing else, continually weighing up her chances. She had to try.
*
It was just dark. There was little traffic, not just because there was so little petrol, but because the blackout was now being fully enforced – after the air raid – and driving was a dangerous business. She had followed a circuitous route to the safe house to make sure she was not being followed. She stopped outside the unassuming doorway she had been shown by the priest only three days before, and she knocked. Once.
Immediately the door opened what seemed like a crack, and she was dragged through. It was pitch dark inside, and she felt the cold, oily muzzle of a gun held to her head.
“Speak your name.” The voice was quiet and confident.
“Shirley. S
now in Ibiza.”
In an instant, the gun left her temple.
“Shirley! Terribly nice to meet you. How do you do?”
This is very English, she thought. Just like a tea party in Cambridge.
“Hi!” she said.
“My name is Billy and I’m the sparks.”
“What happened to Robin?”
“Change of plan, but worry not – I have your package. I’ve left it for you to open, though. Didn’t want to get things too muddled!”
Her eyes were getting used to the gloom. Billy looked like a slept-in counterpane, tatty and crumpled. And unshaven.
“You look dreadful,” she volunteered. “Did you walk all the way from London?”
“What did you expect? Brylcream?”
She was surprised he was defensive. Perhaps he liked her.
“Sorry, Billy. I meant it as a joke. You’re a sight for sore eyes, actually.”
Billy smiled and relaxed as he brought out Xanthe’s package.
“I was one of thirty of us, left behind for wireless ops after the troops left and the Nazis came in. You’re almost the first Brit I’ve seen since then.”
“I’m not actually British.”
“Whoopsie, sorry! Trust me to put my foot in it. Now here we are. I’m at your disposal.”
It might be best not to announce myself as an American again, thought Xanthe. It wouldn’t do for rumours of a rogue American to reach Jurgen’s ears. He would quickly put two and two together, but Billy was discreet enough not to ask.
He gave a little, rather embarrassed, bow.
“Thank you, Billy, for everything you’ve done. Now let me try and put my machine together.”
It had been less than a week since Xanthe had left home, but already the machinery before her seemed unfamiliar. She reminded herself that she knew Enigma machines, and all their various models, as well as she knew anything else in this insane world now. She put the pieces in order. Keyboard first, then the rotors, then the steckerboard, a spaghetti bolognese of wires. They needed a supply of electricity, and the source was going to have to be Billy’s battery.
