by D A Kent
‘Three shillings please, guv.’
George unbuckled with his usual poor grace, giving the man the right change exactly and no tip.
‘Tight old bastard’ called the taxi driver. Fortunately for him, George was already halfway down St Annes Court, with his cases in his arms and other things on his mind. The door of the tailor’s shop was shut. He tapped it with a highly polished shoe. He was not in the mood for being kept waiting. The street was deserted; it seemed to have battened down its hatches early, as London streets often do.
‘Juncker, open this blasted door,’ he shouted in German. ‘Otherwise I will rip your head off.’
‘All right, all right,’ came the response. ‘Give me a chance.’
The bolts were drawn back. Galland came rushing outside as if pursued by the hounds of hell and then careened to the kind of halt that generally results in a feline indulging in a kind of ‘nothing to see here’ wash and brush-up. Dignity fully restored, he gave Cumberland a good, hard stare and then stalked back into the shop to resume his post on the worktop not far from his habitual saucer of Scotch. George’s gaze followed him.
‘I hope he can spare some of his Scotch.’
Juncker nodded his agreement.
‘He always shares with a gentleman.’
The tailor opened the door wide and George slid in, his decent coat, which he had worn for lunch at the Athenaum, brushing Juncker’s grubby brushed velvet waistcoat. George managed to suppress a grimace, turning it instead into a smile of something approaching thanks.
Juncker looked him up and down with a practiced eye.
‘So, why have you come to see me at this hour? Need me to let that suit out? I don’t think there’s much more ‘give’ in that seam. Too many lunches at the Club, my friend. You need to cut down a bit.’
George tried hard to suppress his irritation. Juncker was an excellent tailor, but he could do without the personal remarks. Who the hell did the man think he was? Too familiar by half, but at least here he could let his guard down and be himself, and talk about plans for a new world order. There were precious few places where he could do that. Nobody took much notice of an Austrian in a street full of Jewish tailors.
They had met on the Isle of Man, a time in George’s life over which he preferred to draw a veil. He still seethed with rage, when he thought of the indignity of it all. He had had to appear before an Enemy Alien Tribunal when war was declared; the upshot was that he was deemed to be a risk to national security. That had been bad enough. But then, a few months later, during one of his weekly bridge nights, and in full view of the neighbours, the police had arrived. They had been courteous; he had struggled to keep a civil tongue in his head. They had left his wife at home; she simply had to continue reporting to the police each week.
In a strange sort of way, the Spartan conditions at the camp to which he was taken reminded him of Wellington. The food wasn’t that bad. He hadn’t even minded being shepherded along towards the camp, when they first arrived, by men from the Royal Welch Fusiliers. It had been something of a shock that he had had to carry his own belongings, although as he had still been feeling a little under the weather from the sea crossing, he hadn’t protested. What he had really objected to were all the Jewish internees, and being constantly lumped in with them. All that rubbish they were spouting about conditions in the Fatherland. Somebody really should have put a stop to it there and then. He had been sorely tempted on more than one occasion. A group of British fascists had arrived soon afterwards, but they tended to keep themselves to themselves.
George had been quite surprised to find that, as detainees, they were relatively free. Not to leave the island, of course, but there was plenty to occupy them all. There were football matches, plays, concerts and even a makeshift university. He had started up a chess club, to give himself something to do and to try to keep his mind active, otherwise he found he just dwelt on things. To his surprise, as he had never been a patient man, he found himself rather enjoying the aspect of teaching the game to people who had never played before. Most of them picked it up very quickly It was a game of ‘outwitting,’ which he had always enjoyed, and always refreshing to have a different view on the game. His efforts at teaching Edward the game had not been a great success.
An early member of George’s Chess Club was Franz Juncker, who had been born in Austria, not far from the border and Bad Kaltenbrun. By coincidence, Juncker had served with Mueller in 14-18. What a small world! Of course, in civilian life, he would never have struck up a friendship with somebody like Juncker, but those few months on the Isle of Man had been quite bizarre. They soon found themselves sharing confidences, and found they had more in common than they would ever have imagined. Juncker had trained as a tailor in Austria, and was soon operating a small business within the camp.
As well as running the Chess Club, George had busied himself with trying to get himself off the island. He had written to every Member of Parliament he could think of, and to various judges and Home Office officials. Some had been his contemporaries at Wellington and at Cambridge. For once, Edward had done something useful, by joining the RAF and flying Spitfires. He was never quite sure actually whether this had done the trick. Many other internees had sons serving in the Forces, he thought to himself, including those confounded Jews. It must have helped somehow though, as he was out long before Juncker, who had also eventually made it back to London where he set up as a tailor.
He turned to Juncker.
‘My suit does not need altering,’ he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘Thank you. Just pour me some of that blasted animal’s Scotch, will you?’
Juncker poured a measure each into two rather dubious-looking glasses. Suppressing an urge to wipe the rim of his glass, George took a sip of the Scotch. He had expected a glass of gut-rot, not something of the first class quality he was sipping now. It was as smooth as silk on a lady’s thigh. He looked at Juncker.
‘This is good stuff.’
‘Galland is most particular.’
‘I am impressed.’ Noticing Juncker’s eyes sliding to the suitcases, George set his glass down and said:
‘I have £20 for you here if you will lock these away for a few days. You will get another £20 when I collect them safely.’
‘Must be important.’ Juncker pursed his lips in thought.
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘Of course, I was merely musing.’ Juncker smiled. ‘Agreed. I will do as you ask.’
‘You will do as I am paying for.’
‘You know you can trust me.’
‘As far as I can throw you,’ thought George, as he took his leave. ‘But what’s the alternative?’
He hailed a cab to take him to Chepstow Villas. As he walked up the garden path, he spotted Edward walking up the road from the underground. This time, he lay in wait quietly. His son did not evade his grasp. At the end of this painful encounter, Edward comprehended fully, or so he said, that he was to propose to Caroline tomorrow. He could have some time off to buy a ring if he wished.
Having at last managed to flee upstairs, not daring to slam the door this time, Edward aimed a vicious kick at his teddy bear, sending it soaring to the ceiling and back down again. He desperately wanted to say something to his father, who now disgusted him even more. He knew he could not. Sylvia was all he cared about. He felt sick to the core. Tomorrow, he would ring Meunier again and perhaps call in on Joan. He could not believe, either, that he had just agreed to propose to somebody he did not find remotely attractive or even like very much, just so that his father could become President of the Law Society.
He was trapped, no two ways about it. He could not see at the moment how he could ever walk away from the life that had been imposed on him. He understood duty to his very bones and he understood honour too. The irony was that he had only ever been free when flying his Spitfire with the Squadron out of Biggin Hill. He lay on his bed and smoked a couple of
cigarettes,
remembering his younger days when, despite everything, he knew what it meant to be alive. Now, he knew nothing.
Chapter 13
‘I think we deserve a break after all this,’ said Gunn, looking at the diagram they had completed over several large sheets of paper and the report, which Sylvia had copied out neatly.
‘I’m pleased with it,’ Sylvia conceded, always something of a perfectionist. ‘I reckon the authorities will be able to do something with this. The narrative flows quite smoothly. Thanks for helping me with that. Have you had any further thoughts about what we do when we get to Haifa?’
‘A few.’ Gunn was away with his own thoughts again. Last night, Sylvia had found him on the forward deck standing near a group of ladies having an animated conversation in French.
‘What was all that about?’ She had been only half listening.
‘They were talking about little children who were thrown by their parents off the trains transporting them to the death camps. In some cases, they were found and looked after by Christian families but their identities were completely changed.’
Sylvia rather wished she hadn’t asked. She didn’t want to seem heartless, but she had watched endless footage of atrocities at the trials. It hadn’t hardened her to the accounts by any means but had instilled in her a huge sadness about man’s inhumanity to man. She changed the subject to more pressing issues. Gunn had managed a brief call to Joan in Naples, in between collecting the Packard and buying Sylvia’s dress. All was well, Joan had assured him; nothing to worry about. She had received a visit or two from Old Man Cumberland but had sent him packing, with a flea in his ear.
On deck now, they could feel the excitement in the air. It was electric. Everyone on board had a story; for the most part, a terrible one. Their new lives were not far away now. Gunn noticed the smudge of grey smoke on the horizon and tapped Sylvia on the wrist.
‘Haifa,’ he said.
‘What’s that smoke?’
‘Oh, probably a firefight or two between Israelis and Arabs. There was a battle here in April. The Israelis call it Operation Bi’urHametz.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Passover Cleansing.’ Gunn shrugged. ‘The British had left by the 20th, having informed the Israelis, and it all kicked off on the 21st.’
‘Why Haifa?’
‘It’s a deep water port. Strategic location. And the area had been allocated to Israel. Simple as that. It was pretty much wrapped up by the 22nd.’
Now he mentioned it, Sylvia did recall seeing something about it in the newspapers. It all seemed very different; like nowhere else she had ever been.
‘So have you ever been here before, Gunn?’ she asked. One of her pet hates was not having a clear strategy in place but she could see this was going to be difficult to achieve, and she was open to a challenge.
‘Me? Haifa? No, of course I haven’t.’
Gunn turned to address an inconsequential civility to one of his ladies. Sylvia filed that away for future reference. He was not being wholly open, but that was not his way. He would dig his heels in like a mule at the plough if she tried to push him. She knew better than that. Instead, she took his arm.
‘Well, darling, I suppose we had better start packing. It almost feels like home after all this time aboard.’
Their route back to the cabin was thronged with people wishing them luck with the baby.
‘I feel a bit of a fraud,’ she observed, when they were inside. ‘I know it’s our profession and I don’t normally give it a second’s thought. I will miss it though.’
‘It’s the nature of the beast,’ Gunn shrugged. ‘If you leave an implication twisting in the air, people latch onto it and it becomes the truth. Strange, really.’
He sniffed the air. It was heavy with heat. He was beginning to wonder if the Packard was such a good idea. Still, needs must; he wandered off to see it unloaded. It was already attracting attention from the dockworkers down below. Sylvia finished tidying the cabin, and took their holdall and camera equipment onto the balcony. She took out her notebook and started sketching out a basic modus operandi. One of us needs to, she thought. The first thing they needed to do was contact Marguerite’s cousin, and see which way the land lay. With all this fighting going on, though, how easy was that going to be? She got out the street map which the purser had given her, and studied it carefully.
Gunn appeared beside her at the railings. ‘Your carriage awaits, madam,’ he announced. For the benefit of their ‘fan club,’ he drew her close to him and gave her a long, lingering kiss.
‘Right, Mrs G., that’s your lot for now. Let’s get off this buggering boat.’
The taste of the kiss lingered on Sylvia’s lips. She felt weak at the knees. This was something very different. She had never felt that way before
‘Ridiculous. Pull yourself together. Every sodding cliché in the book,’ she scolded herself, sub-consciously echoing Gunn’s language, as she turned to wave to those she knew on the boat. She spotted Sol. He turned with a sardonic salute and disappeared from view.
‘Pretty girl,’ Sol thought to himself. ‘Gunn is a lucky man. Hope she doesn’t get in the way though.’
Sylvia resolved to ask Gunn about Sol. There was more to him than met the eye. She wanted to know how much more and in what direction. She found Gunn throwing the bags into the back of the Packard. He looked irritable and cross with himself.
‘Bringing this bloody car was probably one of the dumbest moves I have ever made. Knowing our luck, the family will be two streets from here and we could walk it in five minutes.’
‘I think it’s a bit further than that,’ Sylvia commented. ‘I’ve got a map here.’
‘Sooner we get rid of this beast the better.’ Gunn held the door open for her. ‘I’ll drive, you navigate.’
Navigation, thought Sylvia, was going to be interesting. The purser had asked her if she knew where she was going, explaining somewhat patronisingly that it wasn’t your average tourist port, especially in light of recent events. Not wishing to be drawn about their plans, Sylvia had said something suitably vague about relatives, thanked him and walked off with the map. It was indeed fairly basic; street names were already starting to change. Still, she could discern a rough layout of the city and where they should go.
‘Turn left onto that big road,’ she began. ‘That should put us on the right course to start with. I think it’s quite some way though. Not really walking distance.’
As they pulled out of the docks, Gunn stole a glance at her. He had enjoyed that kiss too. It hadn’t just been for the benefit of the crowds. He had wanted to take her back inside the cabin to develop things further but had reminded himself, just in time, that they were on what could be an extremely dangerous mission. He was under no illusions about that. Right now, he could see people turning to look at them and the Packard. This took hiding in plain sight a step too far.
‘I wish I had painted the blasted thing olive green.’ He laughed at the absurd nature of their excursion. ‘Still, it adds to the adventure. Which way now?’
‘South, or rather south west. It looks as if they live the other side of Mount Carmel. Not far from a place called Nehalim, on Ha-Tamar Street. I think we can skirt around the mountain and take our luck from there. Oh look, Gunn, it’s beautiful.’ She turned to him. ‘I feel as if I’m inside one of the pictures in the bible.’
Gunn slowed down for a moment, feeling a little calmer now that they knew the way.
‘So, Gunn,’ Sylvia gave him a direct hazel gaze. ‘What are we going to say? How do we broach it? My instinct would be to start with a fairly pleasant but guarded conversation with Aaron. We need to find out whether Marguerite actually managed to get here. Because if she didn’t, what happens then?’
‘Nobody else named in the will?’
‘No, nobody else. Let’s hope she made it.’
‘Hmm, so really we are bringing a modern day miracle to the land of miracles.’ Gunn’s tone was laced with an acidic
humour. He considered for a moment as they passed a flock of sheep minding its own business on the road. He shook his head. ‘Lunch on the hoof.’
‘You are terrible.’
‘No, it would have been terrible if I had mentioned mint sauce.’
Gunn shifted gear and let the Packard stretch its muscles on the curves of the mountain road.
‘You know, Sylv, I’m not sure there’s much point in being guarded. The bush telegraph will have the entire district primed. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were expecting us.’
‘Whatever makes you say that?’ Sylvia was startled. She was in a place with no familiar reference points, she decided. The modus operandi she had sketched out in her notebook on the Sidonia was about to go right out of the window.
‘Instinct.’ Gunn bit his lip and opened up a little. ‘Sol knows of the family. I bet he has been on the nearest available blower to them already.’
‘But Gunn,’ she began, ‘how do you know we can trust Sol?’
This wasn’t how they normally operated. She wondered how much he had divulged to Sol. However, this was very far from being a normal mission.
‘I suppose we have no choice,’ she murmured, almost to herself. ‘Our turning is coming up on the left.’
‘And you’re right,’ she said, moments later. ‘I think there is a reception committee.’
Sol was standing on the worn steps of a stone-built house. The windows were set deep, and olive trees flanked the front door, providing shelter. Sol waved, a big, knowing grin on his face. He stepped forward as the Packard drew to a halt, and bowed slightly as he assisted Sylvia from the car. She shook her head.
