Prince of Spies

by Prince of Spies (retail) (epub)

  Prince shrugged: you tell me.

  ‘It’s because he has something he believes in. He has a goal to aim for. In his case it’s his family. His wife is in hiding – he refused to betray her – and now he’s holding on, convinced that one day they’ll be reunited. That’s what keeps him alive; it’s more powerful than anything else. Those of us who’ve survived against the odds – it’s because we’ve also got something to live for. For me, it’s my politics; my belief that a better world will replace this one, that the triumph of revolutionary socialism is inevitable. The Frenchman over there, the one with no eyebrows… he has a restaurant in Paris, doesn’t he? He spends all day planning new menus. He told me walking back here this evening that he knows the plats du jour for every day of the year after liberation, and now he’s working on the following year. That’s what has kept him going. You have to think of something to keep you going, your reason to survive. Are you married?’

  For the first time in weeks, Prince felt emotion welling in him. His head dropped, and when he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes. ‘I was. My wife and daughter were killed in a car crash.’

  August looked at him for a while, unsure of how to respond. He placed his hand on Prince’s shoulder. ‘My friend, I’m so sorry… is there no one else? Do you have religious beliefs maybe?’

  ‘No, but I do have a son. He’s very young.’ As he said those words, he suddenly felt stronger, as if the dead weight of despair had been lifted from him.

  * * *

  A fortnight later, around the end of March, some one hundred prisoners were ordered to remain standing at the end of morning roll call. It was one of those days when the wind begins to feel less harsh, more like spring than winter. In the fields beyond the barbed wire, they could even make out some flowers, a strange splash of colour in their grey world. They stayed standing for two hours, and although they were meant to be silent, the parade ground hummed with snatches of whispered conversations.

  ‘They’re going to shoot us.’

  ‘They’ll be taking us east.’

  ‘Notice how they’ve not kept any Russians behind… or Poles.’

  After two hours, a long black Daimler pulled into the parade ground and four men in SS uniforms climbed out. One of them walked to a microphone.

  ‘That’s Pauly, the bastard,’ said August.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘SS Obersturmbannführer Max Pauly, the commandant of Neuengamme: as I said, a bastard.’

  The loudspeakers threw out a series of screeches as the commandant moved the microphone around.

  ‘In twelve minutes, trucks will arrive to transport you to Lübeck. I don’t want you to think that because you’re in a city and away from here somehow security will be less tight. In fact, it will be the opposite. My men who’ll be accompanying you have orders to shoot anyone who causes problems. You should now go to your huts and pack whatever miserable possessions you may have.’

  * * *

  Lübeck had been bombed so heavily, it took Prince a while to realise that they were actually being driven through a city. Through the gaps in the tarpaulin it seemed at first as if they were in a quarry, and then an abandoned industrial area.

  Eventually the trucks pulled into a port and came to a halt in front of an enormous building. They remained there for an hour while a series of arguments raged outside. The prisoners caught snatches of it, the gist being that the SS officer in charge of them thought it was too risky to keep them by the docks, while someone else said this was the only option: ‘Otherwise you can turn round and drive them back to the Elbe!’

  More arguing, then they were suddenly ordered to leave the trucks and hurried into the building, which seemed to be a deserted warehouse. They were marched up to the top floor, where a roll call was taken and they were ordered to remain standing. An hour later, they were taken down to the floor below, where in a vast room a pile of blankets waited at one end and two enormous vats of soup at another.

  Eat.

  Sleep.

  They were woken at six the next morning and marched out of the building before being split into four groups. Prince’s group walked for a mile into the town centre and stopped in front of the shell of what looked like an office block. They were ordered to take a shovel each and start clearing the rubble.

  For the next two weeks, that was life in Lübeck: clearing rubble for ten or eleven hours at a time, the back-breaking work and sheer tedium occasionally broken by being sent on a detail to sort bricks and select ones that were considered to be more or less intact. All the time they had to watch out for the guards, an embittered bunch of thugs and sadists who’d look for any opportunity to abuse the prisoners.

  One afternoon, Prince was part of a group sorting out a pile of bricks in a vast arched doorway, all that remained of a church. He was standing next to Henk, the Dutchman who’d been in his hut in Neuengamme and who’d survived because of his love for his wife. Henk had found an old rag, which he’d fashioned into a glove to protect his hand as he picked up the rough bricks. One of the guards swaggered over, a short man in his fifties with a red face.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Sorting bricks… sir.’

  ‘I meant, what’s that on your hand?’

  ‘It’s to protect it: it means I can work faster.’

  ‘Take it off.’

  ‘Why, so I work slower?’ Henk smiled gently at the German, assuming he’d be grateful for the explanation.

  ‘You think you’re clever, eh? You insolent bastard…’ The guard grabbed the brick from Henk’s hand and smashed it into the Dutchman’s temple. Henk staggered back, and Prince moved to support him, but the guard had pulled his pistol out.

  ‘You, step back, leave him.’ Henk was slumped on the ground now, blood pouring from his head, his eyes barely open. ‘Get up!’

  For a brief moment, Henk tried to rise, but the effort was too much and he collapsed to the ground again. The guard walked over, held the pistol close to his head and shot him. Then he turned and pointed his gun at the others. ‘Who’s next?’ No one said a word.

  At that moment, an SS officer walked over. He told them to carry on with their work, and Prince could hear him reminding the guard that they needed as many prisoners as possible.

  A few days later, Prince was part of a smaller group sent to work in Travemünde, the busiest part of the port, the area closest to the Baltic. A particularly heavy bombing raid had destroyed the main road into the docks, and his group were helping to clear it. There were about twenty of them, and when they finished work, the guards announced that they’d be staying in Travemünde rather than travelling back to Lübeck each night.

  On that first night, Prince realised that the guards – there were only three of them – hadn’t taken a roll call. It was an uncharacteristic mistake, and he guessed the decision to send them to the docks had been a last-minute one, which meant there was probably no list of prisoners. They slept on the ground floor of the customs building, and the following morning were divided into smaller groups and sent back to work. Prince and August were ordered by a port police officer to help load a ship further along the quay.

  ‘That’s not what these prisoners are meant to be doing. They’re supposed to be clearing the bomb damage; we can’t allow them onto the boats.’ It was the same guard who’d shot Henk.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said the police officer, a tall, harassed-looking man who clearly outranked the guard. ‘There are fifteen ships in Lübeck Bay waiting to come into port and another dozen waiting to leave. Unless we can get this mess sorted, we’ll have the best part of thirty ships conveniently presented as sitting ducks for when the bastards return to bomb us.’

  ‘That’s defeatist talk, I’ll—’

  ‘Oh, is it? Well, how about I report you to the port commander for sabotaging trade, eh?’

  A tense compromise of sorts was reached: Prince and August, together with a few other prisoners, would help to load the sh
ip but wouldn’t be allowed on it. Their job was to unload crates from a waiting lorry and carry them to the gangplank.

  As they headed down the quay, they passed a number of other ships. One of them was clearly preparing to set sail, and as they walked past it, there was a loud blast from its horn. The vessel had been mostly obscured behind cranes; it was only as they came close to it that Prince looked at it properly. A shudder ran down his spine, his senses now heightened. He was so taken aback he stopped for a moment, and August had to prod him in the back to keep him moving.

  When they reached the lorry they were meant to be unloading, the tense stand-off between the port police and the guards restarted, the guards arguing that it would take all morning to unload the lorry and their instructions were for the prisoners to repair the bomb damage.

  Prince spotted his opportunity. As the argument continued, he moved round to the front of the lorry. Just ahead of the lorry was a wall running parallel to the quay, no more than three feet high.

  He glanced round: the argument was still raging and the rest of the prisoners were grouped together on the quayside. He knew he couldn’t hesitate. He moved quickly towards the wall in a crouching position and vaulted over it, dropping flat on the rubble. This would only take him a couple of minutes. He just needed to be careful.

  ‘Hey – you! Stop!’

  He froze. He wasn’t sure where the shout had come from, or even if it was aimed at him. He pressed himself into the rubble.

  ‘Put your hands up!’

  Two rifle shots rang out. The first seemed to pass way over him, but the second thudded into the wall a foot or so ahead of him, a plume of red dust spraying out. He was aware of more shouting, and it quickly became apparent that it was directed at him. He’d been caught.

  The guard who’d been in charge of his group – the trigger-happy one who’d shot Henk – marched over.

  ‘Is this your prisoner?’ A Wehrmacht soldier was standing by the wall, his rifle pointing at Prince.

  ‘Yes, it’s my prisoner, so you can fuck off now.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to watch your language and keep a closer eye on your prisoners, eh? Isn’t that your job? It’s not as if you lot have to worry about doing any fighting, is it?’

  The guard hauled Prince back over the wall and kicked him in the back. He started to get up, but the guard pushed him down again.

  ‘On your knees, French scum, and face the wall.’

  He heard the safety catch being released on the machine gun and froze. For a fleeting moment he thought about diving over the wall again, or rushing at the guard, but he knew his situation was hopeless.

  He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

  Chapter 21

  Lübeck; Copenhagen, April 1943

  But then there was a sound.

  This sound came from above, an indistinct, droning type of noise at first, which very quickly became louder and quite deafening and was replicated many times over, causing the ground to shudder. It wasn’t just the noise, either; Prince was now aware of blackness and heat enveloping him.

  He assumed he’d been shot.

  But then he heard the guard behind him shout, ‘What the fuck?’ followed by an enormous explosion that threw Prince forward into the foot of the wall he’d been kneeling in front of.

  He must have been knocked out for a moment or two: when he came round, he had no idea at first where he was or how long he’d been there. He was surrounded by explosions and choking dust, and covered in rubble. Although he was disorientated and confused, he gradually became aware of something heavy pressing on his leg. He realised that the Allies must be carrying out a bombing raid on the port, and it struck him how admirable it was that they felt able to do this in daytime: he must remember to tell Gilbey that. He would be pleased to hear it. The raid was still going on, and he decided to stay where he was. The rubble was acting as a form of protection.

  After a few minutes, the noise abated: no more explosions, no more sound of aircraft above or anti-aircraft fire from the ground. There was a strange ringing in his ears. In the distance he could hear shouting, and nearer to him there were screams, but nothing else. He managed to free his leg and tentatively checked himself out. He could move all his limbs and couldn’t feel any obvious pain. He pushed the rubble aside and looked around. The lorry they’d been supposed to unload must have taken a direct hit: little remained of it other than a tangled mess of metal. All around lay the bodies of the guards, the port policemen and the other prisoners, none of them moving, few of them in one piece. The ship they were loading had been hit too: black smoke billowed from it and it was listing heavily.

  Prince clambered up, dusted himself down, then ran as fast as he could back along the quay towards the ship that had caught his attention earlier. It was still there and appeared to be unscathed, though there was frantic activity on deck: the crew were clearly in a hurry to leave port, and he could hardly blame them. He kept running, undecided whether to call out or just climb on board.

  At that moment, the ship’s horn sounded again and its bow swivelled away from the dock, pointing towards the port gates. Two sailors were frantically untying the ropes at the stern. Prince took a running jump, landing painfully on the deck, his fall cushioned by a pile of netting. He could feel the ship picking up speed as it headed out of the port.

  The two sailors stood above him and between them he could make out the name of the ship on the bridge, picked out in white along with the name of its home port. It was this and the flag above it that had caught his attention, and it was the home port where he hoped the ship was heading to now.

  Strand Stjerne. København.

  ‘I’m Danish… I’m a prisoner. I’ve escaped, I need your help, please… I…’ He was aware he was babbling as the two sailors stared down at him seemingly uncomprehending. Prince wondered whether they were Danish after all.

  Then both glanced back at the quayside, peering as it faded in the distance.

  ‘I don’t think anyone saw him,’ one of them said.

  ‘In that case, we’d better take him to the captain,’ the other replied.

  Both spoke in Danish, and Prince felt warm tears stream down his face.

  * * *

  The captain looked at him as if he was a problem he could really do without. He fired questions at him.

  How do I know you’re Danish?

  How did you escape?

  How do I know this isn’t a trap?

  Prince told him there was little he could do to convince him other than begging him to believe he was telling the truth. He was a prisoner, he’d been in a concentration camp, he’d escaped…

  Another officer had joined the captain now, an older man and altogether more sympathetic. He introduced himself as Otto and spoke with a Copenhagen accent. He sounded like Prince’s grandfather. ‘He doesn’t look well, sir.’

  ‘I was caught up in the bombing.’

  ‘Obviously, but you look like you have a fever or something. You say you were in a camp?’

  Prince nodded. He felt dizzy now, and for the life of him couldn’t remember what to say if they asked for details of his Danish identity.

  ‘Come on, we’d better get you into the sick bay. You can stay there until we get to Copenhagen. I’m afraid you’re on your own after that.’

  ‘When do we dock there?’

  ‘Early tomorrow morning, with luck. Depends…’

  ‘Depends on what?’

  ‘On the bloody Germans.’

  * * *

  The voyage was straightforward, although he began to feel increasingly unwell during it. He was sure Otto was right, that he was developing a fever, and the rash that had appeared a few days earlier on his stomach was now spreading down his legs. They brought him blankets and food along with a change of clothing and told him they’d now cleared Lübeck Bay and that sea conditions were good for the time of year.

  At six in the morning, Otto came into the sick bay with a mug of
hot coffee. The Strand Stjerne was going to dock in Copenhagen within the hour, he said.

  ‘We’re going to have to hide you in the hold until we’ve been inspected and have unloaded. When it’s over, I’ll come and tell you. Wait five minutes, then go up to the deck and disappear. I don’t know where you’re going and I don’t want to know, but we’re docking in Holmen, near the city centre. Make sure you leave the docks through the south gates and you should be fine. Do you have money?’

  Prince shook his head. He had nothing, not even any papers. Otto took out some notes and pressed them into his hand.

  ‘The inspection will start when we dock. We’ll start unloading after that.’

  He managed to get off the boat just before eleven, and leaving the dock was straightforward enough. He kept walking, following the signs to Christianshavn. But it didn’t take long for him to feel utterly exhausted, his fever rising and falling, every step now an effort. He crossed over on Langebro bridge, and just when he felt he could go no further, he spotted a tram to Vesterbro.

  He knew he was ill and beyond exhausted, but the thought of a hot bath and a proper bed, and most of all of Hanne, kept him going.

  * * *

  ‘We need to think about some kind of warning system for when you return. This mission could take weeks, even longer, and it’s always possible something could happen to me during that time.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I—’

  ‘No, we need to be realistic.’

  The conversation had taken place the day before he’d left Copenhagen at the beginning of January. Hanne said that when he returned, he should go first to the alley at the rear of her apartment.

  ‘My bedroom window overlooks the alley. I have a tall porcelain statue of a black cat; you can’t miss it, it’s nearly two feet high. When I’m in my apartment and I consider there’s no danger, I’ll place the cat on the window ledge. When I’m out, I’ll remove it. So you should only go to your apartment if you see the cat in my apartment. Understand?’