by Jana Petken
Paul knew Max as well as he did himself, but stark differences in their characters had emerged. Max, though a spy living in a world of subterfuge and deception, would never have given his word to a person, particularly his brother, and then broken it. Without a shadow of doubt, he had left on that aircraft with the bitter taste of treachery in his mouth, a never-ending reminder that his twin had deliberately double-crossed him. He wouldn’t understand the motive behind it; how could he when he’d never met Valentina, never been in love? He knew nothing of the power it wielded over men and the loyalty it demanded.
Paul made a greater effort to straighten his cramped legs after deciding to remain where he was instead of taking the risk of being caught on the run in the woods. Max had risked his life to meet with Duguay despite that woman, Marine, insisting that his twin was dead. Max would certainly be reprimanded by his boss when he got back to London, and at some point, he would tell Hannah what had occurred tonight. I’m very angry and disappointed with Paul, I’ll never trust him again. Hannah would try to comfort him, but she’d also say that she understood why he, Paul, had wanted to get back to his wife, for she’d do just about anything to be with her husband.
Some new noises interrupted Paul’s thoughts: the swoosh of leaves being swept aside, heavy footsteps snapping twigs, dog-like panting, and the ground vibrating under his backside. He held his breath as black figures flashed past his hiding place and shook the outer branches of his lair.
Paul remained underneath the bush, stiff, soaking wet, and too scared to move. He was terrified of freezing to death should he spend any more time there. His saturated clothes were useless against the bitter cold which pierced his flesh to the bone. If someone offered him a fortune in gold to stop shivering, he’d not be able to take up the challenge. His biggest worry, apart from the return of Claude and his sidekick, was his body temperature. He was burning up with fever, freezing one minute, then so very hot he was becoming sleepy and hypothermic. He wouldn’t last much longer.
Almost at the end of his tether, he heard the snapping of branches and willed himself to concentrate despite waves of nausea making him want to retch. Claude and Jean were whispering just outside his den in what appeared to be an argument. Although he could only understand snippets of what they were saying, he gleaned enough to know they were not happy with their defeat.
“Duguay will kill both of us,” said Jean.
“Then we won’t tell him….” Claude snapped.
“Okay. If you don’t, I won’t. We’ll think of something.”
Chapter Twelve
Paul Vogel
Unsure if Claude and Jean had left the vicinity, Paul erred on the side of caution by not making his move until daybreak. His muscles were stiff, his lips blue with cold, and he couldn’t feel his fingers or toes. It had been the most terrifying night of his life, and he still had to make it to a German patrol in an area he presumed was occupied by French rebels.
The woods looked different in the grey light of dawn. Some trees were almost bare, and Paul could now see that the bush he’d hidden under was full of needle-like thorny branches which had ripped his skin, jacket and trousers to shreds. He was a dreadful sight. His uniform was brown with mud and blood, its cuffs frayed, and his shirt filthy. His fingernails were broken and black underneath with dirt and soil. His shoes, without their laces because Claude had made him relinquish them at the farm, were also caked in mud, and his sockless feet were blistered and bleeding. And he stank. Even his foggy breath was rancid.
He peered again at his feet. Apart from removing his trouser belt and socks, Duguay’s men had also taken Paul’s dark-blue Waffenfarbe, doctor’s epaulettes and cap. Duguay, like a high-priest about to perform a ritual, had burnt them in the cellar during Paul’s first night in captivity. The communist leader had told his men that the fire was a symbol of Paul’s defeat; a defeat that would eventually come to all Germans.
Paul tugged at his lapels and straightened his jacket. He may be filthy and barely recognisable as the Wehrmacht officer who had attended a birthday party in the swanky Hotel Lutetia only weeks earlier, but he was still the man his parents were proud of and Valentina had married; when he got the chance, he would conduct himself as such.
A now-visible path snaked through the woods, a well-trodden track that the Resistance probably used to get to the airstrip. Paul began to jog. He did his utmost to ignore the soreness in his feet, the stinging wake-up call to his nerve endings, the use of muscles that had barely been used in weeks, his loose shoes, and the shivers wracking his body. Desperate to get to his unit, to report everything he knew about his abductors and to have them found and punished, he ran even faster, weaving in and out to avoid the branches across his path.
As he ran, he thought about his eventual arrival in the arms of his countrymen, the relief he’d feel, the comfort of knowing he was safe and protected. He had to believe there were convoys and foot patrols in this area. Germany had France by the throat, and the Wehrmacht wasn’t only controlling its cities but hundreds of country towns and villages as well.
His most chilling thought was of never seeing Valentina again, or Berlin, the city he loved, or his parents, who’d be frantic with worry. He couldn’t quite believe that he’d got away from Max, the Pole, and the two Frenchmen with only moments to spare. Dizzy now with fever, he couldn’t recall the instant he’d decided to take off and skirt around the front of the slow-moving plane to get to the trees on the other side. That spur-of-the-moment decision would probably be the biggest act of courage he’d ever achieve in this war.
He glanced behind him, still afraid of being followed even though he’d run a fair distance and had heard nothing. The terror of impending death was imprinted on him like a permanent scar. Every day in Duguay’s custody, the communists had made him believe his end could come at any moment. They’d taken him from the cellar, put him against the wall and shot bullets over his head on eleven separate occasions. They had driven him mad with fear, until he’d believed that every footstep, voice, and dark figure appearing in the basement was coming to finish him off. He’d lied to Max about being treated fairly because he didn’t want his hot-headed brother to unleash his temper on Duguay. The truth was, he’d endured a more brutal torture than any he could have imagined.
When he reached the main road, his spirits rose. With that came anger and thoughts of revenge. He wanted nothing more than to let the Gestapo and SS know every detail of his captivity: the names of his captors, the group they were affiliated with, the description of the farm and its approximate location. It was not in Dieppe but situated on the southern suburbs of Paris. That was his best guess, for the journey to the airfield had taken almost half a day, and although he’d seen nothing outside the van, he’d heard a mishmash of familiar noises that he’d associated with the capital: some cars, probably German military vehicles, motorbikes, trams, people on foot, trains letting off steam, and the familiar church clock with unique chimes near the River Seine.
He set off along the deserted road, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his ears alert for sounds behind him. But he was also picturing Duguay and his thugs being brought out to a wall, thrown against it and riddled with bullets that wouldn’t miss their heads, as the commies had intentionally done with him.
He halted to stretch his sore muscles in a series of calisthenics, and was suddenly struck by a disturbing thought. Yes, he wanted to see Duguay and the woman who had abducted him from the Hotel Lutetia dead, but, if he helped the SS or Gestapo to achieve that goal, the rebels might be captured and forced to mention Max during interrogation. He couldn’t loosen that Gordian knot, for it would reveal his own somewhat tenuous, but real collusion with an enemy spy.
He began walking again, slower this time. The realisation that he was heading towards a tangled web of lies without a plausible story to satisfy the Gestapo and protect Max’s identity seeped into him. His heart punched his chest wall as he became truly cognisant of the trouble he was in and would cause those he love
d. Apart from Valentina, his loyalty to his twin stood above all else, all others. Their bond was impervious to war and enemies, politics, religion and ideals. He’d never knowingly damage Max’s reputation or put him in harm’s way, but that was what he was about to do if he continued down this road. He stood still; he needed to think. What if… Before he had a chance to formulate a new plan he heard the loud rumble of a convoy coming towards him.
He squinted as the lead jeep came over a rise. He couldn’t tell how many vehicles were behind, but it looked like a large motorcade of trucks. He waved the jeep down, lifting is hands in surrender as it approached. “Ich bin Oberarzt Paul Vogel!” he shouted, once it had come to a standstill.
During the brief conversation that followed with a Leutnant from the jeep, Paul confirmed his name and doctor’s rank then asked for water. He drank the flask dry, then vomited half of it onto the ground as he crumpled to the side of the road with relief.
“Bring the Assistenzarzt here quickly,” the Leutnant ordered.
Paul slouched on the grassy verge and sipped the water slower this time. He was surrounded by soldiers who moved aside when the Assistenzarzt, a junior doctor, appeared.
“Are you injured, Herr Oberarzt?”
“No, just scratches and muscle pain – I might have a fever,” Paul added while the young man examined him.
“What happened, sir? What are you doing out here?”
“I was captured some weeks ago, but I escaped my captors last night and hid in the woods a few miles back … they might still be close by … I don’t know.”
Paul struggled to his feet with the help of two soldiers. His legs gave way again, and a stretcher was brought. The men who’d been on the first truck were now lining the road, clapping and cheering as if he were a damned hero. He didn’t feel like a brave man. He’d run away; he was good at that.
Soon, news of him reached the soldiers in the second and third trucks, and he could hear them hooting with glee, whistling and clapping wildly.
“The men know your name, Oberarzt Vogel,” the Leutnant explained. “Everyone thought you were dead. You’ve given us a victory. You’ve given Germany a victory.”
Paul, barely conscious and wracked with fever, watched in a blur as men patted his shoulders and legs when his stretcher passed the Wehrmacht soldiers lining the road. Shouts of, “Well done, Oberarzt!” rang in his ears, and he closed his eyes in a vain effort to shut out the noise, the faces, the whole palaver.
The Leutnant appeared to be deliberately offering his men a spectacle by marching Paul and his stretcher along a parade-like line of soldiers, as though he were an esteemed general to a file of adoring subordinates. “Look men! Oberarzt Vogel is alive!” the man shouted every few paces until the stretcher had reached the ambulance at the back of the convoy.
“We’re going to our base just north of Paris. I’ll arrange transport for you as soon as you feel ready to continue to the capital.”
Paul, woozy with fever, nodded. “All right, but I need to get to Paris as soon as possible… report to the Gestapo and SS in Avenue Foch,” he mumbled, before dizziness washed over him and he closed his eyes.
******
Paul had been transferred to the infirmary upon his return to Paris, but shortly afterwards the Gestapo arrived and demanded they be allowed to question him in Avenue Foch. According to the Gestapo officer in charge, Paul, as sick as he was, had a duty to testify about his experience before he forgot the details. Thus, the doctor’s orders that he remain in bed until his fever broke were ignored, and Paul was escorted out of the barracks’ infirmary and whisked away in a Gestapo jeep.
“Think – think, Oberleutnant Vogel! You must be able to remember a landmark, a church steeple, a road sign – something?”
The Gestapo Kriminalinspektor who had been grilling Paul in Avenue Foch for almost an hour with little success leant across the desk, his eyes boring into Paul’s. “You are the only German officer to come back alive. Four high-ranking Wehrmacht officers have been assassinated by the Resistance … four! We are facing a crisis, an enemy capable of not only reaching, but killing our Wehrmacht elite in broad daylight on the streets of Paris. You, Oberleutnant, have a duty to your fallen colleagues. You must help us find this scum before they abduct or assassinate anyone else … think harder.”
Paul, a shivering, perspiring wreck, looked helplessly at the Gestapo Inspektor who had given him a very public and effusive welcome at Avenue Foch. Within minutes of beginning the interview, however, his concerned attitude was replaced by annoyance and suspicion.
“I would rather you called me Oberarzt, Inspektor. I am a doctor, not a soldier.” Paul emphasised his point. “I understand your frustration; I do. And if I were in your shoes, I would also be impatient.”
Paul’s hand shook as he drank the water in his glass, then asked for more. He was parched, shivering yet hot and sweaty. He truly didn’t know what to say even though he wanted to maintain his integrity in the eyes of the Gestapo and give them the answers they wanted. His responses, therefore, had been spoken in a weak, sickly tone with no helpful details. He felt as though he were walking through a minefield, skirting probing questions, asking for water, feigning exhaustion and loss of memory. His excuses and repeated requests that he be allowed to rest were not working, and if he went further down this dangerous path, he’d be arrested for treason or held on that suspicion. His choices were clear: protect Max’s identity and involvement by shielding Duguay or tell the truth as he knew it and suffer the consequences.
“The reason I’ve not been forthcoming, Inspektor, is because despite every part of me wanting the scum captured or killed, I don’t know where I was being held exactly … somewhere near Dieppe.”
The Inspector nodded. “Good … good … go on.”
“Yes, near Dieppe, I think,” Paul lied again. “I was blindfolded and unconscious on the way there and afterwards I was kept in a dark cellar with no windows. But I do know I was at a farm, a large place with numerous outbuildings. Once, they let me out to wash at a well, and I saw a church steeple in the distance, fields and a tree-lined dirt track that led to … I’m not certain … maybe a highway or village, perhaps? Every now and then I heard the rumble of heavy trucks … and often the sound of a train. Every day, that sound … every day.”
The Gestapo’s demeanour relaxed, spurring Paul on to invent a not-entirely-false story. “The people who held me were in some sort of Resistance group. I heard a few of them talking in French. They were planning to attack a train…”
Paul let his words hang in the air while he took a sip of water from his refilled glass.
“Yes? Yes?” said the Gestapo officer, who was scribbling on paper while Paul talked.
Paul sat up straight, his tense muscles looser, his mind set on ending the interview. “Yesterday evening, they were taking me somewhere else. I don’t know why, or where. But I was thrown into a van … an unmarked van, I think. Then I asked … I pretended I was desperate to relieve myself, and once I was outside the vehicle, I ran and didn’t look back.”
“You ran? It was as easy as that? I see…”
“No. I don’t think you do see.” Paul cut him off. “Do you know what it’s like being held in a basement with the only breathable air coming through a narrow ventilation shaft on the wall, to live in silence day after day, tortured, put up against a wall blindfolded and being told you’re about to die, time and again? You’re damn right I ran, even though the bastards were armed and standing behind me watching me piss. Herr Inspektor, on that short journey, I thought they were taking me to an execution site. I believed it was all over for me.” Paul panted with exertion. He was getting weaker, feeling dazed and nauseous. “I’m sorry I can’t give you any more information. I can barely think straight with this fever … I ran … I ran for my life…”
Paul slumped forwards in his chair, his hot forehead on the cool metal desk. He didn’t yet know what these lies would mean to the French people in Dieppe,
but for now, he was encouraged by the interrogator’s expression. It had visibly softened. The narrowed, suspicious eyes had relaxed, and in its place a sympathetic nod.
“Would you recognise the area if you saw it?” the Inspektor asked.
“If you’re asking me if I will search with you and your men for the Communist base, the answer is yes, of course. I will do whatever it takes to see those men hang.”
Chapter Thirteen
Klara Gabula
Arisaig, Scotland
November 1941
Klara Gabula was used to Polish winters, but she had never experienced anything like the biting winds or walls of thick grey sea mists that rolled into the Scottish SOE training school at nightfall. Arisaig, located in a remote area of Scotland’s rugged west coast, was the perfect site to train secret agents. The inquisitive locals were told it was a training centre for commandos and generally steered clear of the men and woman based there, although Klara had spotted a few children peeking through the perimeter fences.
Arisaig House, as it was known, consisted of several groups of cabins which housed agents destined for the same German occupied country. Klara, billeted with fellow Poles and using her own name for the first time in over a year, had never felt as liberated or as eager to learn. No more hiding secrets or being afraid of the enemy. She had questioned her past actions, confronted her mistakes, and was now looking to the future.
Upon her arrival, she’d been interviewed by Captain Frank Middleton, her principle tutor. During their initial meeting, she was informed that she’d been chosen by her previous handler, Max, as a potential SOE agent because she possessed qualities and traits the section needed. The captain had added that no female SOE agents had, thus far, been sent to her country, but he couldn’t see why she shouldn’t be the first to pass the Polish course, which differed slightly from the others. She surmised that Max had put her name forward before their disastrous final meeting in which he’d tried to strangle her.
