by Jana Petken
Klara believed she would have made a good candidate even without Max’s recommendation. She already had a Polish and French background, spoke those two languages fluently as well as reasonable English, and had already been an MI6 asset in Paris for over a year. When she was asked if she would volunteer to go on a mission with only a fifty percent chance of a safe return, she’d laughed, “Every day might have been my last in Paris. I know danger and death very well, Captain, and I’m not blasé about either.”
Klara found the physical training demanding, but also exhilarating. She was sleeping better than she had in years, had shed her guilt over betraying Romek, and had come to terms with losing Max. She loved him still; how could she not when he would forever hold her heart in his hands and be part of her most sacred places forever. For weeks, she’d prayed that he’d appear at the camp on some military pretext, ask to speak to her, and when they were alone, tell her that he’d forgiven her for his brother’s death. But as the weeks passed, so too did her hope of ever seeing him again.
She strode up the hill, wrapped in a heavy coat with its collar turned up to protect her face. She was battling a gale that could knock a person off their feet and leave the skin chaffed as if burnt. This morning, she was due to sit an exam on explosives. Theoretical tests were easy for her, as were memory tests, for she was an academic by nature, a sponge for information. She had told Captain Middleton that her greatest asset in Paris had been her photographic memory. When she read texts written in books or documents, she recalled them almost word for word for days thereafter. She’d explained it was like having a camera in her brain without meaning to sound boastful about her gift.
Klara had been surprised to learn that she was going to receive an officer’s rank when she’d completed her training. She’d been told that local Resistance groups were more likely to follow an officer. On her first day there, she had also discovered that she would be trained in a brutally physical way. She learnt the rudiments of hand-to-hand combat but did not excel in that department. She had taken part in water landings in dinghies when the Scottish waters had been icy and plagued with dangerous squalls. She was not an aggressive person, nor had she ever hit anyone in her life, therefore, the job of incapacitating someone without the use of a weapon had been beyond her in the beginning. She’d been quick to learn, however, that simple body mechanics, psychological deception, and body control were the most basic and efficient ways to protect and defend oneself in a fight.
As she neared the building, she went over the possible questions she’d face about explosives. In the previous week, she had witnessed their power first hand when a fellow agent had gone fishing, a loose term for what he’d done that day. He’d placed a detonating device into some plastic explosives and dropped the bomb into the nearby lake. The explosion killed hundreds of salmon, and she and another couple of agents had scrambled to remove the evidence before the people in the nearby town discovered them. Later, she’d expected the guilty agent to be dismissed from the SOE programme, but instead, his act of violence against the fish population had been applauded in some quarters, because, apparently, he had shown initiative and drive; precisely what the SOE was trying to teach. The dirtier the tricks you use against your adversary, the better, Captain Middleton had remarked.
After the test, Klara and her classmates were told to go to the camp’s bar. She entered the snug area and luxuriated in the warmth of the fire blazing in a fireplace almost the same length as the wall it was built into. It was one of the most welcoming sights she’d seen all week. It was dark and dreary in her billet and so very cold she’d almost disobeyed the standing order not to get into bed fully clothed. It was a strict rule, one she hadn’t understood until Captain Middleton had explained that the worst thing a person could do to their body was to sleep under blankets with garments on and then face the cold air outside with not more, but less bodily protection. She had thought it made sense at the time, so she’d decided to sleep in her underwear ever since, despite the misty breath emanating from her mouth at every exhalation.
“Dick, what’s going on?” Klara asked her fellow agent after being handed a glass of whisky. “I don’t drink this stuff. Even if I did, it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning.”
“Beats me, Klara, but I’m not refusing it,” Dick winked. “It’s just what I need to clear my pipes. Drink up, girl. It’ll warm the cockles of your heart.”
Klara grimaced, but joined him when he downed the Scotch in one.
“Gather around everyone,” said Frank Middleton with a mischievous grin. “Many of you are already in the army and are probably wondering why I’m breaking a rule by trying to get you drunk.” He raised his untouched glass of Scotch and studied the perplexed faces around him. “Come on, drink up. There’s plenty more where this came from. When you’re finished, refill your glasses with whatever tipple you prefer so long as it’s alcoholic. And when you’ve finished that one, fill up again and again until I tell you to stop.”
Klara giggled. The whisky had slid smoothly down her throat but was now burning her chest. As a woman who only occasionally drank alcohol, she worried that the next generous tot would tip her over the edge. She’d been drunk only once in her life with Romek and Max in Poland. The following day she’d gone to work with a terrible headache.
She went to the barman and dutifully asked for a refill, then she caught Frank’s eye. “May I have a lemonade instead, Captain? This is very generous of you but I’m afraid whisky will make me feel unwell.”
“I don’t care how it makes you feel, Gabula. You’ll drink what I tell you to drink, or you’ll pack your bags.”
Klara was shocked but did what she was told while Frank crossed to the centre of the room and held his hands up. “Listen, everyone. Contrary to what you might be thinking, I am not inviting you to drink good Scotch out of the kindness of my heart. This is an informal assessment to test your metal – yes, yes, don’t look at me like that. I know it’s in direct conflict with the regulations at other armed services’ training camps, but here’s the thing…” He studied the intrigued faces before him. “I am giving you strong drink to evaluate your level of commitment, and more importantly, to find out if you can handle alcohol. Why? Because agents who can’t hold their drink are of no use to SOE. We need you to be able to control any situation with equanimity, and that includes you getting drunk and being up close and personal with German soldiers or enemy agents in the field. We can’t have weak-bellied spies falling over or spilling secrets to all and sundry when under the influence, can we?”
“No, sir!” They all shouted in chorus.
“Good, because when you do stop drinking I’ll be giving you a test – about what, you don’t need to know yet. Drink up!”
Klara was dismayed. She had no idea how many glasses of the disgusting stuff she would have to drink to satisfy the captain, but she was certain that if she failed this test, and the next one, she would not be going to Poland.
“How are you getting on, Gabula,” Frank asked her a while later.
Klara, now on her third glass, straightened her back. “Well, thank you, Captain.”
“Without turning around, tell me how many plant pots are on the window ledge behind you.”
“Four, sir,” she answered without hesitation. “The plants in them are Azaleas, Busy Lizzies, and Ivy. The fourth pot is empty.” She had remembered looking at the plant pots when she’d first come in and was still sober. She had asked the bartender what the plants were. Memory tests could come anywhere, anytime and she had studied everything in the room including the sign that said, take off muddy boots – which no one had.
“Very good. You can finish what’s in your glass, then call it a day,” Frank said with a nod of approval.
Less than five minutes later, a French woman was unceremoniously carried out of the snug by two of her male colleagues after vomiting on the floor by the ladies’ toilet and then falling on her backside. She would be on a train that afternoon; a fa
ilure, a reject.
Klara, dejected about losing a female colleague, sat on the bench seat beside the window, no longer trusting her feet to carry her out in a straight line. Men were becoming rowdy, some had started to sing and insult Adolf Hitler, and she found herself giggling at their antics. She swivelled to the window ledge to peer at the plant pots and giggled again as she wondered if they might enjoy a little drink. First, she checked no one was looking, then she poured the remains of her Scotch into the pot with soil but without a plant. Still giggling, she returned her attention to the room and stared straight into the eyes of the man she’d been longing for.
Max – Max Vogel. Klara gaped, blinked, then blinked again. She was not imagining it; he was there. He had come for her. He loved her still and any minute now he would to tell her she was forgiven. Her eyes filled with alcohol-induced tears as she gazed at the man she had been dreaming about for so very long. They shone with love through the cigarette smoke and she made to rise. Until he scowled and turned his back on her.
Chapter Fourteen
Max Vogel
Arisaig, Scotland.
Frank drove at five miles per hour on the winding stretch of road running parallel to the rugged Scottish coast. Rain and mist made it impossible to see more than six feet in front of him, and he’d been forced to stop a few times to get out of the car to look at the condition of the ground ahead before continuing. He had warned Max that the stretch of road between the village and the house was often blocked by rocks and fallen trees, and this evening, rocky landslides were particularly severe.
Max, glad of the bad weather and the delay it was causing, hadn’t stopped talking since they’d left the SOE training camp. He was desperate to tell Frank about Paul’s abduction and everything that had followed it, before arriving at the house where his mother and Hannah would be waiting.
“So, this Pole, Darek, he definitely wants to fight?” Frank asked when Max finally stopped talking.
“Yes. He’s anxious to get involved. He seems hell-bent on going back behind enemy lines. I’ve told him a bit about what we do and he’s all in.”
“Where is he now?”
“In detention until the vetting protocols have been completed. When I saw Heller yesterday, he told me he was going to hand Darek over to the Polish headquarters in London, but the sly fox had already reached out to SOE. It will be interesting to see who wins that battle.
“We’re desperate for Polish and French agents, Max. See what you can do for us.”
Silence ensued until Frank put on the brakes when a large puddle loomed. “Shit, these roads are littered with potholes. It’s impossible to know how deep they are, especially when it’s dark like this.”
Max swore when his head hit the ceiling. “I see what you mean.”
Frank manoeuvred the car around the next pothole, then glanced sideways at Max. “You didn’t say, so I’ll ask, how furious was Heller when you told him about Paul’s escape in Dieppe?”
“He was apoplectic.” Max chuckled. “Called me every sort of bloody idiot for trusting Paul in the first place then told me to let it go. He’s sending another agent over to France to try and calm the waters with Duguay. I cocked up, Frank. We’ve probably lost the French Partisans’ cooperation because of that farce at the airstrip. It’ll be a long time before I’ll be able to show my face in France again.”
“I’m not surprised Heller was furious. He’ll get it in the ear from above if the Germans take out that Communist group.”
Max sighed. “That’s not my biggest concern. After weeks of worrying that Paul might be dead, and then feeling as though a ton of bricks had been lifted off my shoulders when I found him alive, I’m now back to square one worrying myself sick about him. I keep thinking that he got away, that he was smart and didn’t panic. But trying to convince myself and knowing it to be true are two very different things – this is not how I want to spend my war, Frank.”
“You did your best for him, Max, but you need to come to terms with his choices. It doesn’t matter how much you might wish he’d given up Germany to come to our side, the fact of the matter is he chose the Nazis over a year ago.”
Frank had a good point, but it still stung like the devil. “Heller said the same thing.”
“Talk about a family being split by war. I’m still trying to wrap my head around Paul being married to a Gestapo Major’s daughter, Wilmot spending time in a prison camp, and your father being a British spy. What sort of family have I married into?” Frank chuckled, then he stopped the car at the bottom of the lane leading to the cottage. “Joking apart, is there anything you can do to find out if Paul made it back to his unit?”
Max had asked himself that on the train journey from London and had concluded that he couldn’t do a damn thing. “If I make another wrong move, I’ll be up for treason. Heller’s not finished with me yet. You know what he’s like when he’s been crossed.”
“Hmm, not the forgiving type, and he’s got the memory of an elephant. Did he think … did he suspect…?”
“What? Say it, Frank.”
“All right. Look, you lost a prisoner, Max, not just a German soldier but your Nazi brother. It might be…”
“Oh, for God’s sake, not you as well. You think I helped him get away? Christ, Frank. Do you?”
“No! Don’t be daft. I was going to say that it might have looked that way to Heller.”
Max recalled Heller’s exact words, but he was unwilling to share them with Frank. You’re going down the slippery slope to treason, Max, and you don’t even realise it. “I was desperate to get Paul on that plane and back to England, even if it meant he’d be locked up as soon as he arrived. If Heller thinks otherwise, it’s his problem. Not much I can do about the way his mind works, is there?”
Frank’s hands gripped the steering wheel as though he’d just thought of something even more disturbing. “Jesus Christ – please tell me you didn’t tell Paul about your father’s situation – does he know your dad’s still alive?”
“No. I didn’t have time to talk to Paul about anything other than his release. I was going to spill the beans about our parents being in England after we’d touched down in Kent.”
Frank exhaled. “Thank God. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, you can’t trust Paul anymore. I know that’s hard to hear…”
“I agree ... and I heard you the first time. He’s not the brother I knew a year ago. I saw a Wehrmacht officer in France, desperate to get back to his unit and his wife in Germany, and it cut me to ribbons. Don’t get me wrong, he was grateful I’d gone back for him, but not enough to give a damn about the repercussions for me when he ran away. Know what, Frank? I’m lucky Claude and Jean didn’t think I’d been complicit in Paul’s escape. They’d have shot at me instead.”
Once Frank had parked the car outside the house, he changed the subject. “Paul’s friend, Judith Weber, is here. Your father sent her to us. You’ll like her.”
“Interesting,” Max said, still thinking about Paul.
******
Laura and Hannah squealed with delight when they spotted Max getting out of Frank’s car. It was dark, and the rain was lashing down, soaking the two men as they ran up the garden path.
After a quick hello, they both went straight upstairs to change out of their sodden uniforms. When Max came back down, he noticed another woman setting cutlery on the table, her head bowed to her task and oblivious to his presence. Not wanting to scare her, he called out a soft, “Hello, there,” from the doorway. She looked up, promptly dropped the knives and forks and swayed in a faint.
Max rushed forwards and caught her as she staggered backwards. “Are you all right?” he asked, still holding her steady at her elbows.
“Yes … yes, thank you.” Her large dark eyes widened further as she held his gaze.
Her exquisite face with flawless pale skin tinged with pink from the Scottish air, was surrounded by shiny black curls to her shoulders. Max stretched out his han
d and gently brushed a curly tendril from the edge of her half-parted lips and tucked it behind her ear. Now he understood why Paul had been taken with her. She was stunning.
Embarrassed by his impulsive act, Max took a step back. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said.
“No … no need. I thought you were Paul … Doctor Vogel. Are you Max?”
“I am indeed.” He pulled out a chair. She sat, her hands shaking as she pushed her hair back from her forehead.
Max sat in a chair opposite her and waited until she had settled herself. “And you must be Judith, Paul’s friend from Berlin,” he finally said in German.
“Yes. Judith Weber. Hannah told me I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference … only your hair…”
“It’s not mine … well, of course it’s my hair, but just not my normal colour.” Christ, he sounded like a prepubescent schoolboy. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Judith. Frank mentioned that you’d come to live with them for a while. My father talks fondly about you. He said you were very brave when you went across the Swiss border.”
“I did what any desperate Jew would do.”
“Not true. Many would have stayed in Germany out of fear for the unknown. I’ve come with a job offer, Judith. Would you like to work in England for the war effort?”
Judith frowned. “A job, for me? I don’t speak English very well, only a few words your mother and Hannah have taught me. What could I do?”
Max was annoyed with himself for not even giving her five minutes to recover from the shock of seeing him – Paul’s mirror image – or giving her a chance to get to know him before mentioning business. He reminded himself that she’d already been pushed from pillar to post since her arrival in Britain and probably wouldn’t relish another move.
“Tell you what, Judith, why don’t we talk about it after dinner?”
