by Jana Petken
“Sounds good.” Max cleared his throat. He’d decided to be honest with Frank about Klara, even though her part in Paul’s abduction had been concealed. Heller and Blackthorn of SOE had both decided that her reputation should be without blemishes before she went to the commando training school.
“I need a favour, Frank,” Max finally said. “I’ll understand if you say no, but hear me out first, will you?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Christ, this is going to be hard…”
“Max?”
“All right. The thing is I know one of your pupils. Her name is Klara Gabula. I was her handler in France, and I’d like to speak to her in private while I’m here.”
“You know you can’t do that, not while she’s in training.”
“You’re right, technically, I can’t. That’s why I’m asking you for the favour.”
“I’m sorry, Max, but unless you give me a damn good reason, my answer is no.”
Max gulped. “I’m in love with her … was in love … Christ, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know how I feel. Love, hate, I’m so bloody tired of personal dramas I can’t think straight. Look, I wouldn’t ask unless it was important. I need to see her, not just because of our personal relationship, but because she thinks she killed Paul.” Max downed the whisky, grateful that Frank had suggested the nightcap.
Frank folded his arms. “You didn’t tell me about this in the car. Go on.”
“Klara abducted Paul thinking he was me…”
Max told Frank about Klara’s part in the whole tragic story. “So, there you have it. Now do you see why I have to tell her she didn’t kill Paul?”
Frank looked furious. “You lied to me, Max. You said Paul was lifted off the street, not by whom or why. I’m not happy about this. Damn it, I knew there was something off with her, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to mention Klara at all. I didn’t want to overload you with information on the drive here. I just thought … well, now that I’m here…”
“I was overloaded the minute you told me Paul had been abducted,” Frank snapped, as he refilled his glass. “This explains a lot about Klara’s personality. She’s a nice kid, but she’s a loner, doesn’t mix much with her classmates. She looks sad, distant a lot of the time. Her behaviour has been worrying me. I thought she might be too sensitive for the job, or she was having a hard time getting over the loss of her husband.” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “I hope their separation has nothing to do with you. Has it?”
“Yes.” Max closed his eyes. “I think so, yes. Shit, I don’t know.”
“Bloody irresponsible of you to get involved with a married woman. I’m disappointed in you. You should have known better.”
“I take it your answer is still no, then?”
“I’m not sure what to do. She’s smart, a damn good agent who’s supposed to be going to Poland when we’re finished with her. But I can’t put a lovesick spy in the field…”
“Trust me, I know. That’s why I need to tell her Paul is still alive – please, Frank?”
Max recalled the last time he’d seen Klara. He’d tried to leap over a desk to strangle her. The terror on her face had haunted him ever since, as had his cruel words. He refused to leave Arisaig without telling her that Paul had not been killed on the night she’d taken him to Duguay. He’d go behind Frank’s back to get to her, if he had to.
“I don’t want to upset her, Frank,” Max tried again. “In fact, if you let me talk to her for five minutes, I guarantee she’ll cheer up – give me five minutes. I won’t ask for more – five, Frank.”
“I’m going to bed,” Frank grumbled. “I’ll inform her in the morning that you’re going to meet with her. You can have your five minutes during her lunch break.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m warning you, Max, if you say or do anything to distract her from her job, I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Chapter Sixteen
Klara Gabula
Captain Middleton’s request that she meet with Max at lunchtime had knocked Klara for six. She left the mess hall, her stomach still empty and fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, despite her attempt to eat. She washed her face in a sink outside her hut, applied some lip balm to her lips, combed her hair and then rushed to the classroom to meet Max. Surprise, dread, yearning, and nerves were making her legs tremble as she walked, and those were only the tip of her emotional iceberg. Why Max had made the long journey to Scotland to see her was still unclear, but she had already deduced that he must have received confirmation of his brother’s death and wanted her to feel even guiltier than she already did. This, she suspected, would be the last time she’d ever see him, and it was going to be a bitter goodbye.
Max stood at the classroom window that looked out over a field of fern and heather. He turned to face her, his stare as intense as the rugged scenery outside. She froze just inside the doorway, struck by the vivid memory of his rough hands reaching for her neck in the interview room at the London SOE Headquarters.
“Hello, Klara,” Max said.
“Hello.”
Max crossed to her with long strides, and Kara took a step backwards.
“I want to talk to you, Klara, just talk.” Max led her to a chair and sat her down. Dressed as the aloof British Major that he was, he stared unemotionally at her, even as her eyes became moist and she folded one trembling hand over the other on the desk.
She squeezed her fingers, and asked, “Why are you here, Max?”
“I need to tell you about my brother, but first, I have to apologise for the way I reacted in London. As a rule, I would never lift a hand in anger. Never, Klara. I scared you, but I was out of my mind with worry…”
“Don’t apologise. You have every right to hate me.”
“I’ve never hated you. Disappointed and hurt, yes, but never hate.” Max sat at the desk next to her, looking far too big and bulky for the classroom chair. “I was furious. I wanted to throttle you and everyone else involved in Paul’s abduction. I was beside myself with grief, and it got the better of me. I’m ashamed of how I reacted. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course, I…” Her words got stuck in her throat when Max touched her arm.
“I went to Paris. I found Paul, and he was alive. He didn’t die at Duguay’s hands, or at yours,” Max uttered.
Klara stopped breathing. Tears sprung from her eyes and she lowered her head before a long, ragged breath tore from her throat. She began to sob as relief washed over her. Embarrassed, she covered her face with her hands, and in a muffled voice uttered, “They lied to me? Claude and Duguay … they both lied.” She finally looked at him and met a kinder face. “Did Paul go back to his unit?”
Max nodded. “Yes, he was heading back to Paris when I last saw him. The point is, you mustn’t blame yourself anymore. No more guilt, Klara, do you hear me? I need you to put Paul and Duguay behind you now. You have enough to contend with here.”
Max got up to sit on the edge of her desk. He tilted her chin with his fingers and captivated her with that sweet, loving gaze she had come to know.
“It will never be completely behind me. I will always regret what I did.” Klara lifted her hand to his cheek, brushing it gently with the tips of her fingers as the first tears spilt from her eyes. “I love you, Max.”
Max leant in, his eyes half closed as their lips touched, but then, as though stung, he pulled back.
Dizzy with love, she shivered at his rebuff. “I understand … no need to say anything.”
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said regardless, “I promised myself I wouldn’t get close to you. We have no future together, Klara. Not anymore.”
She shook her head. “You’re not thinking…”
“I can’t stop thinking. I agonise over how close Paul came to death, how you thought I might be working for the Germans without giving me, or him, a chance to explain. But worst of all, I
can’t accept that you lied to me in the back of the truck. We made love, Klara, but afterwards you could barely look at me or touch me. I spent days trying to understand what I might have done wrong. I can’t – I won’t forgive that.”
She panicked. “I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you about it.”
“For God’s sake, Klara, if you had, I wouldn’t have left France. I would have dragged you back to Duguay’s base to plead for my brother’s life!”
Klara flinched as he got abruptly to his feet and went to the window. She followed him, staring at his back, willing him to turn around. “We can fix this, Max.”
When he finally faced her, he folded his arms across his chest, a closed off gesture she had learnt about in class. “Max, I won’t try to persuade you to come back to me, but please tell me that you forgive me?”
“I did, five minutes ago. You must understand that this is not some game I’m playing. We’re broken, and we can’t be fixed. I came here today to tell you that Paul is alive or was the last time I saw him. You deserved that much from me. But our affair, or whatever you want to call it, is over.”
She held his eyes, daring him to retract his statement, but when he didn’t she shoved her hands in her coat pockets in defiance. “Why did Florent Duguay give Paul his freedom?”
Max raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, come on, Max, it’s a perfectly reasonable question. Since being here, I’ve learnt the importance of secrecy, especially when it involves the locations of safe houses and who is involved with the Resistance. Given that Paul Vogel is now free to report back to his unit with information on how many men Duguay has and possibly the area in which his base is situated, I think it highly unlikely that he would let Paul walk unless something bigger was at play.”
The beautiful moment between them had gone with the words, we’re broken. He and she were like old clocks forever being repaired but never working as well as they had when they were new and undamaged by the passage of time. They’d have no more intimate moments together, she thought. But she’d be damned if she’d let him walk out thinking she didn’t have a brain in her head.
“I thought Duguay and Romek were paranoid, but these last few weeks have taught me that one can never lower one’s guard in enemy territory, not for a second,” she said in a cold, flat voice. “I know now that personal feelings and errors made because of love or fear have no place in the field. They’re as likely to bring down an agent as a German bullet, and I will not open my heart again.”
“Then you’ve learnt a valuable lesson,” Max said.
“I have, and that’s why I can’t understand why Duguay released Paul. Had he been in my custody, I would have killed him. God help me for saying that, but as a spy, I would have shot him in the head and buried his body – that should have been Duguay’s only safe option – tell me Max, what and who did you sacrifice to make your brother safe? What rules did you break?”
Max buttoned his greatcoat, then picked up his hat from a desk. Without looking at her, he put it on and made for the door, as though Klara were no longer in the room.
Unafraid of consequences or another berating, Klara rushed to the door, her hands on her hips like a fuming fishwife. “You can’t answer that one, can you? You might have put Duguay’s entire operation in danger because of your feelings for Paul, but you don’t care about that. You used your heart instead of your head, just as I did, and though you may tell yourself that your actions were more professional than mine, you’re no better than me, Major Vogel.”
Max’s eyes became cold as he opened the door. “Move on, Klara. Keep safe. Don’t get into any more trouble.”
After he left, Klara returned to her hut. She pulled on her socks, hiking boots, and thick quilted jacket. She blew her nose and brushed her hair with such ferocity her scalp stung. Max had said his piece, and she couldn’t and wouldn’t beg for another chance with him. He was right; they were beyond repair. The damage she had caused would haunt her forever.
She pulled her hood over her head to keep out at least some of the rain lashing down outside, then stared at her pale, forlorn face and the eyes that held no life. She’d had a lover, and now he was gone. He was going back to his war, taking his self-righteousness with him. She had a husband who was hiding somewhere in Spain away from a world at war, at least that’s where he’d been heading when she’d last seen him at Duguay’s farm. And her, look at her, dressed like a man going into combat with only one thought: killing Germans. That was what mattered now. She was going to show Max Vogel and Florent Duguay just how good an agent she really was. They were no better or wiser than she.
Chapter Seventeen
Freddie Biermann
Berlin, Germany
December 1941
Freddie Biermann clasped his hands behind his back and squinted at the blinding white landscape outside. The recent storm had been relentless, beginning with rain and gales that had lasted throughout the previous night as well as most of the present day. Now the wind had died, but it was so very cold that the rain had frozen mid-air and turned to snow.
Biermann’s subordinate, Kriminalinspektor Manfred Krüger, stood in front of the desk, shifting his feet on the thick blue carpet. Having been groomed by the Kriminaldirektor, he knew when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut, and on this occasion, he appeared reluctant to say a word unless spoken to.
Biermann turned from the window and pointed to a pile of documents. “Look at this lot, Manfred. Even with my evidence, they don’t believe me. Even with all this!”
“Perhaps they do believe you but don’t want to open a can of worms…”
“What can of worms?”
“You know, the SS…”
“Yes, yes, I know them,” Biermann grumbled. “My point is, what’s the use of having the damn proof if no one will take action? It’s preposterous that Herr Himmler won’t bring a traitor to justice – no – no! I’m not having it. The sole fact that Vogel hid his artworks before disappearing should have been enough to convince even his biggest supporters that his death was a ruse. I want those paintings. You hear me, Manfred? I want them.”
“Shall I pour you a brandy, sir?” Krüger asked.
“Yes.” Biermann pushed his frustrations aside and returned to his desk to concentrate on more pressing matters. The news from various fronts and at home was bad, particularly after Germany’s winning streak in Western Europe.
“Let’s put the Vogel issue aside for the moment,” he said, taking a sip of the brandy. “The news from the Eastern Front is not good, and between you and me, the atmosphere here at the Reich Security Office is as frigid as the weather outside.”
“I did notice, sir.”
“Sit, Manfred, sit.” Freddie enjoyed airing his thoughts with like-minded people. It allowed him to offload many mental burdens. He particularly liked the young man now sitting before him, and although he found him a tad sycophantic, he was as trustworthy as a subordinate could be. The Reich was plagued by backstabbers who thought they’d be safe from personal scrutiny if they blamed others of disloyalty. He no longer knew what disloyalty meant, for Hitler seemed to be accusing every man and his dog of betrayal every time Germany made a misstep. It was sad but true that honest and frank conversations seemed to be a thing of the past in the Fatherland.
He picked up a document. “Reports of Adolf Hitler’s continuous attacks on members of his High Command have reached the top floor. Everyone is on edge, from Rinehart Heydrich to our most junior SS and Gestapo officers. No one is feeling safe from the Führer’s blame game. No one knows how far his rage will reach when he loses his temper…”
“Or who he or his henchmen will target next.”
“Precisely.” Biermann indicated the files on his desk. “Remember a simpler time? In the old days, I wouldn’t have been given access to all this classified material. You and I, we’re not military men, and I’m not sure if I’m happy about the Gestapo’s current mandate. It’s grown to such an extent t
hat we’ve now got to investigate cases of treason, espionage, sabotage and criminal attacks on the Nazi Party, including those instigated in the military. I say, let the Abwehr stick their noses into the army’s business. They stick them everywhere else, eh?”
“I absolutely agree, sir. I looked at the Gestapo recruitment files last week and saw that our workload has doubled in the last year, but manpower hasn’t. I blame all this disruption on the Jews. We’ve lost good men to Poland and those ghettos. In a simpler world we’d wipe the Kikes off the face of the earth and be done with them. We don’t have nearly enough men to do our proper jobs, never mind babysitting Jews.”
Krüger sighed dramatically and shook his head. “Ach, I just don’t know … it’s no easy task keeping up with the Wehrmacht cases we’re being asked to handle and, as you so rightly say, sir, in order to conduct comprehensive investigations into military offences, we need to know what’s going on in its ranks. To do that, we need more men on the streets and maybe even in the military barracks.”
The Gestapo’s growing power was a double-edged sword, Biermann thought. Its basic tenet, which had been passed by the government in 1936, gave the Secret Police Force carte blanche to operate without judicial review; in effect, putting it above the law and exempting it from the authority of the administrative courts where citizens could normally sue the state to conform to the law of the land. The Gestapo’s power also included the use of what was called, Schutzhaft – protective custody – a euphemism for imprisonment without judicial proceedings.
The police forces seemed omniscient and omnipotent to most people, and the terror they fomented was leading to an overestimation of their reach and strength. It was a faulty assessment, Biermann believed, but it helped to hamper the operational effectiveness of underground resistance organisations who were scared stiff of the German Secret Police in their countries.
“I often wonder if we haven’t created a rod for our own backs,” Biermann said, still deep in thought. “We adhere to the regime’s view that all antipathy to Hitler is not to be tolerated, so we gave ourselves the important, but time-consuming role of monitoring and prosecuting all who oppose Nazi rule, whether openly or covertly.”
