by Joe Poyer
‘Surprised?’
Memling pushed himself up on the hard bench beside the resistance leader and took the cigarette. The lorry hit a pothole, and both were thrown against the side. Paul swore and rapped on the glass window above his head with the butt of a pistol; the lorry slowed appreciably.
‘Everyone drives like a Chicago gangster,’ he muttered.
Memling finally managed to assemble an entire sentence. ‘What in hell is going on?’
‘The Gestapo was on to you. We could not afford to let you be taken.’
Memling grunted and braced himself. ‘Did you get Maria away?’
Paul flung the cigarette on to the floorboards where it exploded in a cascade of sparks, and swore bitterly. ‘We knew that you were interviewed by one Captain Jacob Walsch at thirteen thirty-five yesterday afternoon. They had hoped to panic you into doing something foolish, but you appear to have handled them admirably. When Maria’s telephone message came we decided to move tonight. Unfortunately it was too late for her. She was arrested this afternoon.’
Memling was shocked into silence. He had not expected that Maria would be arrested, rather that she would be watched and followed to uncover other members of the resistance. Paul sensed the direction of his thoughts.
‘The Gestapo would not waste the time watching her. As soon as they were certain she was a member of our group, they took her in for interrogation. They have methods which are much quicker and surer than cloak-and-dagger games.’
‘Interrogation,’ Memling echoed, remembering the beating.
‘It is much worse for a woman,’ Paul went on remorselessly. He paused to light another cigarette, and in the glow of the match Memling could see the bleakness in his eyes. ‘There are so many more things they can do to ...’
‘Christ, I ….’
The Belgian was silent a moment, then Memling felt the movement as he shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about it. It was not your fault. You did exactly what you should have done. They may have been watching her before you made contact. It was probably through her they came on to you. Not the other way round.’
‘Where is she now? Do they ...?’
‘As I said, do not worry. She is beyond their reach, and she told them nothing. Of that I am certain.’
‘But how ...?’
‘It was her decision, made when she joined. Maria had a family. She knew what would happen to them if she were caught, and so did they. She could not run. Therefore she could only wait to be arrested. She will be dead now. All of us carry a small poison pill.’
‘Good Christ!’
‘You have no idea what they can do to you in their torture chambers.’ Paul described a few of their methods, and Memling felt sick. ‘They are not human, none of them. They, men like this Walsch, delight in inflicting pain, the most savage pain imaginable. You would have had only a taste. Death is a small price to pay to escape their attention.’
Memling took a deep breath, beginning to recover from the shock. He shook his head as if to rid himself of the knowledge, and his fists clenched so hard, a joint popped. He stared at his hands in the darkness, struck by the certain knowledge they were covered with blood. In spite of what Paul had told him, he knew that he was at fault, that he and he alone had led the girl to her death by insisting on the meeting.
The lorry lurched over a grade crossing and sped on. The canvas flap had been lowered, and the air inside had grown stuffy in spite of the frigid dampness. ‘Where are we going?’ he muttered.
‘To meet an aeroplane. I am having you flown out tonight.’
In spite of his self-loathing, Memling felt a surge of hope. ‘I don’t understand. Did London agree?’ It was inconceivable they would ... he was far too unimportant...
‘You could say so. However reluctantly. They do not, understandably enough, wish to give up an agent on the ground. But I convinced them that your information is much more important than any vague plans they have for the future.’ The lorry rounded another comer, and in the fading light cast by a lone street lamp Memling could see Paul’s cold expression. ‘Be thankful they did agree. Otherwise, we would have had to kill you back there.’
‘But …’
Paul’s voice was harsh now. ‘You were to be arrested tonight. After interrogation, what was left of you would have been hanged in the factory yard tomorrow morning. Maria would have been hanged beside you.’
He drew an audible breath. ‘We could not chance your arrest. Your information concerning the rockets is far too important to be lost. I repeated your calculations and arrived at much the same answers. With such weapons, the Nazis will win this war. If you had been taken, you would have betrayed us. You had no way of killing yourself quickly, whereas Maria did. It is impossible to resist them - if pain does not work, drugs will.’
Jan nodded. The news of independent confirmation of his calculations did much to relieve his indecision. Looked at in that light, his nebulous plans for coursing the hills to inflict damage on the enemy in a series of brilliant, if short-lived, guerrilla actions was more than foolish; it was stupid, little short of an adolescent fantasy.
His thoughts turned inevitably to the woman. She had exuded sexuality as some people did friendliness or hostility. That was a valuable, a priceless, asset that could have provided her a comfortable life under the German occupation. Instead, she had chosen to live on the edge of madness. Why? What was it that drove people like her, like Paul, like the driver and the two men crouched beside the tailboard? He discounted his own activities on the grounds that he had been forced by circumstances. But they had not. Why? Patriotism? He doubted that. Certainly there were other, safer ways to fight the Nazi, ways that did not mean a slow, painful death at the hands of sadists who delighted in inflicting the worst possible pain.
After what seemed hours the lorry slowed and lurched to one side. They had turned off the road and were travelling at a much slower speed now. Memling had the impression that they were moving uphill, up a slope full of turns and twists that caused the motor to labour and the gears to grind painfully. The canvas cover had been rolled up again, and he could see dark masses of trees on either side. The lorry slowed again, and at a word from Paul the two men scrambled over the back and disappeared. They were travelling at a walking pace now, and Paul knelt at the rear, his machine pistol resting stock down on his bent knee. There was silence except for the rumble of the engine. He saw Paul’s head lift to search the sky which was filling quickly with broken cloud.
The lorry stopped, and the driver rapped on the window. Paul climbed out, followed by Memling. A torch beam sprang out of the blackness, and Memling jumped. One of the men materialised beside them and made his report to Paul in tones too low for Memling to hear. The man disappeared again, and Paul gestured with his torch, indicating a narrow path through the forest. They walked until the trees fell away on either side, and the Englishman realised that he was on the verge of a large clearing.
‘Is this the landing site?’
‘We’ve used it only once before. We’re sure the Germans do not know about it. They are scattered thinly in the countryside as yet, preferring to hold most of their forces in the metropolitan areas.’
Memling shifted from foot to foot, uneasy that he could think of nothing to say. His guilt was growing with the realisation that soon he would be going home, flying out of danger, while Paul and the rest had to remain behind. He refused to let himself think about the girl.
The wind was fresher here on the edge of the trees, and the sense of oppression caused by the dense forest had eased. Memling stamped his feet and jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, wishing he had a decent coat and gloves. Paul gave him another cigarette, and they smoked behind cupped hands. Afterwards the Belgian tucked the packet into his pocket without a word. It was nearly an hour before they heard the distant drone of an aircraft. The wind played tricks with the sound, so that he was taken by surprise when the first flare shot up. In the pitch-blackness the orange glare seemed
to light the entire horizon. The plane circled once as the pilot lined up on his landing approach. Paul stamped impatiently, turning to stare back into the trees or around the far unseen edges of the clearing as the aeroplane drifted towards them. Memling sensed the air of uncertainty, and his stomach knotted tighter until nausea caught at the back of his throat. He restrained the gag reflex with great difficulty.
The aircraft had reached the far edge of the clearing, and they could see it now as a vague shape over the first of the oil flares. The engine beat changed as the pilot throttled back. It fled past then and settled with an audible thump on to the frozen field. The engine ran up as the plane swung about and, as Paul waved his electric torch, began to taxi back towards them.
Memling followed him on to the frozen field. Paul was shouting to him now over the noise of the approaching aircraft: ‘ ... damned fools in London we need weapons and food. Impress that on them. No more propaganda leaflets ...’
The passenger door swung open as the pilot turned around once more, ready for take-off. The sky exploded with light, and geysers of dirt and grass shot upward. Paul shouted for him to run, but the field was uneven and full of grassy hummocks and dead berry vines that clutched at his boots and trouser legs. A heavy machine-gun ripped the surface as he ran, gasping for breath. The Lysander aircraft was painted a flat black, and it was a moment before he realised it was rolling forwards in fits and jerks, propeller turning at full speed, the pilot allowing him every last possible chance by standing on the brakes.
An amplified voice shouted at him to halt, first in Flemish, then in German, and finally in English. There was a burst of explosions at one end of the clearing, and he could see the flicker of small-arms fire. Memling veered suddenly to his right, and a stream of bullets cut a deep furrow past his feet. He stumbled and nearly fell. The pilot saw what he was doing and at the last moment released the brakes. The aircraft jumped ahead. Memling ducked to avoid the strut, and as the pilot stamped the brakes one last time, he jumped and caught the cockpit coaming where he hung, feet scrabbling for purchase on the landing step, while the aircraft bounded ahead. The field was now in continuous eruption as successive explosions sparkled about them; something slicked past his leg as he hauled himself up and into the cockpit. The Lysander bounced one more time and was airborne. Memling could still hear the iron voice roaring at them as streams of tracers hosed the sky and they banked for the protection of the forest. There was just time to look back and impress upon his mind for ever the searchlight playing along the fringe of trees, the two armoured vehicles firing long strings of tracers, the flaring oil beacons at either end of the field, and, from the forest itself, the pinpoint flashes of answering gunfire as Paul’s group delayed the inevitable.
Then the engine shuddered and racketed as the Lysander lurched. Tracers whispered past, and for an instant they were standing on the left wing thirty feet above the treetops. The plane came upright with insane slowness, and the trees fled.
Not until the Channel coast had they outflown the anticyclonic disturbance and broken out of the nightmarish winds and cloud. There was nothing to see below, not even the lights of a ship to break the immense darkness. Not until the pilot was lining up for his approach did Memling realise they had crossed the English coast and were home.
Three men in civilian clothing were there to greet him. They introduced themselves too quickly to be understood and led him to a waiting motorcar. They were the immediate debriefing team, they had told him, and a few moments later the car drew up before a darkened building. Vague shapes came and went, and he blinked and closed his eyes as they pushed through the blackout curtain into a lighted hallway. The chatter of voices, the sound of gramophone music, the sight of women in short dresses, their groomed hair and make-up, were overwhelming, and he stumbled after his hosts in confusion.
They took him inside and sat him at a table near the far wall where there was a measure of peace and quiet, and the younger man went to fetch a tray of food. Jan looked around him, fighting down a feeling of naked exposure.
‘It is often like this, my boy,’ the older man told him in a kind voice. ‘You mustn’t take any heed. It will all begin to seem normal in a day or so as old habits reassert themselves.’
The younger man returned, placed the tray in front of Memling, and poured a cup of hot tea for him. The tray held buttered toast and some dried American breakfast cereal in milk. He started in on the tray without complaint, wondering if he dared ask for seconds, but found that after the tea and toast he wanted nothing more.
‘You aren’t used to rich food, my boy.’ The older man chuckled. ‘Had others before you get quite sick. Fat content’s too high. You must build up your tolerance again. Stick to tea and light pastry or wheaten products for a few days. Eggs, some milk, and fruit. No ham or bacon for at least a week, although you will find that easy enough in view of the rationing.’
When he had finished the tea, Memling searched his pockets and found the packet of cigarettes Paul had given him, but the young man nipped them from his hand quickly.
‘Thank you. We can always use these. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind a trade.’ He opened his case, removing a full carton of Player’s. ‘These for a German export brand?’
Memling took the carton and shook his head. ‘I could... could live for three months on these … just on what I could earn in the black market, a packet at a time.’
The three exchanged smiles, and the third man, who had remained silent so far, leaned across the table as Memling lit one of the cigarettes. ‘Tell us, why was Paul’s group destroyed?’ Memling jerked up.
‘What happened?’ the man repeated.
Memling closed his eyes a moment. Of course. They are dead, he thought. He knew the Germans had been waiting ... Why had he refused to think about it until now? It wasn’t his fault... but it was and he knew it. How? How had Walsch known? He opened his eyes to see that everything was as it had been, the room still swirled with people, most in uniform, dishes clattered, and the gramophone swung into another record. The three faces were watching him with an intensity he found frightening.
Memling told them what had happened, speaking slowly and distinctly above the noise, smoking three cigarettes one after the other as he did so. He described his relationship to Paul’s group, his first request for contact, his meeting with Paul, and his subsequent interrogation. He left out the threat of hanging, his fear of Walsch, the terror tactics employed to break him, and, by doing so, aroused their suspicions. He described the attack on the Gestapo car following him, the wild ride into the Ardennes forest, and Paul’s explanations of why he was being taken out. When he finished, he was more exhausted than he thought possible. They asked a few more questions which he answered as well as he could, and the third man nodded grimly.
‘Tell us about this report that you felt was important enough to justify the possible destruction of an entire resistance cell?’
Memling swore and stood so abruptly his chair fell over with a clatter. Some people looked in their direction, but most paid no attention. The other two scowled at their companion, and the younger man urged him to resume his seat.
His anger came as much in response to the past eight months in Belgium as to the man’s implication. ‘Please, Mr Memling’ - he tried to soothe him - ‘please realise that we must dig into every facet of what happened while it is still fresh in your mind. What we learn may save someone else’s life. You have stated that Paul felt you must be got out immediately. Why? Did he give you any reason?’
‘Of course,’ Memling snapped. ‘He knew I was going to be arrested within hours. It was for the protection of his own people. His alternative was to kill me, which I am certain he would have done if he had not thought my information so important. He knew I would never be able to withstand a Gestapo interrogation.’ He saw them exchange quick, knowing glances, just as they had when he mentioned Paul’s alternative, and for an instant he wanted to smash their smug, well-fed faces.
&
nbsp; ‘You don’t understand,’ he snarled. ‘You think the Nazi plays by the rules, do you? Maria knew better. She committed suicide. You just do not know, you have never been there... you just...’
‘Did you witness the suicide of this young woman?’ the older man interrupted. ‘Then how do you know,’ he went on when Memling shook his head, ‘that she actually did kill herself?’
Memling clenched his fists under the table and tried to make them understand. ‘Because she would have! Because Paul told me she had!’
‘But surely that is not sufficient...’
‘Damn you.’ Memling pounded the table. ‘You have no idea what the Gestapo will do to you, especially to a woman. They begin with rape, many rapes, one after another. The beatings, the red-hot blades and electrical shock, the drugs ...’
The three men were shushing him now as others in the room paused to listen. The young man poured something from a flask into his empty teacup, and they urged him to drink it. It was Scotch, fine old malt Scotch, but it only made him choke and cough.
‘Do you want to know what they did to me in a routine interrogation?’ Memling demanded, and brushed his hair back so that they could see the massive abrasion that covered half his forehead. But again there was scepticism and disbelief in their expressions. An hour later, after he had refused to talk to them any more, they put him aboard the train for London.
Jan Memling was shocked at his first sight of London. He had come down by train from Hornchurch where the Lysander had landed after an uneventful crossing. The train ran into Liverpool Street Station before dawn, and the fires lighting the skies above the city reminded him of a painting of Dante’s inferno.
The station was worse. Sirens wailed an all clear above the battered streets, and people streamed up from subterranean caverns like troglodytes, blinking in the relative brightness of the main hall and mingling in well-behaved, shuffling throngs with the passengers. There was something about them that Memling could not identify for a moment, that made them different from the people of Belgium. As he stood to one side, watching, it occurred to him that many were laughing. Laughter in occupied Europe was reserved for the Nazis.
