by Iris Gower
It was a long speech for Jessie to make and Hari knew she meant well but Michael was not the type to be ruled by the urges of his body. He was an honourable man. And yet he’d married her sister, hadn’t he?
Her mind kept running round the problem, eating away at it, trying to make sense of it. He’d meant it when he said he loved her, she was sure of it. Wasn’t she? And yet she woke each morning to a sense of foreboding, as if some tragedy had occurred, and then she realized it had. Michael was lost to her forever, there was no hope for her, he was married to Meryl and even if they all survived this awful war, what future was there for them?
Spring came and turned into summer and Hari had a few small messages from ‘Black Opal’. Nothing really of note but each was like a knife wound, fear tangled her entrails each time a message came because she might read that Michael was dead. Hari was never able to respond and the signal was soon lost, possibly swept away by the Bletchley Park’s impressive might. Worse, she could imagine Meryl packing everything quickly away in danger of being shot. Every time she sent a message she was risking discovery by the Germans.
After the death of the colonel Hari was put in charge of the small radio section at the munitions factory. She was sometimes lonely without the gruff presence of the old man and heavy with the responsibility that had settled upon her shoulders, but all she could do was her best, or so she told herself.
‘I’m in late tonight,’ she said out loud. She interrupted her father, who was reading something from the paper to Jessie who, face alight, was listening to him intently.
He looked up and blew Hari a kiss. ‘Try and get your head down if only for an hour or two, you’re looking tired these days, darling girl.’ He paused. ‘I’ll be off your hands Monday, I have to get back to London. I have work to do after all.’
Jessie’s face stiffened, but she said nothing. Hari said it for her.
‘Oh Dad, we’re all going to miss you very much.’ Jessie looked silently down at her hands.
That night, Hari drove to Bridgend through the darkened roads and looked up at the sky wondering what on earth was going on in the moonlight beauty of the night. Was Michael coming over to bomb Wales and England tonight? Could he possibly be a traitor to his country as well as to her? The questions raced mercilessly through her mind.
She sat in her office with hardly anything to do. The radio tapped intermittently but nothing important came through. It was about twelve midnight when she heard the sound of German planes overhead. She went outside and looked up at the sky but she could see nothing through the low cloud that always hung in the dip of Bridgend.
She saw one of the girls from the factory come out on to the roof; Hari knew it was the usual practice for one of the girls to look out for planes overhead and caution the workers to stop all activities though no one took any notice anyway.
Hari put her hand over her brows and tried to see through the darkness but it was just the hum of engines she heard. She caught a flash of light at the corner of her eye and saw that the girl on the roof was holding a torch that sent a pool of light over herself and the roof. Hari hurried upstairs to the roof.
‘Doreen, put that light out, you fool!’ It was the girl who’d tried to get Kate to abort her baby. ‘Doreen, stop shining that light! Put it out!’
A bomber swooped low over the buildings and, with a cry, Doreen dropped the torch, teetered on the edge of the roof and slowly, like a rag doll fell into the darkness. At the sound of the screams, shadowy figures rushed from the buildings. The planes roared away as if intent on other business and Hari surmised the airmen had not seen anything of the small light from Doreen’s torch.
She hurried back down the stairs; outside a crowd had gathered round the crumpled girl.
‘Hari—’ blood trickled from her mouth—‘I’m dying. Come closer to me.’
Hari was on her knees in an instant, regardless of the hard earth scratching her legs.
‘In my house, top drawer, bedroom cabinet, money.’ Doreen coughed on her own blood. ‘My ill-gotten gains.’ She drew a ragged breath and a gush of blood poured down her chin.
‘Use it, Hari, to bury me, decent, mind, and may God forgive me for my sins.’ Doreen fell back against the ground, her eyes staring unseeing up at the skies.
‘Bloody war!’ one of the girls cried, ‘and bloody, bloody Germans.’ Violet waved her fists at the cloudy sky but there was no sound except for the crying of Doreen’s friends.
Fifty-One
It was sunny when I woke, the spring breeze wafting gently into the bedroom. I sighed and snuggled down under the blankets again. It was the weekend—no work—and I had two whole days free to myself. I indulged in sweet memories of Michael holding me close, loving me, possessing me, and the moment’s dreaming was delicious.
After breakfast I went out to the barn and drove out the old jeep I’d found there with a screech of the brakes. The chickens scattered like so many fussy hens, which of course they were.
With the help of one of Herr Euler’s men I’d worked on the jeep and made it presentable. The engine was good and once the mud and mulch were wiped away and all the relevant parts oiled and cosseted the thing was quite presentable.
Herr Euler approved and even presented me with some petrol. He was glad I had something to do in my spare time.
I took my jeep for a run into the country. I had the radio tucked away in a battered old picnic basket hidden under plates and cloths but if ever I was stopped, it would easily be discovered and then I’d be for it.
But at least now I was free to drive miles from the farmhouse and I didn’t feel so vulnerable when I needed to make contact with home. I stopped near a small duck pond and left the jeep. The grass was lush and warm and I sat down and ate my sandwiches of fresh bread and jam. I could have murdered a cup of tea but I had to make do with a bottle of home-made dandelion and burdock pop.
I lay back and closed my eyes and felt the warm May sun on my face. I must have dozed because someone was nudging me and I sat up anxiously. The figure was outlined against the sun; all I could see was a hat and a stick and the bent shoulders of an old man.
‘What is it?’ I demanded in German. He sat down beside me with difficulty and held out his hand towards the bottle of pop.
‘We have to talk.’ He spoke in French and I had a job understanding him. Also I was deeply suspicious and afraid.
‘Speak German?’ I said in my stuttering French. He shook his head.
‘A little only.’
‘Frau Euler, I have been watching you,’ he said. ‘You go out, you stop, you fiddle, you tap, tap, you go home. You spy I think.’
I froze.
‘Your husband’s mother was English.’
‘No!’ This man was dangerous. He was old and rambling, he looked as though he hadn’t washed all winter.
‘Go away,’ I said harshly in strong German, ‘you are mad.’ I made a sign with my finger to my head and he laughed and then I noticed his teeth. They were straight and clean; this was no old tramp. I leaned forward and tugged his beard. It didn’t move but grey grease came away on to my fingers. It smelt like goose grease.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded in German.
He was serious then, his face grave. ‘Tell me, Frau Euler, why do you spy when you are a German lady? Is it because you come from somewhere else: Ireland, Britain—Wales, perhaps?’
I shook my head. I didn’t speak; I had no idea what to say. He obviously had worked for some time finding out about me.
‘I watched you from the time you were shipwrecked and my little boat followed the submarine and saw you landed at Saint Nazaire. One day you had a big round belly and then you were a slim, young, married woman. Who wouldn’t be suspicious?’
‘What has any of it got to do with you?’ I still spoke German, cautious, wanting only to run away back to the farmhouse.
He delved into his pocket and brought out some papers. ‘I could be tortured and shot if I was found with these.’
He handed them to me.
The papers told me he was English, a high-up in the SOE—Special Operatives Executive; an agent. I handed them back.
‘Papers can be forged,’ I said.
‘You should know.’ He spoke in excellent English then. ‘You are not Frau Euler but Miss Meryl Jones, isn’t that so?’ At least in this he was wrong, I was married—to Michael—and this at least gave me a great deal of courage.
‘You are not so knowledgeable as you think you are.’ My tone was scathing.
‘We’ve been watching you closely,’ he said. ‘You have experience of codes and you have worked at the great Bletchley Park. We were going to train you up to join us but you pre-empted us and arrived in Germany in your own eccentric way and you have made an excellent cover for yourself if I may say so.’
‘I am Frau Euler and I have never worked at Bletchley Park, you are confusing me with someone else.’ I nearly said ‘my sister’ but that would have given me away at once. I still refused to speak English.
‘I would advise you to be more careful with the radio equipment—that’s the only concern I have—it could blow your cover. Once you were almost caught. Rhiannon died getting the radio here, or have you forgotten?’
I stayed silent. This man knew a great deal after all; if he wasn’t what he said he was, I was finished.
‘We need that radio,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ I got up. ‘Now I’m going and if you try to stop me I will scream and tear my clothes and you will surely be discovered and branded a molester, or worse. Now go away and leave me alone.’
‘Meryl,’ he said, ‘please listen to reason.’
‘Frau Euler, if you please.’ My tone was icy. ‘Why should I believe anything you say to me?’
‘I will be here next weekend, say you’ll come.’
‘Don’t count on it.’
‘Then I will have to come to the farmhouse,’ he said.
‘That sounds like a threat.’
‘Not a threat, a promise. I must have that radio. Big moves are being planned.’
‘What moves?’
He shrugged. ‘See you same place, same time.’ He limped away, the image of an old man again.
‘Wait,’ I called. He turned back.
I caught up with him. ‘Your teeth,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Your teeth are the only thing I have a concern about—’ I aped his words to me—‘they could blow your cover.’ I spun away and hurried back to the battered jeep.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I thought every word of the conversation over and over and by morning was convinced the ‘tramp’ was a genuine English spy. It was, as I told him, his teeth: they were the thing that could give him away. The English, and the Welsh come to that, always brushed their teeth.
Fifty-Two
Hari sat looking at her transmitter. Should she let Meryl know about the plans for the invasion of the Normandy beaches by the Allies? It was certainly dangerous to attempt it.
‘Overlord’ was top secret, if the intelligence fell into the hands of the Germans, it would blow months, if not years, of planning. And yet Meryl would be in danger, the whole of Germany would be in danger; from the landing forces, from the bombers—that was the object of the exercise. She rubbed her forehead wearily. There seemed little she could do to help her sister who, to all intents and purposes, was a traitor to her country and her people. Undecided, she left the office and went home to Swansea; at least there she could try to put worrying thoughts out of her head.
Hari was invited to a meal at Kate’s house that night and she made a special effort to look smart, to be cheerful, and most of all to allow Kate to talk about her problems. When she arrived, Hilda opened the door and gave a wry smile.
‘Come in, girl, come and join the party.’ And it was a party. The room was filled with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer. Hari was greeted with several wolf whistles and she forced a smile.
‘I didn’t know it was going to be so jolly.’ She put her hand on Kate’s shoulder. ‘Who are these Americans you’ve brought home?’
Kate smiled. ‘Sure you make me sound like some sort of siren maid calling sailors from the sea.’
‘You’re a beautiful girl, Kate, you make a good siren but what does Eddie think of it all?’
‘Eddie and me have quarrelled, he’s gone out.’
‘And these airmen?’
‘I went to the park, I got in trouble with the pram and these good fellows brought me home. Nothing to worry about, Hari, believe me, I’ve had enough of men to last a lifetime.’
Hilda bustled in from the kitchen with a pile of spam sandwiches.
‘Meat?’ Hari said.
‘The boys brought it with them, among other things.’ Kate held up a pair of stockings. ‘Bring back memories, eh? It all seems so long ago now.’
One of the pilots was standing in a corner. He seemed to be taking no part in the jollity. He held a cup and saucer in his hand instead of a glass or a tankard and Hari assumed he was drinking tea. On an impulse she went over to him.
‘Hello, I’m Hari.’ She held out her hand. After some hesitation he took it.
‘Aldo,’ he said, in his soft American drawl.
‘You’re looking very unhappy.’
‘I’m feeling very unhappy. While I’m away fighting a war I’ve lost my girl to another guy. He just sits on his butt in an office safe and cosy, reliable you know. What’s your excuse, you don’t look too jolly either.’
‘Same as you, I’ve lost my guy to another girl, he’s married my sister. Ironic isn’t it? Anyway, let’s change the subject.’
‘Shall we talk about the weather?’ Aldo’s eyebrow was raised.
‘I suppose it’s a serious issue with you pilots, the weather.’
‘Aye, well that sure is true but there are other more important things to talk about—this feeling of being chucked wouldn’t be a bad start. What’s your story?’
‘He ran away with my sister, married her and that’s the end of it. I expect they’ll start a family once the war is over, if they live that long. What about you?’ Hari asked.
‘We’ll be moving out soon, special mission sort of thing, all very hush-hush.’
Hari knew at once what he was referring to but her expression gave nothing away. ‘What a shame,’ she said, and meant it.
‘Look, let’s walk a bit shall we?’ he said, and Hari nodded.
‘It is a bit noisy in here, isn’t it?’
It was strange after the warmth and cheery atmosphere of the party at Kate’s house to be reminded of the reality of war by the ravaged streets and jutting scars of the ruined buildings. Spirals of smoke issued from the devastation of the bombed sites. Torn pieces of blackout sheets fluttered limply in the night-time breeze and over all was an eerie silence as though the town brooded and waited, flinching from the next onslaught from the air. It wasn’t long coming. The siren raked the streets and Hari’s stomach turned in fear.
Aldo drew her into his arms and they hid in a doorway. Hari closed her eyes remembering the last time she’d been held close to a man; Michael had held her, dearest Michael, she loved him so much. How could he turn against his own the way he’d done? And yet, she still clung to the belief that he wasn’t a traitor, he’d been forced into joining the German Luftwaffe by his father.
Aldo tipped up her face and kissed her lips. She recoiled from him, knowing she would love only one man in her lifetime and that was Michael. Michael Euler.
‘I’m sorry.’ She pulled away from Aldo and began to run.
‘I’m sorry too,’ he called, ‘can I see you again?’
‘No.’ Her voice was caught by the breeze and drifted away and by the time she got home, Hari was crying bitter, helpless tears that did nothing to ease her pain.
Fifty-Three
The next week I got into the jeep and drove to the spot where I met the ‘tramp’. He was there
waiting, snuffling away at a dry crust of bread. I handed him some sandwiches and he took them and began to gobble them greedily.
‘I’ve had a big bloody breakfast,’ he grumbled in a quiet voice. I stifled the urge to laugh.
‘Tough! Eat the sandwiches.’ I studied him. ‘Your teeth look better now you’ve blacked some of them out.’
‘Very observant.’ He struggled through the sandwiches. ‘I hate sausage,’ he said.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Fritz.’
‘A likely story.’
‘At least Fritz is a proper name. “Black Opal” is silly, too unusual,’ he retorted.
‘What do you mean?’ I was indignant. ‘I thought it was a good name.’
‘For what, an adventure comic? You’re going to be called Anna.’
‘Who says?’
‘I say. Our controller says too. Is that all right by you?’
‘Our controller, what are you talking about?’
‘You, my dear Meryl, are going to be a proper agent, not the silly, bumbling, dangerous amateur you’ve been so far.’
‘I’ve been dangerous?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How?’
‘For one, as I told you last time, you were almost caught. At least you’ve the sense to travel about these days.’
‘I don’t want or need a controller thank you.’
‘You are valuable to us. Your cover is perfect: your husband is half German; your father-in-law is a German officer; you even work in a German office. You are fully accepted, but you won’t be much longer if you bumble around on your own.’
I folded my arms. ‘I don’t want to belong to anything, I told you. I’m Frau Euler, a respectable, married, German lady.’
‘And I’m McDuff.’ He foraged in the jeep for a few minutes and got the radio out of the picnic basket. ‘Here. See how easily you’d be caught, you little fool! You’re a liability.’
