by Jana Petken
“He’s waiting for you, Major. Go right in.”
Heller rose and walked around the front of the desk to greet Max, a nod of satisfaction infringing upon his staid, professional face. “You made it, then. Those supply planes are not the most comfortable, are they?” Heller commented, shaking Max’s hand.
“No, they are not. I was lucky. They let me squeeze on at the last minute.”
Heller went to the door and opened it halfway. “Bring the usual for the major and myself, Marjory,” he instructed.
When he returned to his desk, Heller said, “You look none the worse for wear.”
“And you look knackered, Jonathan. Everyone I saw on my walk here seems to be exhausted and depressed. I’m feeling guilty, to be honest. Life in Cairo is slow and easy, and downright jovial compared to London’s misery.”
“We’re all feeling a bit down in the dumps, I suppose. We’ve got used to air raids, and we’re even getting numb at seeing dead bodies in the rubble afterwards. We had a terrible accident in the East End at the beginning of the month, though. A bloody awful thing.”
“What happened?” Max asked, taking a seat.
“The air raid sirens went off in the evening. A crowd started rushing down the stairs to the Bethnal Green tube station shelter, and someone tripped on the wet concrete. The people behind the man went tumbling down like bloody skittles, making a mountain of bodies at the bottom. Most of them died from crush injuries and asphyxia. It’s estimated that over a hundred men, women, and children fell within the first fifteen seconds. A survivor reported that, unaware of what was happening in front of them, people kept surging forward into the supposed safety of the shelter. Christ, I can still see it … over one hundred and seventy people dead within minutes.”
Heller, looking deeply affected, gritted his teeth. “The public story is a German bomb scored a direct hit ... damn irony of it all was that no bomb struck and not a single casualty was the direct result of military aggression. The real reason for the deaths is classified, Max, so mum’s the word in public. Londoners have gone through hell. We don’t want them to be afraid of using the tube station shelters.”
Stunned, Max could only utter, “Good God.”
Heller let out a tired sigh. “I don’t know. I sometimes wish I could get out in the field with you and away from this place.” He smiled, trying to shrug off the terrible disaster and his bout of dejection. “Still, a nice run out to Bletchley today will do me a world of good. I’ve informed your parents and Judith that you’ll be with me. Your mother squealed down the phone and promised to bake something.”
Marjory brought the tea for the men, and when she left Heller did his nervous dance in his chair followed by two coughs to clear his throat. “Before we get down to our business, you should know that Romek is in London.”
Max, who had been pouring the tea into the cups, paused with the utility-issue white teapot in the air. “I thought he was in Poland?”
“He is; he’s based in the Warsaw area, but SOE brought him back to report to the Polish, British, and American governments on the situation over there. He’s done the rounds. In two days, he met with Polish politicians in exile, including the Polish prime minister, members of the Socialist Party, National Party, Labour Party, People’s Party, Jewish Bund, and Po’alei Zion. He even managed to get a meeting with Anthony Eden, which I also attended.”
Max could imagine Romek blasting his way through those meetings with the most important Poles in Britain and demanding that something be done about this and that. “What sort of help was he asking for – I presume he wanted something?”
“He wants better resources and money, of course, but he’s more concerned about the conditions in the Warsaw, Bełżec, and Łódź Ghettos. He had microfilm with him, with information from the underground movement on the extermination of European Jews and murder of Ethnic Poles and other minority groups. He has detailed testimony from someone who witnessed the execution process at Chelmno death camp. The killings come under the auspices of the Sonderbehandlung – Special Handling Unit. We also have detailed reports on them.”
Heller picked up his teacup, grimaced because it was already lukewarm, and then banged it down on the saucer. “Damn it, Max, I wish we had nipped the Jewish problem in the bud in 1940 when you came back with the intelligence on Brandenburg.”
No shit. You should have at least tried to do something; you had enough evidence back then. After a quick assessment of Heller’s mood, Max held that opinion and gave another instead. “We suspected it would get a lot worse, yet we will probably continue to sit here fuming about it until the war is over. Then, we will make up a plausible excuse for not stopping it in its day. I wonder what history will say about us knowing of this brutality but ignoring it.”
Heller snipped the end of his customary daily cigar with his silver clipper while expelling an irate sigh. “Unfortunately, you might be right. I can picture us in twenty years saying it was easy for Hitler’s Germany to kill Jews because they did it. The Allies will say it was impossible and too costly to rescue the Jews because they didn't do it. Like you, I can see the Jews being abandoned by all governments, religious and church hierarchies, and societies, but I also see thousands of Jews surviving because of the underground networks Romek spoke about. The Poles are doing a bloody good job, Max. Maybe his defecting to the exiled government wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”
“Maybe,” Max mused. “How was he with you? Displaying his usual self-aggrandising nature, no doubt.”
“Pleasant enough. He asked for you. Do you want to see him? He’s in London for another three days.”
Max toyed with the idea as he lit a cigarette. It might be good to clear the air, close that book properly with a goodbye instead of with the note and trickery at that bed and breakfast in Camden. But did he want to see the Pole’s, sullen, resentful scowl demanding to know why he, Max, had not said anything about Klara’s death? No, bloody right I don’t. He had three days or so in the country before returning to North Africa. He’d rather have a harmonious time.
“No. I’ll pass,” Max eventually said.
“Probably for the best.” Heller’s eyes narrowed as he expelled a thick plume of smoke. “Although, he did want to talk to you about a mutual acquaintance…”
“Oh?” Max’s first thought was of Florent Duguay.
Heller’s lips spread with satisfaction. “Yes. Oh.”
“What’s that cheesy grin for? What aren’t you telling me?”
“The mutual acquaintance between you and Romek is your brother Paul.”
Max laughed. “Impossible. It can’t be?” Max felt his stomach fall then rise again like an ocean swell. “Did Romek say he knew Paul?”
Heller smiled again. “Oh, yes.”
“How – where – for God’s sake man, tell me?”
“Paul deserted the Wehrmacht six months ago. He’s with Romek’s Polish Free Army unit. He –”
“What –?”
Heller raised his hand to silence Max, who was rising from his chair. “Wait … sit down, Max. I don’t know anything else. I didn’t get the chance to ask Romek about the circumstances of how they’d met, only that they are together.”
“My God. Does my family know?”
“Your parents and Hannah have known for a while. The news was sent to London through an encrypted transmission last year with the request that I be informed.” Heller went into his drawer, picked up an envelope and handed it to Max. “Romek gave me this letter from Paul. It’s addressed to your parents.”
Max was crying; not blubbering like a baby, but quietly shedding tears. “This is … my God, it’s bloody marvellous! I’m shocked, but I shouldn’t be … or maybe I should be. Paul must have gone through hell to take such a massive risk.”
Max’s words trailed off as he stared at the envelope in Paul’s handwriting. “I’ve changed my mind; I will see Romek. Can we arrange a meeting before I go back?”
“I already have.”
For the next hour, Max and Heller talked about Operation Lanner Falcon, although it was not a detailed discussion since they were both going to Bletchley Park to meet with the people involved in the mission. Max was surprised to hear that his father, Theo Kelsey, and Judith were the operators who had been collecting his information from Cairo. To him, the Bletchley circle who did the actual talking to the Abwehr had been nameless, faceless agents he’d relied upon to translate his intelligence into cohesive and believable facts that they then twisted to mislead the Germans. Judith, especially, came to mind. He wondered now if he would have altered the way he’d given his information, specifically when some of it had come from suspected female German sympathisers from Cairo’s nightclubs.
“There was some concern about you killing the Muslim Brotherhood man, Sarraf. I’d like the full story. Obelisk was furious … said you went in gung-ho and put the operation at risk before he’d even left Egypt.”
“Rubbish. I killed the man because he should never have been involved in the first place. Don’t look at me like that, Jonathan. Had you been there, you wouldn’t have hesitated. He murdered John Bryant, and there was no way in hell I was going to trust him with my life the way Obelisk did – you should be thanking me. I saved the section money by getting rid of the Arab.”
Heller didn’t deny it, nor utter a word, instead, he stared Max down.
Undaunted, Max continued, “After we got rid of the body, I went back to my apartment, feeling much better that the weasel was out of the picture. I heard the next day that the military police had found his body, and after that, nothing … nada.”
Heller still didn’t look convinced. Max stubbed out his cigarette, and unwilling to back down, said. “When we meet with Obelisk this afternoon, you must make it clear to him he’s not to get anyone else involved in the Lanner Falcon operation. German sympathisers in Egypt are seeing Rommel conceding ground in Libya, and they’re getting desperate. Some of them are making mistakes and coming out in the open to look for support. Obelisk did a brilliant job, but he’s far too extroverted for my liking.”
When Heller took a telephone call, Max tried to settle the growing excitement in his stomach. He was both jubilant and worried about Paul’s desertion to the Allies and was finding it hard to concentrate on the Egyptian operation. He hoped to calm down before they got to Bletchley, but he probably wouldn’t. The minute he saw his father, he’d be begging him to rip open the envelope and read Paul’s letter and to hell with other matters.
Max’s heart was pounding. It was not yet time to ask the question; not until the business part of their meeting was over. He felt like a bucking racehorse waiting to come out of the starting stall, wondering if Heller had managed to do the colossal favour asked of him the week before. Putting protocol aside, Max had made a personal request directly to Heller in a radio transmission.
Sod it, he’d thought when he found out he was returning to London. The war interrupted lives, took blossoming love affairs from the young, separated children from their parents, and often stole a soldier’s chance to say goodbye to elderly relatives. He’d jumped in with both feet and capitalised on the only opportunity he might have for a bit of happiness for the foreseeable future; Cairo and the Western Desert’s front lines were beckoning, and he wouldn’t come home for a long time.
Heller hung up, looked at his wristwatch and said, “I think we’ll call it quits here. Fancy a spot of breakfast before getting the train?”
“That sounds good, but before we go anywhere, will you tell me?”
Heller cocked his head to the side, looking confused. “Tell you…?
“Damn it, Jonathan, am I getting married or not?”
Heller dropped his façade and had a good chuckle. “Ah, Max. See, this is an example of why you’re a top-notch agent. You’ve probably been sitting there biting your lip since the minute you walked in here. Go on, admit it.”
Max laughed, “Of course, I bloody have.”
“You hid it well.”
“Jonathan?” Max demanded but with humorous eyes. “Remember, I am an expert in interrogation techniques. Well?”
“Hmm … are you getting married? This is the question.” Heller shuffled through the mountain of papers in the filing tray, then lifted a large manila envelope. He was still tittering to himself, which in turn, let Max know it was mission accomplished.
“It wasn’t easy getting this,” Heller said, handing Max the envelope. “I managed to get the Town Hall Registrar in Charing Cross to issue me the special licence, but only after I told her it was an emergency for an officer who was leaving the country and hadn’t the time to post or read the banns over the three weeks normally required.” Heller laughed again. “You should have seen her face. She told me she heard those words every day from young, lovesick couples, and I should stop wasting her time. She wouldn’t even consider it until I showed her your deployment orders for this Thursday...”
“Thanks, Jonathan. I owe you.” Max pulled out the document. Marriage solemnised in the parish of…sat at the top, awaiting the Vicar of St Mary’s Parish Church, Bletchley, to complete the details on the licence, then pronounce them husband and wife.
“I’m getting married,” he said aloud. “Me … I’m getting married.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bletchley Park, MI6 Section
Max and Heller entered Hut 6 at Bletchley Park for their meeting with the team who were involved in Obelisk’s Operation Lanner Falcon. Jonathan joined the group of people already there and took his seat at the top end of the conference table. Max, however, stood just inside the door, his eyes focused on the woman he loved. Overjoyed at seeing Judith, he ignored the others, including his father, Theo Kelsey, a much fitter-looking Obelisk, and three men he didn’t know at all.
Judith, beautiful as always, was also glowing with happiness; something that had been missing when he’d first met her. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with joy, and her soft, plump lips trembled with emotion. “Max…”
He hurried to her, whispering her name as he crushed her to him. “Ah, Judith, my darling … my darling.” He breathed in her perfumed skin and the smell of her newly washed hair. Then he kissed her, on and on, knowing it was wrong and not giving a damn…
Dieter coughed and uttered good-humouredly, “Hello, Son. It’s good to see you, too. While this is touching, perhaps you two lovebirds could leave your … erm … greeting until after the meeting?”
Elated, Max forgave his father’s interruption and pushed Judith gently away. “Later, darling,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing it.
When he’d pulled Judith’s chair out for her, he went to Dieter and finally greeted him with a brisk handshake and a back-slapping hug.
“You look well, Father. Not sure about the beard, though. You look like Santa Claus,” Max said.
“Mr Heller thinks so too, but I’ll tell you the same as I told him – your mother likes it. She thinks I look rather dignified and mysterious.” Dieter grinned warmly at Max as he sat again. “It’s good to have you home. How are you, Son?”
“I’m well, Father.”
Max smiled sheepishly at Theo Kelsey who was sitting next to Dieter. He stretched out his arm to shake Theo’s hand. “Theo – have you forgiven me yet?”
“Yes, that goes without saying, Major. Good to see you back in one piece, sir.”
Max finally gave his attention to Obelisk. “You’re looking better. When I saw you last, I didn’t think you’d survive the flight home. Well done.”
“I’m a new man, Major, and looking forward to going back to Cairo. I’m not happy in your English climate,” he said in his lilting Italian accent.
After shaking hands and being introduced to the three other men at the table, Max sat next to Heller at the top end, four chairs away from Judith. He wanted to leave with her right now. He wanted the wedding over so he could spend the whole night with her…
“What do you think of our Judith bei
ng involved in the operation?” Dieter asked, interrupting Max’s pleasant thoughts. “A nice surprise, eh, Son? I brought her in so she could keep an eye on you.”
“Oh, Papa, that’s not true. You said you thought I’d be an asset. Don’t listen to him, Max,” Judith giggled.
Max melted at the sound of her voice. She was calling his father Papa. A nice touch from his parents!
Any further conversation was cut short when Heller, looking official as he perched his glasses on the tip of his nose, said, “Right, let’s get to it, shall we? We can celebrate Max’s return after we’ve seen to business.”
Max nodded and grew serious as he began to report on the latest political and military happenings in Egypt. “You’ll find Cairo quite a different place this time around,” he told Obelisk. “The Egyptians have finally written off the Axis forces. There’s not one person in Egypt who thinks Rommel can break out again.”
“I presume Egyptian shopkeepers have removed their German and Italian welcome signs?” Obelisk queried.
“Yes. They know we’re not going anywhere. In a show of good faith, British authorities lifted the embargo on our soldiers using the Egyptian entertainment establishments that had put up the German signs. On the surface of things, all is forgiven, and we’re in favour again.”
Heller said, “I believe we might be looking at the beginning of the end of Operation Lanner Falcon in Egypt.”
“I’d say we were closer to the end of the end,” Dieter disagreed. “Last October, when Rommel retreated against our superior numbers, he didn’t halt westwards of El Alamein to regroup, he withdrew all the way to Tunisia. His questions to Max ever since then have been more about whether the British 8th Army were pursuing him than what British battle plans were. He knows he’s not going to make another breakout. He’s finished.”
