by Jana Petken
When he’d finished, Max looked up, wiped his wet eyes and then exchanged letters with his mother and father who were also crying. “There’s not much in it, but it’s enough to know he’s well,” he told Hannah, whose hungry eyes were staring at it.
Judith looked on, appearing reluctant to interrupt, and when the waitress returned with the food, she quietly organised the plates herself.
Max began to read Paul’s handwriting, which was almost identical to his own penmanship.
My dearest family
This letter is coming to you thanks to my friend and comrade, R, who took me in … a long story, and now is not the time to tell it.
I am now doing what I trained to do. My talents are being put to much better use than they were in my previous employment – I can imagine the shock on your faces when you learn where I am and what I am doing. If I were with you in person, I would, of course, tell you why I decided to change the course of my life, but I am not and will say only that it was the right choice; the only choice.
My dear family, I see all the ugliness of the world unfold before my eyes, but I am also witnessing truly heroic acts by men and women who seem to have no fear against Germany’s mighty army. Please forgive me for not being more specific with names and places. I am presuming this letter will get to you safely without being intercepted by the enemy, but if, God forbid, it is, it will leave no trace of my identity or those of my friends.
I have a daughter. I never got the chance to meet her, but I have seen her angelic face in photographs. Will I ever hold my child in my arms? I don’t know. My marriage is over, and though there are many reasons why it failed, B was the biggest factor. He is an odious man; a greedy, deceitful tyrant, and a liar. He made my life hell, but he is also guilty of atrocities against the people who were in his care. I no longer love my wife, for I see B in her eyes and words and political beliefs. I wonder if she is already teaching our baby the racist hatred she espoused.
I ask you this, even assuming I will not get an answer … is my father alive as B claims or was this revelation another of his lies? I am praying that the answer to that question will find its way to me.
Finally, as I can say no more, I want to tell you, my dearest ones, that I have heard from another family member. I enclose his letter, redacted as you can see, but with his love for us all clearly visible.
I love you. I miss you all terribly. I cannot see an end to this conflict, but I do see a flickering light, like a candle flame struggling to ignite in a gloomy basement. Every day, I see it grow stronger as we begin to fight back with hope and the will to do battle with giants.
I am forever your loving son and brother. May God allow us to reunite one day; safe and well!
Dieter and Laura were silently waiting for Max to finish Paul’s letter. When Max lifted his head, Dieter looked furious.
“I knew it. I damn well knew it … Biermann is still investigating me.” He gripped Laura’s hand. “Now you know why I couldn’t tell you the truth about my disappearance. He’s still on to me. I swear to God, if he harms a hair on Paul’s head, I’ll kill him.”
“Father, maybe we should talk about this when we get home. It’s a lot for you to take in, and this is not the place,” Max said, still digesting Paul’s news.
“Ach, no one is listening to us. It’s almost 2pm, closing time and we’re the only people in here, and I know that’s old Mr Robbins in the bar through there. He’s as deaf as an ornament on a mantlepiece.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” said Laura wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “Dieter, please forget about Freddie Biermann. Let’s just be happy our boys are alive – oh, I wish I knew what our Wilmot was saying. Who would have scribbled all over his letter like that?”
Max could think of two people: Paul or Romek. “Paul probably redacted most of it because he wanted to keep Wilmot’s identity safe should the Germans in Poland, or the British authorities here, confiscate the letter from the courier who brought it. One can never be too careful, Mother.”
“Max is right, dear,” Dieter said. “The most important thing is that we know our boys are okay. This calls for a celebration.”
Although Dieter was being valiantly cheerful for Laura’s sake, his face couldn’t hide his anger or concerns. Max, who had learnt about Kriminaldirektor Fredrich Biermann’s relationship with his father, also worried about the consequences should Biermann report his suspicions about Dieter to the SS or Gestapo, or God help them, Himmler himself. Paul was now a deserter, according to Romek via Heller, and that made him safe from his father-in-law’s ire unless the entire Resistance network and Polish Free Army fell with Paul in it. Wilmot, on the other hand…?
Laura, gripping Wilmot’s letter in her hand, described her youngest son as a child to Judith. “He was a little saint, my Wilmot, always wanting to help me in the kitchen and with my grocery shopping. And he was strong. He could carry two bags that were almost as big as himself. He was a pensive little boy … liked to read a lot, and always played soldiers. I’m surprised he didn’t come out of me wearing a uniform.”
Max chuckled. Wilmot had been anything but saint-like. His mother had missed out on his younger brother’s epic temper tantrums and his time in Dachau prison camp. She must be talking about another little boy.
Max took another look at Wilmot’s letter. The black ink covering the words underneath was indelible, as it should be, and no amount of chemical help would make it fade. Disappointed, he replaced it in its envelope and handed it to Hannah.
As he finished eating, Max let his mother, Hannah, and Judith discuss the wedding. His father looked on but was still frowning, and Frank, who had to wait until after lunch to read the letters, was still going through them.
“Don’t let this Kriminaldirektor Biermann get to you, Father,” Max whispered, surmising that was who Dieter was thinking about.
“I want to kill the man,” Dieter blazed through gritted teeth. “Yes, I might do that someday.”
His parents would never know who R was in Paul’s letter, Max thought, as the women continued to discuss flowers and dresses. They knew nothing of Klara, who had died serving Britain. His mother would continue to live in blissful ignorance while he and others like him delved into the deep, murky waters of espionage and war. He was excited about marrying Judith, and of having her to himself for an hour after lunch, but now he was also eager to see Romek and learn how he and Paul had come to meet…
“… Max … Max, do you agree?”
“Sorry, Father, I was in a world of my own. What were you saying?”
Dieter flicked his eyes to the glass partition behind him, then spoke softly in Max’s ear, “I was saying Paul must continue to think I’m dead…”
“Who’s dead?” Laura demanded to know.
“No one, dear,” said Dieter, giving Laura a pat on the hand.
Laura asked, “Can I write to Paul?”
Dieter shifted his eyes to Max. “Can she?”
“Yes. I’ll get a letter to the courier before I leave London.”
“I presume it’s that R man he mentioned,” Laura said, with an exaggerated look behind herself.
Judith’s eyes widened. “May I write something to Paul, Max?”
Max, reminded now that Paul had no idea Judith was in England, said, “That’s a marvellous idea. I wish I could be there to see the look on his face when he reads that you’ve become his sister-in-law.”
Laura expelled a contented sigh. “This is the best day I’ve had in years.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
London, England
The warm, sunny part of the day was minutes old; fifteen, to be exact. Earlier, the rain had pelted down, soaking Max as he’d hurried towards Baker Street. Spring in England was a delight, for it often brought surprising weather changes that confounded meteorologists and those fond of predicting nature’s plans. One never knew what to wear, or if they should bring their cumbersome umbrellas.
Max stood opposite
the pub. He was anxious and dreading the forthcoming meeting with Romek. He gazed at his gold wedding band and conjured up the previous day’s events to give himself courage. Judith had looked radiant in the small army chapel at Bletchley Park. Their marriage ceremony had been short but poignant, the party afterwards, attended by close friends, had been a joyful occasion.
Heller had paid for the bottles of champagne he had acquired from God knows where, and he had also arranged for the honeymoon night in a room above the pub. It had been glorious, Max thought. He and Judith had made love, talked, made love again, caressed each other’s bodies, and neither had slept for more than an hour.
He stepped into the road and began to cross. He would hold these memories fast in his heart, summon them often, use them as a shield against the turbulent war he was yet to fight in North Africa. Not even Romek can take away the love and joy I feel, he determined as he entered the pub.
The pub, situated in a narrow street behind Baker Street, was packed with men in uniform, and every chair and table in the place was occupied. Max spotted Romek sitting at a round table no bigger than a serving tray. He waved and was rewarded with one of Romek’s icy scowls.
Disappointed, Max made his way to the window. He had hoped his old friend might stand, shake his hand, smile, or give him a nod of recognition, but no, if anything, Romek looked angrier than the day he found out about Klara’s affair.
Max sat on a stumpy-legged stool, brushing knees with Romek because of the lack of space around them. “Romek, you look well,” he said, wishing he’d stayed with Judith in Northamptonshire for another hour, and to hell with the Pole. “I heard you wanted to see me.”
“I see you’re still the officious Englishman with a rod up your arse. Or should I say, German? You kept that gem to yourself, didn’t you?” Romek responded with a clipped tone. “Hideout? It’s a bit of a stupid name for a pub. Looks like half the British army is in here. Maybe they should try fighting instead of drinking?”
Max looked around, deliberately ignoring Romek’s slur against British soldiers. The place was noisy, pint glasses were chinking as men knocked them together in numerous toasts to something or other, and voices were raised to combat the pub’s terrible acoustics. “I’ve seen worse names … The Dog and Bull, The Hedgehog and Goat, The Double Tree. Who knows why they come up with these names?”
Max had no drink, but men were queuing at the bar two deep, and he didn’t feel like standing up there for half an hour for a pint of beer. “Has your trip to England been successful?” he asked to breach Romek’s wall of silence.
“Probably not. I was promised resources, but I didn’t get what I came here for. They’re disgusted by the information I gave them on the situation in Poland, but they won’t do anything about it. I even managed to get a meeting with Anthony Eden, your British Foreign Secretary, but he spent most of the time shaking his head and saying, ‘Hmm, dreadful.’ The murder of hundreds of thousands of Poles, whether Jewish or otherwise, is a problem the Allies don’t know how to handle, and by the time they get their collective arses together on this, millions of men, women, and children will have been killed.”
Romek surprised Max by going into his briefcase and taking out the two-page letter, held together by a clip. “Here, read it, everyone else has.”
“For nearly a year now, in addition to the tragedy of the Polish people, who are being slaughtered by the enemy, our country has been the scene of a terrible, planned massacre of the Jews. This mass murder has no parallel in the annals of mankind; compared to it, the most infamous atrocities known to history pale into insignificance. Unable to act against this situation, we, in the name of the entire Polish people, protest the crime being perpetrated against the Jews. Let it be known that all political and public organizations join in this protest.
“I hit the same brick wall when I returned from a mission in ‘40. I told them the Jewish situation was going to get worse,” said Max handing the letter back.
Romek returned the letter to his briefcase, saying, “I’m not the first Pole to bring this information to our governments. Witold Pilecki, a Polish Underground intelligence agent in the Armia Krajowa, the Polish Home Army, volunteered last year to be imprisoned in Auschwitz. He sent numerous reports about the camp and genocide going on to Polish resistance headquarters in Warsaw through the resistance network he’d organised in Auschwitz. As far back as March ‘41, Pilecki’s intelligence was being forwarded via the Polish resistance to the British government in London, but the British authorities refused the AK reports on atrocities as being gross exaggerations and propaganda of the Polish government.”
Max was stunned. “Bloody hell. I didn’t know, Romek.”
Romek shrugged, “What could you have done? I’ve managed to secure a meeting with President Roosevelt. I’m hoping the Americans will have bigger balls than their European counterparts.”
For a while, the conversation centred on this topic, but, worried about time and how long it would take him to get back to MI6 headquarters, Max eventually changed the subject to a more personal one. “Romek, I want to thank you for delivering my brother’s letter. My family were very happy to hear from him. No, that’s not true … they were overjoyed. We’re all grateful to you.”
“I brought the letter because I promised your brother, I would deliver it by hand. I didn’t want to see you, Max.”
Max, who’d expected this response, said, “That’s fair enough.”
Romek twirled in a semi-circle on his stool to confront Max face on. His expression softened, and for a moment, Max saw his old friend from Poland as he clasped his hands, placed them between his open legs, and leant in until they were within hugging distance.
“I’m here for two reasons,” Romek said, his cold voice belying his facial expression. “The first is to demand information from you, and the second is to fulfil my promise to Paul. The deal is, you tell me what I want to know, and afterwards I pass on your brother’s messages.”
“As long as I don’t cross any secrecy laws, I agree,” Max responded with an equally frosty voice, already suspecting the conversation would turn to Klara’s death. Heller had ordered that Romek be kept in the dark about how she had died, but Max had always thought it an unreasonable request. Romek deserved to know what had happened to his wife. “What do you want to ask me?”
“Tell me where Klara was when she died, and how she died. The truth, Max. I don’t want to hear any more bullshit from your lot.”
“I don’t blame you,” Max answered, noting Romek’s blink of surprise. “I believe she was at Duguay’s farm. The truth is, I’ve wanted to talk to you about this since last year, and if you hadn’t left me looking like a fool at that Camden Town bed and breakfast, I would have given you the full story, despite Heller’s orders not to tell you. And before you ask, he didn’t want you to know because he thought you might do something that would damage our French operations.”
Romek surprised Max by passing his half-full pint of beer across the table. In the spirit of their past friendship, Max accepted, raising the glass in a silent toast before taking a couple of swigs.
Romek has every right to know the truth and make of it what he will, Max thought again. “Klara parachuted into France for SOE. She was to supervise Florent Duguay and his partisans and the British radio operators who were due to arrive two days after she did. I can’t tell you what happened after she got there, but when the agents arrived at the farm, Duguay told them Klara was dead. According to him, she suffered a broken neck while parachuting in. He even showed the agents her grave.”
Romek looked furious but said nothing.
Max continued, “The agents reported in to SOE headquarters with the news about her death, but a few days later they sent another transmission claiming they’d overheard a conversation between three of Duguay’s men. In it, the Frenchmen spoke about Duguay’s direct involvement in Klara’s death; more, they called it ‘Duguay’s execution.’ One of our agents went as far as to sa
y the Frenchmen were worried for their own necks should they prove inadequate in Duguay’s eyes.”
“Duguay … the bastard…” Romek muttered.
“There’s more,” said Max. “Sometime during that night, the two agents dug up Klara’s grave and found a bullet hole in her skull. They concluded that Duguay murdered Klara, but Duguay has never admitted his part in her death.”
Waiting for Romek to explode, Max added, “I’ve told you everything I know.”
Romek’s jaw muscles danced under his skin, but he seemed incapable of speech.
“I’m sorry, Romek,” Max said.
“Did the agents confront Duguay?” Romek asked, his expression murderous.
“No. He doesn’t know they exhumed Klara’s body.”
“You’re telling me he has not been dealt with – no one has even questioned him?”
“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”
Romek finally leant back on his stool, giving Max room to breathe. “I’m going to kill the communist pig.”
“We need Duguay’s partisans,” Max reminded Romek. “When the conflict in France is over, Duguay will be brought to justice…”
“No. He won’t be put on trial or questioned by your British authorities. When this is over, I will kill Duguay myself, and I’ll have no interference from you or anyone else.” Romek’s eyes blazed again. “I’m warning you, Max, say and do nothing. She was mine … my wife … my Klara. I will be the one to see to this; only me.”
“You have the right,” Max agreed. “All I ask is that you are patient.”
Romek stared at his glass with unblinking eyes.
“Romek, give me your word. Romek! I’m disobeying orders by telling you this…”
“Yes. Yes, fine. I will wait and plan and dream, and when the time comes, I will savour the moment. But God help any man who takes that moment from me, and that includes you.”
