‘Why did he come back?’
‘He wanted to make sure my mother was well, and taken care of. And he wanted to meet me. At first I thought I would dislike him, but in the end it was rather the opposite.’
‘Did Canaris tell you anything about his real work?’
‘Only briefly. He told us little, but he hinted about opposing Hitler and trying to stop him from starting another war in Europe. That was all he would say. He wanted to see more of us, but the worsening relations between England and Germany were making it difficult. Just like 1914 all over again.’ She looked rather wistful and sad, lost in the memories of that night.
‘Did he ever come back?’
‘Yes, once more, almost the day before the war started. It was at the funeral service for David. They had flown his body back from India. He turned up, completely unexpected. Again it was a mystery to us how he had heard of David’s death, but he came nonetheless. It must have been incredibly risky for him, with the war about to start.
‘I haven’t seen him since but we’ve kept in contact. He gave me a name and address to write to in Spain and a letter always comes back the same way. He normally writes three or four times a year. However, since February nothing has arrived. Apparently the government has stopped all foreign mail. Someone told me it was all to do with security measures, you know, stopping news leaking abroad. So it was very much a relief to receive his letter from you, and find out that he’s well. Only what you’ve told me makes me feel very worried - the double game he’s been playing. As you say, it must be very dangerous.’
‘It is.’
She studied him again, this time a long, appraising look. There was something about him, a vulnerability that wasn’t immediately apparent to other men, maybe something that perhaps only a woman would see. ‘You mentioned something about knowing how it was to lose someone close to you, and I‘ve noticed that you’re not wearing a wedding ring on your left hand.’
‘You’re very perceptive,’ he said. A flicker of sadness and regret passed over his features. ‘However, in Germany we wear them on our right hands, unlike here in England. I took it off after my wife died two months ago. I still have the ring. She was killed in a bombing raid.’
She took his hand in hers, sensing the loss that he still felt. ‘I’m sorry. It seems that we have quite a few things in common, some good, others less so. I suppose you must hate us, the English, for what’s happened.’
‘No, I don’t, as incredible as that may sound.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Admittedly, I grew up in Germany, but England was my home for many years. I enjoyed the life, even though it took a bit of getting used to. But in many respects our two countries are quite similar. And my mother is English. So no, I don’t blame the RAF, or Churchill, or you, or anybody else except the man who started this all off. England declared war on Germany, but only in response to Hitler’s aggression on Poland. And there are many Germans who wish they’d never heard of Hitler, or let him get into power in the first place. The number gets bigger all the time. But it seems the chickens are coming home to roost, as they say. The bombers are relentlessly pounding what’s left of my homeland into dust and rubble, day by day.’
‘You said you were on the same side as Canaris. Can’t you tell me more?’
He looked into her eyes. ‘I’d love to. I get the feeling that you’re somebody I can trust, but it would be too dangerous for you if I did. It’s for your own sake. You realise, of course, that the police and intelligence services here in England would take a very dim view indeed of an Englishwoman harbouring a German agent. There’s no way I can risk the trust that Canaris has given me in contacting you.’ She nodded.
He told at length about his three years in Russia, about some of the horrors and brutality, the endless excesses on both sides, the utter savagery of total war that he had witnessed there. ‘I’m in no hurry to go back. But there are worse things than that, believe me, things I’ve seen that I cannot talk about. Not yet, not today.’ She didn’t need to be burdened with the knowledge of Auschwitz. ‘It’s enough to make anyone lose their sanity. Especially when you begin to realise that the country you’re fighting for is run by murderers and criminals. No, I’ve done my share, sacrificed as much as any, and now if there’s anything I can do to help end this madness and get rid of those bastards at the top, then I’ll do it.’
‘Even if it means betraying your side - your friends?’ She looked somewhat incredulous. ‘How does that make you feel?’
Simon looked uncomfortable. ‘Rather dirty, actually, but to me there’s no longer a choice. Patriotism can mean so many different things. I think that most if not all of my real friends would agree, or at the very least sympathise with the decision I’ve made. And now in Germany most of those that have to fight do so only because there’s no alternative. Churchill and Roosevelt guaranteed that, when they announced their ‘unconditional surrender’ demand. It’s given the Nazis something priceless- the ability to drag the whole nation into the abyss. Goebbels has already broadcast to all and sundry that the Allies will take their revenge on all Germans, no matter who they are, and not just the Nazis.’
‘So how come a soldier like you gets to play the part of a secret agent?’
He smiled. ‘Like you say, there’s no great mystery to that. They needed someone who could blend in as an Englishman, someone who knew London well, whose presence would not turn heads or pass comment. I was recovering from some wounds in Poland when my name came to the top of the list. I had little choice but to obey. You don’t refuse orders in the Waffen SS.’
‘You’re in the SS?’ She looked aghast, shocked. ‘Aren’t they all a load of murderers?’
‘No. I know you’ve probably heard bad things about them. Most of them are very good soldiers who rarely ask for or give quarter. Especially with the Russians. Not all those in the SS are fanatical Nazis. I was drafted in from an ordinary army division. There was no option to refuse- you don’t decline an invitation like that and get away with it,’ he said grimly. ‘But there it is. I suppose I’ll be tarred with the same brush as the real criminals. What do you think?’
She did not answer for several minutes, but rather stood up and paced about restlessly. ‘That last bit was a bit of a shock, about you being in the SS. They’ve not exactly got the best reputation over
here, and that’s putting it mildly.’ She looked at him seriously. ‘But unless I’m a completely useless judge of character, I don’t think you’ve told me any lies, so perhaps there’s hope for you yet. And Canaris thinks highly of you. The fact that you want to help him speaks volumes. That’s enough for me, for now.’
‘Thanks.’ He looked up gratefully. ‘That’s all I can ask for.’ He yawned. ‘Do you mind if I get some sleep now? I didn’t get any last night or this morning.’ He told her briefly about the house in Hanwell, and the bombing. ‘I had a suspicion that the house was being watched- nothing definite, just a feeling. But I’m sure nobody followed me here. All the same though, it would be wise to keep a look out in case you have to go shopping.’
‘That’s not going to happen today,’ she smiled. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, today’s a Sunday, and all the shops are closed. And what exactly am I supposed to be looking out for?’
‘Anything out of the ordinary - people sitting in cars, curtains twitching in houses, anybody unduly nosy or staring.’
‘Ha! There’s plenty of that going on around here all the time.’ She laughed again. ‘The neighbours have a field day around here. They’re always glued to their windows, peeping out at what I’m doing.’ She giggled. ‘Oh my – imagine the shock and scandal of it all! Late nights, parties, men, alcohol flowing - this place is a real den of iniquity.’
‘Won’t they notice that I’m staying here?’ He looked worried.
‘Yes absolutely. But it’s not the first time that a man has stayed here,’ she said archly. ‘After all, I do have my reputation to maintain! But don’t worry- I’ll tell them you’re my brot
her on sick leave, or something like that.’
‘Fine. You do that.’ He suddenly looked very tired.
‘Right. Off you go upstairs. Use my bed- the other rooms are in a bit of a mess. And I want all your clothes. I’ll wash them while you sleep.’
He smiled his thanks and disappeared upstairs. Later on, when he was fast asleep, she crept in and removed his clothes that were strewn all over the bedroom floor. He was lying across the top of the bed, a towel covering his waist and groin, his right side uppermost. She stood there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, observing the trim, muscular figure. Then she gasped, noting the mass of scar tissue on his legs, and an ugly pink healing area on his chest and back. That certainly fitted in with his exploits in Russia. She tried to imagine the pain he must have gone through as a result, but it was beyond her comprehension. She looked at him some more, then slowly sighed and went back downstairs.
He awoke just before six o’clock. The light was still good, but he could tell by the angle of the sun that evening was already fast approaching. The sound of a radio playing music filtered up from downstairs. He got up, walked to the bathroom and washed his face.Her dressing gown was much too small to fit him so made his way downstairs as he was, a bath towel wrapped around his waist.
She was sitting in the lounge, gazing absently into space, listening to the sounds. A glass half-filled with an amber liquid rested on the floor close by.
‘There you are.’ She looked at him coolly, reclining in an elegant pose across the settee. ‘I thought you’d never wake up. What would you like to do tonight?’
‘I don’t know. What are the options?’
‘Well, they’re a bit limited, really. Nothing much happens on a Sunday evening. There’s a pub a few miles away on the edge of the countryside that sells food, but it’s difficult to get to without a car, and at this time the bus service is very intermittent. Besides, all your clothes are still drying. They won’t be ready until much later, maybe tomorrow.’ She giggled at him. ‘I know the neighbours have seen a lot around here, but you really can’t go out dressed like that.’
He grinned in return. ‘What a pity! I think they need to develop a more continental and less puritan approach to nudity, or semi nudity. Oops!’ His towel started to unravel. Hastily he grabbed at it before it became completely undone. ‘Is there anything else I can wear in the meantime?’
‘I’ll see if I can rustle something up. Wait here.’ She went upstairs, and came back a few minutes later carrying a large towelling robe. ‘Try this on. It should fit.’
It did, quite comfortably. ‘It was my husband’s. There’s a few of his things left here, including some clothes.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I hope you don’t mind wearing it.’
‘No, thanks- as long as it’s alright with you.’ He noticed the rather pensive look on her face. ‘So, what else is there?’
‘I thought we’d stay in and have some dinner and a few drinks, before bed. How does that sound?’
‘Great. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No. It’ll be much quicker and easier if I do it. You can sit here, listen to the radio or read a book, whatever you like. Whisky or beer?’
He settled on the latter, eased himself into a comfortable armchair and sipped his beer in a long cool glass while listening to the radio. He didn’t recognize who was playing, but it sounded American- probably jazz. He remembered hearing some of it in here in London before the war. It had been banned in Germany. ‘Schrage musik’, as the Nazis knew it, was considered by Goebbels to be the perverse and degenerate wailings of a Negroid subculture, and most definitely not in keeping with the true ideals of an Aryan society. Another example of the demented idiocy of a warped intellect that had dominated Europe. He shook his head and smiled at the stupidity of it all. The music sounded just fine to him.
The program finished and changed to a panel discussion on gardening. He tried twiddling the knobs to find something more interesting to listen to, but nothing struck his fancy. He turned the radio off, and walked over to the bookcase that filled one corner of the small lounge. The list of books was very diverse, anything ranging from books of collected verse to a few novels by Dickens and other similar classics, as well as more modern literature. But nothing in particular attracted his attention until he saw a slim book in a green hardback cover. It was called ‘The Hobbit’, by someone called Tolkien. He pulled it out, settled down and began to read. He was still engrossed half an hour later.
‘I see you’ve found one of my favourite books.’ She stood in the middle of the room, an apron wrapped around her waist, and holding another bottle of beer for him. He hadn’t heard her come in. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m enjoying it. As you can see, it’s difficult to put down.’
‘Good. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of those rare books that appeals to children of all ages. Don’t let me disturb you. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.’ She disappeared back to the kitchen, leaving him on his own. He read steadily on, until her shouted warning alerted him.
They ate in the dining room, a larger room at the back of the house and next to the kitchen. It was almost, but not quite, like a candle-lit dinner for two. The room was spotless. She confessed to having given it a good clean while the dinner was cooking.
‘I didn’t want you to see it before I’d had a chance to tidy up. I had a party here last weekend, and the place was an absolute pigsty. I was a little unwell afterwards,’ she winked, ‘and just didn’t get around to clearing it up all week until now. But I hope it’s alright.’
It was, and the food was delicious. He complimented her cooking skills, and thanked her again. Then, after an awkward silence, they both burst out talking simultaneously.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, clearing his throat and laughing at the same time. ‘Ladies first.’
‘No,’ she laughed back. ‘After you -guests first.’
‘Alright then, if you insist. I was just about to ask how I should call you- Mrs Grey or Patricia?’
‘Mrs Grey if you want to be stiff and formal. Patricia at all other times. Most of my friends call me Lady Grey, though God knows why. I’m not a snob, nor do I have any delusions of grandeur or connections with the aristocracy. But don’t ever call me Pat, not if you want to survive to the next day. I can’t stand that name!’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now it’s your turn.’
‘Funny, I was going to ask you exactly the same thing.’
‘Ah, so you’re trying to get me to divulge more secrets, eh?’ He smiled. ‘Well, all right then. I’m sure you didn’t believe for a moment the name I gave you this morning. Anyway, Captain Peter O’Malley’s papers were consigned to the bottom of a canal last night, and I have another set hidden upstairs- my reserve set, in case the O’Malley identity was compromised. Call me Max.’
‘Is that your real name?’
‘Maybe,’ he grinned.
‘You bastard,’ she smiled, half mockingly.
‘Possibly,’ he admitted, ‘but don’t ever let my mother hear you talking like that. She might just take exception.’
‘Where is she? Somewhere in Germany?’
‘No, thank God.’ He suddenly became serious. ‘Somewhere better- Switzerland. She’s there with my sister, thankfully safe and away from Himmler’s thugs.’
‘And your father?’
‘All I can say is that he does much the same work as Canaris.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ She realised she had upset the mood of the evening. It was time to change the subject. ‘Look, I did a bit of thinking while you were asleep. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you mention that you had to be in central London a week on Thursday, and then every two weeks from that until your mission is completed?’
‘Yes. That’s the gist of it. There’s nothing else to do in the meantime. That’s why I need a safe house to lie up in, keep out of sight and undercover.’
‘Okay.
I have a suggestion. What about getting away from London for a bit? I was wondering if you’d like to see sunny Devon and get away from the city. You’d be able to get out and about, and enjoy the fresh air without worrying about being snooped at, or nosy neighbours peering out from behind lace curtains. You could borrow some old clothes that should fit- what do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly, uncertain as to whether leaving London and risking travelling would be a good idea. ‘What about your job?’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’m overdue holiday, and it’s quiet at the moment. I’ll go in tomorrow and sort it out. There won’t be a problem,’ she added confidently.
‘How will we get there?’
‘Probably by rail unless I can borrow a car. If you give me your papers tomorrow I know someone who can sort out the travel warrants. We’ll get a bus or a taxi at the other end. There you are- all problems solved!’ Her confidence was infectious. ‘Deal?’
He felt his mood lifting. A trip to Devon would be far better than lying low for another ten days or so, stuck in a house in the suburbs and trying to pass the time without going mad. And it would get him away from London, and the possibility of chance discovery, particularly if MI5 or the police were looking high and low for him.
He smiled. ‘It’s a deal. I’m looking forward to it already.’
‘Fine. I thought it was a good idea. Let’s finish dinner. Leave the dishes. They can wait until tomorrow. Another drink?’
They retired to the lounge and carried on talking for another hour or so, gradually becoming more and more comfortable with each other. Finally she looked at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Golly, it’s nearly ten. Time for bed. I have an early start tomorrow. Let’s go upstairs.’ She stood up as he levered himself out of a deep chair.
London Calling Page 21
