“I will, Johann.” Findlay looked serious, “Johann, get his name for me. Let me know who he is so that one day I can look for him. Whoever wins this war, none of us will want a psychopath like that around.”
Johann touched his shoulder. “Forget him, Findlay. This world has gone mad and crazy men like him are everywhere. Part of me hopes I get killed so that I don’t have to see it afterwards. Good luck.”
Six Polish women ran the farm, ranging in age from twenty one to thirty six, all of them attractive. None of them spoke English, German, French or Russian and so over the next couple of years Findlay became fluent in Polish. They taught him to farm and they became good friends. Their men were all missing, some known to be still fighting for the Polish resistance and others just gone.
People being people, whatever their good intentions, over the years Findlay fathered four children, one of whom died at birth. It is not true to say that he enjoyed a harem, he was just a healthy man with six healthy women, no outside influences and no outside moderation, the Germans didn’t even visit the farm again, and nature has its own way of doing things. Between them they raised the children as best they could.
Findlay left the farm only once. About a year into his detention he decided to search some of the local area to see if he could find a motor vehicle or even a bicycle that he could use. The farm didn’t have any horses or other useable transport, just chickens, ducks and small scrawny goats. Most of the time they grew potatoes and cabbages. Findlay made spears and a crossbow to protect them and their livestock from wolves. Even so, they lost at least two animals a week to predators. It was depleting their stock and making the farm unviable.
Leaving the crossbow for the women and armed only with a spear, he made his way towards the south west. There was no real reason for the direction, he just reasoned that he was less likely to encounter the enemy that way; most movement was east/west across the northern part of the country. He felt a little ridiculous in his uniform and tatty boots with a savage’s weapon. On his back he carried a home made pack with some small pans and a twig stove. He’d find food and water from the land.
He walked a full two days and saw nobody. This land was mainly virgin woodland and often difficult to pass through. He found only one burnt out country house, plainly a wealthy abode at one time. Searching the ruins and the surrounding land yielded nothing. He noticed that there were what appeared to be bullet strike chunks out of one of the house walls. Every ruin has a story and he’d never know this one.
On the third day, Findlay resolved to start back after one more day walking. He hoped that his sun and stars navigation hadn’t got him lost. In the early afternoon he settled to rest and brew up some roasted acorn coffee. He still had some boiled squirrel from yesterday and decided to lunch. He leaned back onto a long mound that was grassed but with no trees or bushes.
No trees or bushes? He realised the significance of that, this mound was fairly new. He examined it and it appeared to have no military function. He dug a little at the base and the smell of carrion, once known never forgotten, assailed him. He hadn’t dug far, just a few inches, when a small mummified hand, a child’s hand was exposed. He stopped. This was a grave. This was a mass grave. For whom? Whoever had put it here hadn’t even bothered to dig deep. The mound must just be earth covering bodies dumped into a shallow ditch. He stood looking at the mound for a while and then just continued his walking.
A few miles further on he heard cheerful German voices. He approached with caution ensuring he was hidden by foliage. Peering from beneath a fallen tree he saw a work party guarded by at least six armed Germans in black SS uniforms. As he listened he realised that one of the uniformed guards was Polish. A traitor, then.
He watched. The workers were all male, all thin and all wearing striped baggy uniforms. He watched carefully and he realised from yellow stars on their stripy tops that they were all Jews. They worked hard using long handled shovels to dig a long shallow ditch the purpose of which was clear to him because he remembered the mound. The dirt was being piled onto the far side of the ditch. All of the workers looked gaunt and painfully thin. He could see no feeding area, no toilets and no transport. After about an hour he needed to move as his limbs were stiffening up.
Just as he started to crawl away one of the guards shouted incoherently. All of the work squad moved into a huddled group about twenty yards from the ditch. The sound of a truck growling through the woods was evident.
When it arrived it disgorged first about a dozen SS all armed with rifles. Then about sixty women and children climbed or were pulled from the truck. Findlay had never seen such a defeated and accepting look as these people obediently followed the instructions of their kidnappers. Even the children seemed devoid of mischief or hope.
They were all lined up and shot at the ditch in six tranches, none of them reacted or even voiced objections as this happened. Group after group stood placidly facing into the ditch as they were shot from behind. Findlay even formed the bizarre view that some of them were trying to fall in positions convenient for the murderers.
The SS climbed back aboard and the truck left. At a shouted command the workforce moved in to start piling the earth removed from the ditch onto the corpses. Some of the bodies were still twitching and he could hear a child whimpering weakly beneath the bloodied pile. They were covered anyway. The workers were now carefully watched by their guards to ensure they did not hesitate in their task.
Findlay was stunned and stealthily left the murder zone. He was barely prone to extreme language but on this occasion he just thought, those fuckers, those fucking fucking fuckers. He wanted to kill them all.
“There will be a time of retribution, mark my words,” he said to nobody there.
When the war turned it was not noticeable on the farm. Things continued as before until one day a car containing two Russian officers drove up.
“Who the fuck are you?” one of them said to Findlay.
“Why do people keep asking that?” he responded.
“Who the fuck are you?” repeated the surprised Russian.
Findlay explained as best he could. The mention of Stalin’s name was enough to ensure his protection, and that of the women, from these people. For their part, the Russians explained that the Germans were in full retreat and on the other side of Europe the Americans, British and allies were squeezing the Reich to a well deserved death. Findlay was ordered to remain on the farm while they passed the information to Moscow. He was told that if he left the farm he would be shot.
“Why does everybody keep saying that as well?” he asked. As they left he quietly said, “it worked Aleksandra Ivanovna Barantceva, you slowed them down and they died of it, well done you beauty.”
A couple of weeks later two highly amused NKVD men, the Soviet secret service come thought control police, sat with him at the farm table. The apparent leader said, “London and Moscow confirm who you are, it seems Churchill is delighted. So too is Stalin. You have some powerful friends Mr Aitchsmith, nobody on this side will do anything bad to you.”
“They’re not exactly friends,” Findlay explained. “I think of them as demanding friendly bosses.” The NKVD poured more vodka to show they understood.
What really provoked their sense of humour was the kids. “All yours, eh? You English dog in heat, kept your weapon ready throughout the war, didn’t you?” They roared with laughter.
Findlay was sorry to leave the children; he really did love them. He obtained assurances that the women would be respected and well treated. He was advised to rush home to Britain immediately because the Polish men would return soon and they would be less than impressed by him, secondly and more importantly because Stalin said he should. He obtained an absolute assurance of safety for the women and kids and then made his sad goodbyes. Everybody, including the half drunk NKVD men, wept.
The Russians supplied t
he transport to get him to Moscow, from there he flew home courtesy of the RAF who swooped in specially to get him.
“Three kids,” laughed Churchill. “You dog…”
“I’ve been there with the NKVD and quite frankly I don’t need it from you. I loved those little ones, I still do and if you think I’m going to sit here and let you…”
Churchill raised a hand to stop him. They sat in the office from which the prime minister had despatched him to Russia. “I apologise. Of course, you are suffering. I have to tell you that it’s unlikely the Russians will permit the children or women to travel here. We’ll ask but I’m confident they won’t allow it. They’ll occupy Poland for years, you know. I’d like to expel them but the cabinet and house will oppose that so it won’t happen.”
“I know,” said Findlay, his anger subsiding slightly. “I’ve left full details of everybody I met with the section. There’s a German I’d really like to meet again. He’s SS but I don’t know his name.”
Churchill looked at him for few moments. “I know the story. We have him, his name is Friedrich Jagemann. The Russians caught him hiding in an old barn and crying like a baby. We also have Johann Waldheim, he asks after you. He seems a decent chap but will still have to pay the price for helping the Nazis. He was wounded in an exchange before he was captured but he’ll be fine. He told us about Aleksandra Ivanovna Barantceva,” he consulted notes so that he would get the name right. “I had a section supervisor brief me on everything that happened to you.”
“Johann’s a good man, he did what he could but obviously not enough. I want to have the SS officer for myself and I want to give evidence at the trials.” Findlay sat up as if that settled it.
“You can’t have him,” said Churchill. “I’m sorry but he must stand trial. If I’d been you I’d want him as well so I do understand. His guards have been instructed that you may not see him, should you attend the trials. You have some evidence of the mass murder of Jews so you probably will be called on.”
Findlay gave his evidence. He gave general evidence of mass murder, specific evidence of SS murder and character evidence for Waldheim. Jagemann was hanged soon after his trial, in which he claimed that his acts were sanctioned by law at the time and therefore he was simply following lawful orders as was his duty. Findlay was permitted to observe the execution as a favour obtained for him by Churchill from the new British Government. When the Russian team objected Churchill had Stalin inform them that he also wanted Findlay to attend and the objections ceased.
Johann Waldheim was acquitted and released. He wrote a letter of thanks to Findlay and invited him to Germany as his guest when things improved.
Stalin also wrote to Findlay. Findlay was surprised to find the dictator understood people’s fears and concerns better than he thought such a man would. Stalin thanked him and apologised for sending him to the front, he hadn’t intended him to be captured. He also gave his personal assurance that Findlay’s children would receive a good soviet education and do well in the communist state. He concluded by informing him that Aleksandra Ivanovna Barantceva was declared Hero of the Soviet Union and her parents informed of and thanked for her courage and sacrifice. They ask if Findlay would write to them.
Findlay did write to Aleksandra Ivanovna’s parents, he told them of his admiration for their daughter and concluded by telling them that she loved them and often spoke of them. That of course was a lie, she never mentioned them, but a justifiable one, Findlay thought.
He also wrote to Stalin. He begged that Stalin release his children to Britain along with the women. He added that if Stalin was unable to do this, then he thanked him for ensuring they are cared for. He wanted to berate the dictator but with his kids still in Soviet hands he didn’t feel able to. He received no reply and never heard from or about the children again.
Findlay could have retired at that time. He was promised a good pension and an early honourable release from service. He declined. He did take a year sabbatical during which time he finally learned Japanese.
When the Korean war burst into the world, he quickly learned Korean; it is similar to Japanese in some ways but with a heavy Chinese influence. It is a distinct discrete language but recognisable to any linguist as an amalgam and adaptation of several far eastern phonologies. He requested a posting to the war zone and was embedded with an American squad interrogating prisoners.
The world is filled with stupid moments. As Findlay left a feeding station one night, he was run down and killed by a passing Jeep, the young American driver had been looking at some girls and didn’t see him. The medics who desperately tried to save him said he just kept muttering some Russian sounding name over and over before smiling, reaching out and dying.
***
Standing before my dad and me, Dave, the debriefing priest, explained how all post-death matters were in hand. My dad was pleased to hear that there would be no invasive post mortem examination of my mum. The doctor here would issue a death certificate and the coroner’s involvement was just a paper exercise. He explained that doctors wanted to check over my dad before he left and then another cab would take him home and, if necessary, somebody would stay with him until he was certain he could carry on.
“I’ll take him home and be with him,” I said.
“No you won’t and no you won’t,” Dave ordered. Normally, that level of control thrown at me would meet with a forceful response. Not today though, I trusted this man and if he had something else in mind he had good reasons. The beautiful nurse returned and led my dad away, I swear she winked at him as she invited him to follow. I laughed as he shuffled a little dance step and fell in behind her. I called out to him that I’d phone him and get to his flat as soon as I could.
“My dad seems to be behaving himself,” I said to Dave.
“Hmm, maybe,” he replied. “He had a bit of a curse and rant before you got here. I’ve fed him and he’s nearly cleaned out my coffee supplies. Actually, he’s impressively fit for a man of his age. I think he’ll be OK now. I’ve phoned the coroner and hem said that hem is content just for our paperwork so Jay will come for your mum. Do you want to see her?”
“No.” No hesitation. I wanted to remember her as she was when she was animated. I had no need to observe an empty shell looking a bit like my mum. Maybe that was the effect of the switch but I don’t think so. It’s a decision I made when I realised my mum would die soon.
“OK,” said my priest. “Steve,” he put his hand on my shoulder, “it’s OK to let some feelings out if you can. I do understand what you’re doing now. Remember that eventually they explode out of you. I know you’re doing the thing we do, people like you and me.”
I thought that was a curious thing to say. Definitely some kind of uniformed history there. This was the time and place, I decided. “Dave, where did you serve, who were you with?”
“Ah, observant bastard, eh? I know, we recognise each other, those of us who were stupid enough to think we were tough. I did wear the Queen’s uniform and I did go to some places. I was one of those who had special indulgence, that meant I didn’t need to serve in Northern Ireland. That’s not uncommon for soldiers from the Republic in the British forces. I did go elsewhere, though. I did some things and saw some things. That’s all I’ll ever tell you. It’s also why the church doesn’t send me to certain parishes outside the UK.”
There was no more to say. I nodded my comprehension to him. He just patted my arm and suggested we go down to his office in the chapel. He said he had something to show me. Several inappropriate and unkind jokes swam into my head, mainly about priests showing vulnerable people things in secluded places. This was just the black humour and the schadenfreude of all services threatening to show itself. It was probably because of the stress of the circumstances and what we’d just said to each other. He knew, he just raised his eyebrows as if daring me to say it and led the way to the chap
el.
We walked in silence and entered the chapel. Dave made some coffee from whatever he’d been able to salvage from my father’s looting of his supplies. While he was in his little office I took up residence on a chair at the back.
“Always at the back, eh?” he said as he returned. “There’s no easy escape, you know. Cancel that, there’s no escape in the end. Sit at the back, near the door, if you like but what happens, happens and will happen whatever you try to do about it. Don’t fool yourself.” Typical, on a day like this he’s identifying my psychological need for an escape route at all times. In hotels I always walk the escape route, in cinemas I identify the exits, in rooms I don’t control I sit near the door and normally with my back to the wall. On the other hand he might just be using this as a disguised and devious prod towards faith, he’s quite capable of that.
He gave me coffee and I noticed a vanilla A5 envelope in his other hand. He gave it to me. “This,” he solemnly declared, “is a letter from your mother. She asked me to give it to you. Don’t read it until you get home.”
“Wow, when did she…” I was quieted by his raised hand.
“Fuck off,” he said.
“Oh, very priestly again,” I said.
“Shut up,” he said, this an order.
“Have you read it?” I enquired.
“Yep, she wanted me to.”
I just looked at him. I felt my eyes start to fill up but quickly had it under control again. “OK,” I replied.
“When you’ve read it,” he spoke in a low authoritative voice, “you’ll have a lot on your mind and will want to visit the area where you were brought up. Do that but I suggest that before you try to act on the letter, if you do, you should tour your old childhood places, see the people who aren’t there.”
I chuckled softly, “Dave, that’s even more Irish than usual.”
Twenty Five Million Ghosts Page 13
