Uncommon Enemy

by Reynolds, John

  “Yes.” His hand closed reassuringly over her palm. “It’ll be OK. Nothing’s likely to go wrong.” He looked up at the tranquil sky. “Especially on such a beautiful day.”

  Nevertheless, his footsteps instinctively slowed as they approached the next corner.

  The large stone chair, constructed in the 1920s by a local philanthropist for public use, was built of large rocks cemented together and placed on a broad concrete base. It was large enough for two average sized people to sit and look out across a stretch of rock-strewn sand towards the sea.

  “Nobody around,” murmured Susan.

  “Looks OK. Come on.”

  Hand in hand, trying to look like a couple of casual day-trippers, they walked slowly over to the chair. Seating herself on the base Susan smiled up at Brendan.

  “I used to love coming here as a little girl.” She paused and gazed out to sea. “I distinctly remember the beginning of one summer when I sat on the chair and found that I could touch the ground. My dad grinned and said that I’d now grown up. Silly really.”

  “Silly?”

  “Yes. All kids like to feel they’re growing up but I remember at the time I felt quite sad – as though something had gone forever.”

  Brendan leaned up against the side of the chair and looked towards the ocean. Apart from several wheeling seagulls and a self-absorbed couple lying on a pair of towels half-hidden by some rocks there was no-one else around.

  “If this weather keeps up there’ll be masses of people here tomorrow.”

  Susan didn’t reply. He glanced down at her. She was staring towards the northern end of the path.

  “Brendan, I think it’s them.”

  He turned. Two young women were approaching from the Milford end. Although dressed in light frocks and carrying small cane picnic baskets, from the pallor of their faces and shoulders it was clear that they weren’t locals.

  “Just sit there,” he muttered.

  Leaning against the high arm of the stone chair Brendan watched the approaching pair. Although his stance was one of contrived casualness he felt an inner tension seep slowly through his body.

  A few meters from the chair the two women halted and stood uncertainly for a moment. They were both wearing new straw hats. One of the women showed short wisps of dark hair protruding from under the rim while the other’s blonde hair was shoulder length. From above them a seagull gave a sharp, raucous cry. Uncertainly they looked at Susan and Brendan and then at each other. The blonde woman nodded briefly and turning back towards the pair the dark girl spoke. The loudness of her voice betrayed her nervousness.

  “That is a very large chair, is it not?”

  “Yes,” replied Brendan. “Would you like to sit down?” Clearly relieved the two hurried forward.

  “I am Sophie Scholl.” The dark haired one thrust out her hand.

  They shook hands. She turned back towards her companion.

  “And this is my friend Gretchen Brandt.” She smiled. “Gretchen can only speak a little English.” She shrugged. “My English is not so good but we will both try.”

  Susan stood up and Brendan introduced her to the two women who took her a little by surprise by vigorously shaking her hand.

  “It’s OK,” smiled Brendan. “Germans shake hands with everyone.”

  “Was sagen Sie?” asked Sophie.

  “Ich sage, dass man in Deutschland immer einen Händedruck machen muss.”

  “In Neuseeland etwa nicht?”

  “Nicht für Frauen.”

  “I don’t think we should be talking in German, Brendan,” Susan frowned at him. “It’s not just because I can’t speak it well, it’s just that if we’re overheard----.”

  “You’re right. I was just explaining that Kiwi women aren’t used to shaking hands.” He turned to Sophie. “We must speak English while we are here.”

  Sophie nodded vigorously. “Naturally. We understand.”

  Speaking slowly, Brendan began to explain that it was his job to question the two women and then, if he was satisfied, he would confirm the initial university verification.

  Susan studied the girls carefully. Dark eyed Sophie’s brow was continually creased in concentration, watching Brendan intently as he spoke, and regularly nodding her understanding. By contrast whenever Gretchen’s blue eyes caught Brendan’s a wisp of a smile appeared round her mouth and was accompanied by a gentle touch on his arm.

  “Blonde hair, blue eyes. Classic Aryan beauty. Ideally suited for a Nazi Party recruiting poster,” thought Susan.

  Several times during Brendan’s explanation he had to repeat more slowly what he had said then pause to allow Sophie to quietly translate for Gretchen. When he’d finished, Sophie, after glancing nervously around, reached into her basket and from underneath a white cloth produced a sheet of paper. Moving closer to Brendan, she quickly thrust it into his hand. Looking down he saw that it was a leaflet written in German.

  “Die weiße Rose,” he said softly.

  Both women nodded vigorously.

  “It is our White Rose leaflet,” explained Sophie. “We printed many of these in Munich. We gave them to the university students. The Nazis were not pleased.”

  Brendan studied the leaflet for a few moments then looked up sharply.

  “God!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” asked Susan.

  He carefully checked to see that no one was approaching the group.

  “Wenn das deutsche Volk…” His voice tailed off as he continued to read silently. He paused and then translated softly.

  “‘If the German people are already so corrupted and spiritually crushed that they do not raise a hand, then yes they deserve their downfall ’.” He looked up at Susan. “No wonder the authorities are concerned. The whole pamphlet is an attack on the Nazis and their system. I’m surprised these two are still alive!”

  Gretchen touched his arm. “Excuse me, Brendan, what said you?” she asked anxiously.

  He turned to her. “A moment, please.” He addressed Susan. “Look, this is taking more time than I imagined. I’m also mindful that the longer we’re here the greater the danger. It’ll be faster if I speak in German. Then I’ll translate for you.”

  “Suppose so. Just make sure you stick to the point and don’t get sidetracked.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. Just get on with it.”

  Turning to the German women he explained that they would continue in German, but would speak quietly. They both nodded in eager agreement.

  Sophie explained that at the outbreak of war they were both enrolled at Munich University as medical students. They had initially joined the White Rose group to show their concern at the increasing restrictions on university students and the treatment of German Jews. However the White Rose activities had attracted the ire of the authorities and they had been arrested. Under normal circumstances they would have been charged and imprisoned and possibly executed. However, the vast area of territory unexpectedly gained by Nazi Germany had created an acute shortage of army medical personnel. Consequently they had been ordered overseas and attached to a medical corps. They had assumed that their New Zealand posting was designed to take them as far away from Germany as possible. Although they’d been watched closely when they’d first arrived, their surveillance had slackened off over the past few weeks and now they were even allowed a weekly day off to spend as they wished.

  Gretchen smiled. “Wir gehen gern zum Strand.” She laughed and playfully took his arm. “Neuseelander sind sehr schön.”

  The three laughed, partly as a release from their tenseness.

  “What’s so damn funny?” asked Susan brusquely.

  Brendan grinned. “Gretchen was just explaining that they love going to the beach and admiring the handsome Kiwi men.”

  “Brendan, I thought you were supposed to be checking their validity.”

  “OK. Take it easy.”

  “No, don’t ‘take it easy’. Just get on w
ith it.”

  “Yes, all right, I just---.”

  Gretchen’s scream made them whirl round. A large black Alsatian had come racing round the corner, leapt up at the young German woman and was pawing the front of her frock.

  “Midnight! Get down! Bad dog!” A small girl came running forward. Seizing the animal’s trailing lead she leaned back and dragged it off the frightened Gretchen.

  “Sorry, lady,” began the girl as an older woman rapidly joined her.

  “Yes, we’re terribly sorry. I told Margaret to keep a firm hold but Midnight’s a strong dog and he just broke away.” Pulling a small handkerchief from her dress pocket she reached towards Gretchen. “Frightfully sorry. You’ve got some dirt on your pretty dress.”

  Gretchen already badly frightened by the dog and now confused by an unexpected encounter backed away uncertainly shaking her head.

  “Das macht nichts. Das mach nichts.”

  Quickly the woman seized her daughter’s hand. “Come away, Margaret!”

  “What did the lady say, Mummy?”

  “Quickly!”

  “But, what did she - ow, Mummy, you’re hurting me.”

  The four watched in silence as the mother urgently pulled the protesting child and dog along the path and disappeared around the corner.

  “She was, er, with fright, was she not?”

  “Yes, Sophie. Frightened. But that’s no excuse,” snapped Susan. She whirled round and thrust her face close to Gretchen’s. Her voice was low but the words were measured and angry.

  “Do not speak German. Do you understand? No German.”

  “OK, Susan.” Brendan reached out and touched her arm. “Gretchen was frightened by the bloody dog. It’s not her fault that----.”

  Impatiently Susan shook off his hand. Her voice was harsh.

  “Then whose fault is it? The authorities are looking for us. We’re not supposed to draw attention to ourselves. We’re supposed to look like a typical young couple enjoying the summer sun. And here we are frightening the hell out of the local population by jabbering away in German.”

  Sophie, clearly unable to understand the rapidity of Susan’s speech put her hand on Brendan’s arm.

  “I am sorry for any trouble,” she began. “It was the dog. Gretchen was----.”

  “It’s OK,” replied Brendan. He glared at Susan. “Nobody’s fault. But,” he turned to Sophie, “we must be very careful. We are all running a great risk. You must not speak any German when you are with us.”

  The two German women exchanged a rapid whispered conversation and then both nodded vigorously.

  “We understand, now,” Sophie said. “We are very sorry. We will not speak any German.”

  “No,” echoed Gretchen. “No German.”

  Brendan smiled reassuringly. “OK, Susan?” he asked.

  Susan frowned and then slowly nodded her head in agreement. “OK, as long as they stick to the agreement.”

  “Good. I’ve looked at their pamphlet and believe that they are genuine members of the White Rose, which I also believe is a genuine German resistance group. I think we should now proceed immediately to the next stage.”

  Susan hesitated. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I am. It matches my background information and the communication from the University cell.”

  Seeing her frowning he asked, “You’re still not convinced?”

  “Maybe. But before we proceed, we have to check their baskets – and their persons. We’ve all been taught about concealed weapons.”

  “Of course.” He turned to the two German women.

  “Brendan. Just a minute.”

  He turned back.

  “Tell them that you’ll check their baskets.” She smiled wryly. “And that I’ll do the personal searches.”

  He grinned and spread his arms wide. “Of course, dear girl. I never assumed otherwise.”

  Swiftly he explained to Sophie the necessity for the search. The basket revealed nothing more than some pieces of bread, an apple, handkerchiefs and lipstick. Using the shelter provided by the Giant’s Chair Susan then ran her hands swiftly over each girl’s body.

  “All clear,” she nodded to Brendan.

  “Good. Now you are to follow me along the beach. The rendezvous is at the bottom of Milford Road.”

  Taking Susan’s hand he headed north towards the end of the coastal path. When they reached the beginning of Milford Beach the four of them continued in silence across the sand finding some relief from their tension in the wavelets of the incoming tide that swirled around their feet.

  “Brendan?”

  He stopped and turned round.

  “Yes, Sophie?”

  “It’s Gretchen. She has a, how you say it in English,” she lowered her voice and touched her head, “Kopfschmerzen.”

  “Headache.”

  “Ja. Yes.” She smiled apologetically. “The hot sun, the dog, the worry.”

  “I understand. There’s a shop at the end of Milford Road near the beach. They should have some aspirins.”

  Both women nodded their thanks.

  “OK?” He glanced at Susan who was frowning.

  She shrugged. “Suppose so. I won’t relax until we’re back home, in Albany.”

  “Me too.” He squeezed her hand. “Won’t be long now.”

  The small dairy located at the end of the road sold ice creams and milk shakes as well as basic necessities such as bread, milk, and a limited selection of groceries. It looked deserted as they approached.

  ”We can all go in, but let Susan and me do the talking,” instructed Brendan quietly. He reached forward, opened the door and stepped back to let the women go ahead.

  “Oh, excuse me, madam.”

  The tall German officer, who had suddenly appeared in the doorway, quickly stepped aside narrowly avoiding a collision with Sophie.

  The three women stood stock still for a moment then Susan, recovering herself, smiled at the man.

  “Thank you officer. Come on girls. In we go.”

  The German watched them enter. Obviously attracted by the sight of three casually clad young women, he showed no sign of exiting. Crinkling his blue eyes into a smile he briefly doffed his officer’s cap to reveal close cropped blonde hair.

  “Hauptman Hans Klemperer at your service ladies.” His bowed briefly and snapped his polished boot heels together. “It is beautiful New Zealand weather today, is it not?”

  “Er, yes, officer, it is a beautiful day,” Susan smiled.

  The door slammed as Brendan released it and stepped between the officer and the three women.

  With a conscious effort he worked his features into an ingratiating smile.

  “Good afternoon, officer. I am glad you are enjoying our New Zealand weather.” He pointed at the man’s neck. “Is that an Iron Cross, sir? Where did you win it?”

  The German stared at him suspiciously. “France, von Manstein. 7th Panzer Division,” he snapped. He turned back towards the three women who were gathered at the counter where Susan had just asked for a bottle of aspirin.

  “Ahh, aspirin,” he said jovially. “For the headache. Too much good Auckland sun!” As the others weakly joined his laughter he continued, “So, which one of you has the headache?” His gaze settled admiringly on Gretchen. “Perhaps it is the lovely lady with the blonde hair.” Reaching out he touched her cheek. “Your face is quite pale. Perhaps you are not used to the sun.”

  Gretchen stood motionless; with her mouth half open staring at the officer. The man frowned. “Is my English so bad? Can you not understand me?”

  “Yes, officer, she can, but she has a very bad headache and needs to go home immediately.”

  Susan’s forced smile and nervously spoken response caused the officer to frown suspiciously.

  “Your Iron Cross, sir? Tell me----,” began Brendan

  Klemperer waved a dismissive hand and fixed his eyes on Sophie.

  “And you, dark haired lady. Do you have a headache, too?”
>
  Her eyes wide Sophie shook her head.

  “No,” she replied softly.

  “I am sorry, officer,” continued Susan, “but we really must be going. My friend is quite ill.”

  The man paused and his eyes slowly swept over the whole group who stood staring back at him uneasily. The buzz of a blowfly intruded into the heavy silence. Suddenly Klemperer’s face broke into a wide smile.

  “Of course. Forgive me.” Reaching the door in two strides he swung it open and stood back. He bowed slightly. “After you.”

  “Thank you.” Susan walked past him closely followed by Gretchen. As the German girl drew level with him she looked up and smiled nervously. He grinned and nodded.

  “Bis bald, Fraulein.”

  “Danke. Bis bald.”

  The officer’s hand flew to the holster at his side. Instantly, Brendan, rugby style, lowered his shoulder and charged, connecting with the man’s stomach. “Run!” he roared as the officer staggered backwards and crashed into a shelf full of tinned baked beans.

  Coming upright, Brendan scrambled towards the doorway. From the corner of his eye he saw that Klemperer was back on his feet and was tugging his pistol from his holster. Seeing a large Chevrolet sedan parked on the side of the road Brendan dived left onto the grass and executed a forward roll that brought him alongside the car’s front wheel.

  A series of shots momentarily obliterated the sound of the incoming tide. Crouching behind the car’s front wheel Brendan looked back. The German officer was clutching feebly at the doorpost of the dairy. A dark red smear was marking his slow downward slide.

  “Get in the car! All of you!”

  A young man clad in swimming togs and a short-sleeved shirt was standing by the driver’s door. His right hand held a smoking Weber pistol.

  “How the hell----?”

  “Later. Get in. Now!”

  The three women came running over and scrambled into the Chevrolet’s back seat. The driver, a young woman dressed in a bathing suit and a lemon beach coat, was holding the car in gear. The man with the revolver held the door open as Brendan slid onto the bench seat next to her. As the man leapt in and slammed the door there was a jerk as the clutch was released, and with a throaty surge the big V8 motor pulled the car rapidly away.