String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  ‘OK! Take a look, Mike.’

  ‘Couple of stitches when we get back to base, but I reckon we can finish the lesson,’ Mike said.

  ‘You’re in charge. I’m circling the wreck within a fifty metre radius. I’ll mainly focus on the reef.’ While he spoke he was unbuckling his harness to fit a new tank in. ‘I’m looking for signs of the original cargo of copper from Zaire,’ he lied. He changed tanks, gave them the thumbs up sign and fell backwards over the side, floating gently down. From the wreck, he swam southwards, following the line of the reef. A sudden surge in the current washed him off his feet and flung him against the nearest rocks. He hung on against the swirling water and marvelled when the sun broke through the mist. Now he could see the fish swimming past. A crab scuttled across the sandy surface into the reef. Watching it, Simon caught sight of a piece of chain, like heavy anchor chain, almost obscured by seaweed. He dived head first on to it and tried to haul it up, but it was so heavy it could be anchored to the sea bed. He felt his way along it, at times having to squeeze between the rocks, moving southwards. The chain appeared to be laid in a straight line amongst the rocks that formed the reef. Swimming a couple of feet above the chain, with his searchlight trained on to it, he followed it into deeper water.

  The tide was coming in, the backwash took him off course frequently, but he kept going. Thoughts of narcosis were uppermost in his mind, but then the tallest reef of all loomed ahead of him. It was at least a hundred metres from the wreck, but this was probably the rock that had holed the hull. The sea calmed for a few seconds and once again he saw the chain half submerged in the sand. He circled the reef which was rectangular, consisting of four rocky outcrops stretching over fifty metres of sandy sea bottom. There was no sign of the chain, so it must end in the reef. He’d probably find an anchor and nothing else, Simon guessed as he picked up the trail again.

  At first the going was reasonably good. There was a heavy swell starting up and numerous swirling eddies and choppy side currents buffeted him against the rocks, but he was a strong swimmer and he kept moving forward, pushing himself to go harder and faster to beat the damned twenty-minute deadline. A sudden lurch sent him hard against a rock that was solid and still. He lay still, hanging on, waiting for the backwash to still. Switching on his lamp, he swung the powerful beam into the shadows between the rocks. He was in a narrow channel and between the rocks, secured by chains, he saw dozens of boxes. They were laid in a line all the way down the reef, but he did not have enough air left to find out how many were stowed there. Something else brought a thrill of physical horror even before his mind had worked out what it was. He was lying on a corpse and the head lay only inches from his face.

  He longed to rocket to the surface, but he had to examine the corpse first and he was running out of air, his movements had become slow and sluggish. Whoever it was had been wearing some kind of breathing apparatus, but the air had been switched off and it hung from one strap, the other was sliced through. His flippers were still on his feet, but there was a jagged tear in his rubber suit just below his right shoulder blade. He wondered just how much of a fight he had managed put up with his air switched off. He was still wearing his goggles which had partially protected his eyes. The rest of his face was swollen, grey-white and eaten by the fish. He had been wearing a body suit, which left his arms and legs bare, and here, too, the flesh was swollen and half-eaten. Simon unfastened his watch and his knife for the police.

  Only then could he rise, taking it slow and pausing for a while halfway up. He surfaced, pushed off his mask and found that he was at least a hundred yards from the boats. Switching his spotlight on and off, he trod water until a boat reached him.

  ‘Jesus, Simon,’ Mike said, forgetting protocol. ‘I was scared shitless. We didn’t know where to start searching. Get in fast.’

  ‘No, hang on. Pass me one of the buoys. I need a long line. There’s a corpse right below us and dozens of boxes. It could be the corpse you were searching for, plus a portion of the missing cargo. The body is weighed down by chains. It’s no accidental death, believe me, but we’ll have to leave it until we fetch a body bag. Not a word about this until the body is identified,’ he warned. He secured the buoy and climbed into the boat.

  ‘I should have come with you,’ Mike said.

  An hour later, Simon drove to see McGuire, taking the watch and knife, and an offer to retrieve the corpse after photographing it, which was gratefully accepted. McGuire accompanied him back to the house to speak to Helen.

  Daisy, who had been eavesdropping outside the door, rushed into the room and flung herself onto the couch, sobbing. ‘I knew it. I knew all the time. I told Mike to find him . . . and he did. It’s best to know the truth, but I knew that Dad would never have gone away without letting me know.’

  Helen officially identified the watch and the knife with a cool composure, although she turned very white and went upstairs afterwards, locking herself in her room for the rest of the day, until John went up and spoke to her. Simon never knew what he said, but Helen joined the family for supper looking calm, but pale and even more beautiful. She made it very clear that she did not want to talk about Eric ever again. But it was not over yet.

  Two days later, early in the morning, the police came to tell Helen that Eric’s body had been in the water for about seven months. Until then he had been living in an exclusive Edinburgh hotel with his pregnant companion under the assumed names of Mr and Mrs Laruelle, which was his secretary’s family name. She had not known that he was going to Mowbray, and the Edinburgh police had not realized that Eric Conroy and her supposed husband were one and the same. Simon guessed that Eric had come to Dorset to see Daisy and to investigate the wreck for possible salvage rights.

  Helen simply shrugged, got on her bicycle and left for work. Yet Simon sensed that she was still in turmoil. He noticed little things: she would forget what she was doing, leave the stove on and burn the food, all kinds of memory lapses which told him that she was under a great deal of strain.

  ‘Helen, listen, your family needs you. Pull yourself together,’ Simon told her days later. ‘All this introspection is doing you no good and it’s harming the family. I know you’re grieving, but try to put it aside.’

  ‘I’m not grieving. That’s my problem, but at least my adultery was never adultery, since I was a widow, not a wife. Eric is the cheat, not I. His precious mistress was sent to Scotland for safety, while we endured three blitzes.’

  ‘So all this gloom can end now?’ he asked gently.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not that . . . not that at all.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Why are we here? What’s it all about? One brief burst of life . . . well, it’s simply not enough. To know . . . to feel . . . to love . . . to be. And after all that – nothing? Is it possible? Yet I don’t believe in anything.’

  Mere words would never help her, Simon sensed. She had enough of them every Sunday morning.

  DI Rob McGuire, local police chief and now his friend, was the perfect companion for his escape strategy. The man was unassuming, straight talking, moral and trustworthy. So when they met once a week in a pub called Ducks and Drakes, overlooking a pebbled river with reeds and willows, they talked of pre-war matters like fishing, women, sport and how to get enough sleep, faced with their work loads. It was the first day of spring, and McGuire told him how his tulip bulbs were being dug up and eaten by badgers. He didn’t grudge them their meal, but his wife was putting out bread and peanuts, hoping to save the rest of their spring bulbs. McGuire was a man Simon admired. He should have retired two years back, but he had agreed to stay on until the war’s end to free younger men for the armed forces. He had taken the place of two men, he worked all hours and he’d aged more than he should have since Simon met him a mere seven months ago. His grey hair had turned almost white, but his eyes remained youthful and discerning.

  They ate an excellent meal of trout, salad, new p
otatoes and minty, home-grown peas followed by a piquant apple pie, and it was only over coffee that they turned reluctantly to the job on hand.

  ‘It’s like this, Simon,’ Rob began. ‘The beach demonstration was created by this gang of misfits in order to play for time. They wanted to keep you and your guys off the beach for a few more weeks while they salvaged, or should I say pilfered, the rest of the copper, which they had moved to the furthest reefs. Until you came along, they were making a fortune taking a little at a time and selling it to the black market. There are four charges involved, including murder, so they’ll be put away for a long time. One of them might be hanged.’

  ‘When can we get the body back?’ Simon appealed to the policeman. ‘Helen is very depressed nowadays. A funeral might bring some sort of closure to a very unhappy period of her life.’

  ‘Very soon,’ McGuire told him.

  So that left only Miro, Simon thought gloomily. He drove back to camp feeling depressed. How do you harden your heart against a boy of sixteen whom you trust and admire? Miro was kind and loyal, a boy of deep passions. He loved his foster family and proved this daily in so many ways. He spoke six languages, scored brilliantly in his exams, played soccer in his school team and he was a good swimmer. Simon felt that he was creating a bond with the boy.

  Nevertheless, it was time to set a few traps around his room and as he had feared, Miro fell into most of them, leaving his fingerprints on the door handle, the desk and the lock of his briefcase, neglecting to put his papers back in the correct order and breaking the slender thread on his drawers and suitcases. Perhaps he thought being a spy was a cinch, particularly with Simon being out for hours and days at a time. It was time to trap him, but they hang spies in England, Simon reminded himself. This month Miro would turn seventeen and he was unlikely to be shown much mercy in wartime. Perhaps he should investigate his background a little more thoroughly. He would start with Helen, so he waited for the right opportunity to bring up the subject.

  A perfect spring day had turned into a balmy evening. Helen had the night off from the canteen. She had put on some make-up and dressed attractively and Simon wondered if she were getting over her depression. They were sitting in the garden drinking sundowners which Simon had created and which he was rather proud of. Daisy decided to go for a walk down to the sea, but when Miro suggested he should accompany her she looked embarrassed and said she had arranged to meet a friend. Miro looked sulky and went up to his room.

  ‘He’s jealous,’ Simon said, wondering if he should have mentioned it.

  ‘Is it that obvious? I was hoping no one else had noticed. They have always been very close. Daisy sees him as her brother, but of course he isn’t. I call him my foster son, but the truth is we’re merely looking after him until the war ends.’

  ‘Just how tough was it for him?’

  ‘I’ll never forget seeing him for the first time. He’d only been in the camp for a few months, but he was so skinny. You could see he’d been starved. He was frightened, too. The Nazis made sure that the kids’ journey was humiliating and terrifying. They travelled in sealed compartments, food was limited and Miro had only the clothes he stood up in. Not even a coat. He travelled to Britain in a shirt and short trousers.

  ‘He was handed to me at the station without ceremony or safeguards or any idea of whether he would be properly looked after. I couldn’t even reassure him, because he didn’t understand me. He was ill. I called the doctor and he spent the next two weeks in bed. Daisy was wonderful. Within ten minutes of his arrival she found out that he could speak French. She was learning French at school so they could communicate a little. She spent most of her spare time with him, teaching him English.’ Helen smiled sadly at Simon.

  ‘After he recovered, I used to feel embarrassed taking him shopping, because people used to stop me in the street and say how thin he was. One woman even threatened to report me to social welfare.’

  She chattered on, but Simon was having his own thoughts. What proof do we have that he really is Miroslav Levy, he wondered. The SS could have sent one of their own as an impostor. How could he possibly check on this? He turned his attention back to Helen.

  ‘We had a few problems at first, but as you can see, it turned out well,’ she was saying.

  ‘What kind of problems? I mean, you’re all so close now. How did this happen?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much.’

  ‘What were you remembering?’ Simon asked.

  ‘He used to hide food in his room, but he soon got over that nonsense,’ she answered evasively.

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that what? Nothing! We were a family. He worked hard at school, his English improved in leaps and bounds. He feels like my son. We feel like a normal family.’

  ‘But who sent him? How did he get out of the camp?’

  ‘Kindertransport,’ she said briefly. ‘That’s enough of your questions. Let’s listen to the news.’

  The news was exciting. The Tunisian Campaign was over. All enemy resistance had ceased, the Allies had taken 250,000 prisoners of war and they were now the masters of the North African shores.

  ‘How about I cook the supper?’ Simon said. ‘I heard the news this morning and I brought champagne to celebrate. It’s in the fridge. You stay and listen.’

  Twenty

  ‘Kindertransport,’ Helen had said. So that was where he would begin. The organization was a complete mystery to Simon, but after a day spent on the telephone those involved had become akin to saints in his estimation. Slowly a strange story was unfolding. In 1938, a young English stockbroker, who wished to remain anonymous, travelled to Prague to help a friend working at an Adult Help Centre. Shortly after his arrival, he realized that there was no organization to save those children whose parents had been taken to the camps, so he stayed on, at his own expense, to help the children. He contacted the Refugee Children’s Movement (RCM) in London and asked them to find foster homes and the financial backing they would need, plus Government approval for the wholesale evacuation of children imperiled by the German advance. Because of the ferocity of the pre-war German persecution of the Jews, the British Jewish Refugee Committee appealed to Parliament to admit as many children as they could rescue from genocide, up to the age of seventeen. The government insisted upon a fifty pound bond being guaranteed for each child to assure their ultimate resettlement, but they put no restriction upon the number of children who could be brought to England. The bonds were guaranteed by the Jewish Committee and a Quaker organization and within weeks the clerk was organizing the departure of trainloads of children from Prague.

  The rumour of the ‘Englishman of Wenceslas Square’, which was where his hotel was situated, quickly spread and hundreds of Czech parents tried desperately to get their children on his list. He personally organized the evacuation of 669 children from Prague. Among them was Miroslav Levy, who was on the very last successful transport. A ninth train, with 250 children, was supposed to leave Prague station on September the third, but that was the day war was declared on Germany and the train was not allowed to leave the station. The children were never heard of again.

  This heroic man’s story was only part of the evacuation. Altogether, ten thousand children were brought to Britain with the cooperation and finance of Jewish, Christian and Quaker groups.

  From a member of the PWE, Simon obtained a letter of introduction to one of the organizers, a woman, Marion Boyd, who had been a nurse at the time and was retired. Simon explained that he needed information about the background of Miroslav Levy.

  Mrs Boyd lived in Wimbledon in a bungalow almost hidden by tall oaks. She was heavy-set and strong, with iron grey hair cut short and for a moment, as he shook hands at the gate, he thought she had sent her husband to fetch him.

  ‘How is Miro? Is he happy in his new home?’ They had moved into her office and they were sitting on either side of a massive old desk.

  ‘Yes, very happy,’ Simon told her, ‘but I need det
ails of his background. Exactly how did he come to be put on your list? In other words, why did they let him out of the concentration camp? I would also like to see a photograph of him. Presumably your files contain passport pictures of the children concerned.’

  Boyd’s face registered her alarm. ‘What has he done? Why are you investigating him?’

  ‘No, nothing, but he will soon be seventeen, and many refugees are interned on the Isle of Man. He would prefer to continue with his studies. I need to know why the Germans let him leave the camp.’

  ‘Surely you realize that even SS guards can be compassionate toward children, Captain Johnson. Don’t you agree?’

  No, Simon thought, but he merely nodded. He had no wish to antagonize the nurse so he changed the subject.

  ‘I wonder if I could see Miro Levy’s file?’

  ‘I am most reluctant to reveal such private details. Why this interest in the boy from you, an American military man?’

  ‘I admire you for your loyalty to your children, but of course your objections were predictable. I brought this letter of authority from the Foreign Office,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Very well,’ Boyd said, after a brief glance at it. ‘I’ll fetch the file.’

  While she was absent, her maid brought coffee and biscuits. Mindful of the rationing, Simon left the biscuits but drank the coffee. When Boyd returned, five minutes later, she looked flushed and angry.

  ‘I understand your fears,’ she began, ‘but think of what this young man has been through.’

  ‘It’s my job,’ Simon told her. No longer able to keep the flood of guilt at bay, Simon wished with all his heart that he was wrong. After all, Miro was only a boy of thirteen when he arrived. Yet instinctively he had always known there was something wrong. Miro was too concealed. He kept a tight lid on his feelings. He was watchful and cautious and he never let down his guard. Besides, he was systematically searching Simon’s room.