by John Kerr
‘Yes, of course,’ he said. He finished his wine and said, ‘We can settle up later.’
‘Sure,’ said Butler with a knowing look.
Outside on the pavement, he draped his long coat over Jenny’s shoulders. She placed her arm around his waist and leaned against him. ‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘do you care for me?’
He looked in her eyes and said, ‘Of course I do.’
‘God, I’m crazy about you.’ They passed out of the lamplight into the darkness. He stopped, put his arms around her, and kissed her. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, pressing her thigh gently against him. He kissed her neck, breathing the exotic perfume and letting his hand fall to the curve of her hip. ‘Oh,’ she whispered, ‘let’s go back to the hotel.’
He looked into her eyes, dimly aware of an inner voice of warning. ‘Jenny,’ he said. ‘I—’
‘Oh, Charlie,’ she breathed, ‘please.’
Pulling away, he said, ‘I’m sorry, but, well . . . we shouldn’t .’
She held a finger to his lips and said, ‘Shh,’ with a tipsy giggle. ‘We should be getting this soldier home.’ With her arm through his, they began walking to the hotel.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mary stood at the door and listened to the snap of sheets drying in the winter wind. They were not nearly so stiff as on summer days when they hung straight and dried quickly. Closing the door with a shiver, she returned to the kitchen, debating whether to go back to Eamon’s bedside or find something else to occupy her. With his dressings changed, she decided to get the laundry out of the way. Then she knocked down the dough she had set to rise.
Returning to her bedroom, the scent of the lavender sachets she had made now competed with the sickroom smells of Dettol and adhesive. Vials of iodine and morphine had taken the place on the dressing-table of the blue bottle of Evening in Paris and her silver hairbrush. She walked softly to Eamon’s bedside and gazed at his bruised and bandaged face. Who was he, she wondered, and why had this terrible thing been done to him? Had someone else discovered that he was a German agent? Two days had passed and still he remained unconscious, his breathing laboured. As she pulled up the chair, he suddenly stirred and uttered a low moan. She placed her hand on his forehead, calming him.
‘Bitte,’ he said softly. ‘Sie müssen . . . ahhh.’
She stroked his forehead lightly. ‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all right.’ The suggestion of a smile formed at the corner of his mouth. Mary sank back in the chair and closed her eyes. Listening to his rhythmic breathing, she began to doze but was startled awake by his voice. ‘Yes,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘I’m sure of it. But . . . ahhhh . . .’ ‘Nein . . .’ he said, ‘ich kann nicht hören . . .’
Mary rose and poured water on a flannel from a pitcher, wrung it out and placed it on his forehead. Though his eyes were firmly shut, he seemed to be struggling with something. ‘Time,’ he muttered. ‘Soon . . . yes, I’m certain . . . Mary will help us.’ She raised a hand to her lips as she struggled to make out his words. ‘Adam,’ he said, ‘wir müssen . . . wir müssen Hitler töten . . .’ Hitler? Mary leaned closer. ‘Soon,’ Eamon whispered and fell silent. She hurried to the bureau for her notebook and pen. Returning to his bedside, she sat, listening intently. He moaned and said, ‘Ahh . . . Schwartze Kapelle.’ Mary jotted down what she thought she had heard, ending with ‘capella’. ‘A letter,’ said Eamon. ‘Mary . . . Mary can take the letter.’ She scribbled his words on the pad furiously. ‘Trust Mary . . . the officer . . . our only chance.’ She shook her head and sounded out the words, writing them phonetically.
Please, Eamon, she said to herself, speak English. ‘The officer,’ he repeated. ‘Davenport . . .’ Mary put down the pen and stared. ‘Our only chance . . . Morgan . . . der general.’ Eamon fell silent, his breathing shallow and irregular. Mary stared at the strange words on the page. Dear God, what did it mean? She heard a firm rap on the front door, Dr Fraser arriving, precisely at midday, as promised. After placing the notebook on the table she hurried to let him in.
‘I gather he made it through another night?’ asked the doctor.
‘Yes. But he’s still unconscious and has a fever. He’s delirious.’
‘I see. Well, let’s have a look at him.’ Dr Fraser moved his stethoscope across Eamon’s chest above the tape binding his ribs. Mary stood beside him anxiously, praying that no more German phrases would escape Eamon’s lips. ‘Well,’ said the doctor, standing erect, ‘his heart is strong and his lungs are clear. You can never tell with these head injuries. If he regains consciousness, he’ll be in a great deal of pain, but he mustn’t have any more morphine.’ She followed the doctor from the room. After slipping on his coat and hat, he turned for the door, then paused. ‘Mrs Kennedy,’ he said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s this man’s name?’
‘It’s . . . O’Farrell. Eamon O’Farrell.’
The doctor shrugged and said, ‘Must be new to town. Well, I’ll be on my way then.’
Mary spent most of the afternoon by the bed, the notebook and pen close at hand, but Eamon never stirred. The doctor had said that unless he regained consciousness in the first forty-eight hours his odds of surviving were greatly diminished. Chelsea lay unhappily on the bare floor, her face on her paws and an anxious expression in her large, brown eyes. The room was growing dim with the early winter dusk. Mary watched Eamon’s gently rising chest. Perhaps she should get supper. She gave the dog a pat and then rose and walked to the door.
‘Mary.’ She turned. One of Eamon’s bruised and blood-shot eyes was partly open. He managed a small smile and said, ‘Could I have some water?’ She reached for the glass on the bedside table and held it to his lips. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
‘Be still,’ said Mary. ‘I’m going to get you a good cup of broth.’
Though Eamon grew stronger with each passing day, Dr Fraser cautioned it would be weeks before he would be well enough to leave. ‘His mind’s not right, Mary,’ he advised after one of his visits. ‘He remembers little and is deeply troubled. It would be best not to question him.’ The doctor was pleased with Eamon’s recovery, and the day he told Mary he could use her as his nurse she beamed for hours. After the first two nights in the chair by his bed, Mary moved to the upstairs bedroom, the dormer window of which looked out to sea beyond the cliffs. She enjoyed the breezes even in the cold of the long winter nights. She spent the late evenings upstairs, reading or listening to the sound of the sea with Chelsea curled at her feet. Twice, awakening late at night to look out from the darkened window, she glimpsed the flashing red light far out on the water.
By the end of the first week Eamon had begun making comments about leaving. ‘I’m responsible, Mary. You don’t understand . . .’
‘I won’t allow it,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re not well.’ She leaned over to help him sit up, propped against the pillows.
‘Oh God,’ he moaned, reaching with his good arm to cover his ear. ‘A thousand sounds clanging all at once in my head.’
At the end of the second week, when dinner was done and Mary had taken Chelsea for a walk, they settled in Eamon’s room, with Mary in the rocking-chair, Eamon propped up in bed, and Chelsea a patch of fur on the rug. Mary held her notebook in her lap. Only a trace of Eamon’s bruises remained, and, with the exception of the pink scar at his hairline, his handsome face had returned. ‘You’ve no idea how grateful I am,’ he said with a smile. ‘I owe my life to you.’
‘I only did what any other self-respecting Christian would have done.’ He raised his hand to protest. ‘But,’ Mary continued, ‘I must ask you about the circumstances. Can you remember how this happened? Who did it?’
Eamon shook his head and said, ‘I can’t remember anything after leaving the Anchor with that man Mulcahy. But I have a pretty clear notion . . .’
‘Eamon, there’s something else I must ask you,’ said Mary. He nodded. ‘During
those first days when you were unconscious, you said some things. Mostly unintelligible, as you were speaking German and delirious.’ He narrowed his gaze. ‘In any case,’ she said, ‘I wrote down some of what you said. On this pad.’ She held up the notebook.
‘And what did you write?’ he asked calmly.
‘The name Adam. You seemed to be trying to speak to him, in German and then in English.’
‘Yes. What else?’
‘A German phrase. I haven’t any idea how to spell it, but I sounded it out – s’vart-zah capella. Something like that.’
‘I see.’
‘But then you told this man Adam, “Mary can take the letter.” You said, “Trust Mary”.’
‘I’ve no doubt I was raving, Mary. God knows what I—’
‘Listen to me,’ insisted Mary. ‘I wrote it down.’ She studied her notes. ‘Then you said, “The officer. . . Davenport.” Sorry, I know this is difficult but I’m almost finished. You said, “Our only chance . . . Morgan . . . der general”.’
Eamon closed his eyes briefly and smiled. When he reopened them, he said, ‘And so now you know.’
‘Know what?’
‘That I know about your relationship with Lieutenant Colonel Davenport, who reports to General Morgan, the head of COSSAC.’
Mary felt fear welling up inside her. ‘But what does it all mean?’ she said softly.
Eamon fingered the gold cross on his chest and said, ‘The German phrase you wrote down – Schwartze Kapelle? It’s how the Gestapo refers to our conspiracy. It means the Black Chapel.’
‘Your conspiracy?’ repeated Mary, her eyes wide. ‘What conspiracy?’
‘Our conspiracy to kill Adolf Hitler and end the war.’
Davenport awoke to the faint light filtering through the curtains and the rain beating on the corrugated roof. He eased his legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment with his head in his hands before rising to dress and wash. The raw air on the way to the lavatory and the ice-cold water splashed on his face did wonders. As he towelled off, the scene at the end of the evening suddenly came to mind. Sloppily drunk in the hotel bar, he’d fought the temptation to go with Jenny to her room. He was almost certain, but the memory faded, leaving a blank gap until the vague recollection of his arrival at the camp in Hanes’s car. Back in his room, buttoning his shirt, he thought about the power of lust. He reached for the worn volume of Shakespeare’s Sonnets he kept among his few belongings. He slumped on the bed and leafed through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. ‘How like a winter hath my absence been,’ he read silently, ‘from thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!’ Shivering in the draughty room, he continued reading: ‘What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December’s bareness everywhere!’ He looked up at the leafless branch shaking outside the window. Old December’s bareness everywhere. He scanned the remaining verses, ‘And, thou away, the very birds are mute; if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer that leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.’ He closed the book and listened, but no birds were singing. What he would give to see Mary again, to hold her in his arms. All at once he realized he couldn’t go on like this, caught somewhere between telling her the truth about his feelings and his situation, and pretending that it didn’t matter and training for the coming battle. It wasn’t working, and he couldn’t rationalize it any longer. He had to tell her and hope for the best. Taking a few sheets of paper and a pen from his pouch, he leaned on the crate and wrote:
24 February 1944
Dearest Mary,
As you can see from the postmark, I have left London. I’ve also left the staff of COSSAC and am now commanding a battalion in the Third Infantry Division. My regiment is presently training. The truth is I’ve been here for some time, but have been unable to bring myself to tell you.
You will no doubt feel hurt and betrayed by this news, as I’m keenly aware how much you have worried for my safety. It would be false to suggest that my transfer was the result of the fortunes of war. The simple truth is that I sought it, for reasons that are difficult to put in words. My staff job at COSSAC was complete, and I acted on my deepest desire to do what I can to play a real part in our ultimate victory, as trite as that may sound.
There’s only one thing that matters more to me than seeing this through. You’ve no idea how desperately I’ve missed you, how empty my life has seen since we’ve been apart. I love you, and I would do anything to see you again. Events are moving toward a crucial moment and, if I survive, I promise I’ll be here for you, if you’ll wait for me. I think of the lines from Donne: ‘Our two souls, therefore, which are one, though I must go, endure not yet a breach, but an expansion.’ In my heart, our two souls are one, and though I must go – and Mary, I must – they will endure. Dearest Mary, forgive me for not telling you sooner. Write soon.
Love,
Charles
He lifted the pages and blew softly on the drying ink. When he stood up, another arc of pain split his head. A drink, he realized, was probably the only cure. He saluted the sentry at the guardhouse and crossed the road to the only pub for miles. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized he had the place to himself, apart from an older gentlemen seated by the grate. He sat at the bar and ordered a pint. The barman wordlessly drew the tap, paddled off the foam, and slid the glass across the worn counter. After taking a swallow, Davenport moved to a table by the hissing fire, nodding politely to the old gentleman, sitting alone with a glass of whisky. Davenport took another sip and noticed a guitar leaning against the wall. ‘You play?’ he asked.
‘Aye. Mostly ballads from home.’
‘And where would that be?’
‘Dublin,’ he said with a smile. ‘You seem a lonely lad,’ he added, ‘like so many of the boys in the army.’ He played a series of chords and then in a rich baritone sang: ‘Must I go by, as she goes free, must I love the girl who won’t love me . . .’ As Davenport sipped his beer, a wave of intense sadness passed over him, thoughts of his father, mother, and Mary combined into a single moment of longing and loneliness. ‘Must I then act the foolish part,’ sang the old man, ‘and love the girl who’d break my heart . . .’ After a moment, Davenport stood up, smiled briefly at the old man, and turned to go, the ballad echoing in his mind.
Mary stared at Eamon with a look of utter disbelief. ‘A plot to kill Hitler,’ she repeated. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to—’
‘I do,’ said Eamon earnestly.
‘What am I supposed to think?’ said Mary with a shake of her head. ‘That you’re an Irishman or a German? A friend or an enemy?’
‘Please listen to me,’ he said wearily.
Mary nodded, brushing a wisp of hair from her face, and said, ‘All right.’
‘When you overheard me speaking on the radio, I was talking with Adam von Trott, a senior official in the Abwehr. Like me, he concluded long ago that Hitler is a madman, leading Germany to destruction. The simple truth is that we’re preparing to act. Hitler must be killed.’
‘You expect me to believe that you and your friends are going to try to kill the most powerful man in the world?’ asked Mary.
‘Some very influential Germans have joined our cause.’ Eamon paused to prop himself up. ‘Senior army officers,’ he continued, ‘high ranking government officials, men from leading families. Let me explain about the Abwehr. We’re the intelligence arm for the army and the Foreign Service.’
‘Spies, you mean,’ Mary interrupted.
‘Yes,’ Eamon agreed. ‘But there’s another organization in Germany today, the Reichsicherheitshauptamt, or RSHA.’ A strange look – fear mingled with hatred – crossed his face. ‘A creature of Himmler, head of the SS,’ he explained, ‘and run by the dreaded Reinhard Heydrich until he was assassinated by the Czechs in ’42.’
Mary stared with fascination and said, ‘Go on.’
>
‘Himmler never trusted the Abwehr, and with good reason,’ said Eamon with a grim expression. ‘So he created the RSHA as his own security and espionage organization, a rival of the Abwehr. But the Abwehr had access to certain RSHA files. If you like, spying on them. And, as a consequence, we discovered a secret so appalling that it defies belief.’ Mary hunched forward on the edge of her chair as he slumped on his pillows. ‘What we’ve learned,’ said Eamon, ‘is that Himmler’s SS, no doubt on direct orders from Hitler, is rounding up and slaughtering millions of innocent people across Europe. Jews, for the most part. The scale of the killings is so vast that it would be impossible to believe were it not for the evidence we’ve obtained.’ Eamon paused to take a deep breath. ‘I’ve seen the photographs myself,’ he said softly. ‘Enormous camps in Poland where hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children are sent by the trainload. Bodies stacked like fire-wood before being burned in ovens . . .’
Raising her hand to her mouth, Mary said, ‘Oh, my God, Eamon, how awful. Why haven’t the British and the Americans done something? The world would be outraged—’
‘You’ve no idea how carefully this secret is being guarded. No one knows, or very few know, anything of this in Germany, let alone outside of Germany. We’ve tried to get the word out, through the church, and other channels, but no one will listen.’ Straining to sit up, Eamon said, ‘Hitler’s not only a madman, he’s bent on mass murder and he must be stopped.’ He slumped heavily on the pillows and closed his eyes.
Mary’s mind was spinning. ‘Would you care for something to drink?’ she said. ‘There’s a bottle of whiskey in the pantry.’
Eamon opened his eyes and gave her an appreciative smile. ‘That would be wonderful. Mixed with a bit of water.’
She returned with a glass and placed it on the bedside table. ‘My grandfather’s whiskey,’ she said. ‘I assume it’s all right.’
Eamon picked up the glass, took a sip, and said, ‘It’s excellent.’
