by David Fraser
Through this Germany, heart loaded with misery, the old cavalry Colonel of Reserve made his laborious way to Berlin. He had, two weeks before, been curtly told that his post, a wartime post in the transportation section at the local Military District Headquarters, was to be abolished. He had not now even the distraction of a little unimportant duty to perform. In Berlin he reported to the governor of Plötzensee prison, noting with surprise the surly contempt apparently aroused by his name, the scant regard paid to his rank. He would be permitted, by the regulations, to have one half-hour visit to Captain von Arzfeld.
Frido had been arrested on 27th December. It was now 14th January. Kaspar looked at his son and exerted his habitual self-discipline to keep his eyes and voice steady. The boy was pale – so pale that his father could not believe he was not seriously ill; but Frido smiled and said, ‘I’m perfectly well!’
Deprived of both shoe-laces and braces he had perforce shuffled into the interview cell, holding up his trousers, his ordinary dignity under attack. The extraordinary thing was that, in spite of all, he seemed not only dignified, but composed and happy.
Happy! Kaspar tried, at first, to keep the conversation practical, to strike a note of robust optimism. It was, he assumed, best to imply that they were faced with some enormous mistake.
‘You know when the – the hearing – will be?’
‘Yes. I was told this morning. I am to face the judges – a People’s Court you know, not a Court Martial – on 22nd January. In one week.’
‘I do not know the procedure adopted,’ said Kaspar, his voice old and, for all his efforts, quavering a little, ‘I hope that a well-prepared defence –’
Frido looked at him with his serious and charming smile, a smile which immediately transported his father in space and time to the woods at Arzfeld and the childhood of his boys.
‘Father, there is no defence to prepare. I intend, if permitted, to say certain things. That is all.’
‘My son, under German law it is necessary to answer a charge and it is proper to put the circumstances in as favourable a light as possible. It is the business of a lawyer –’
‘That applies to ordinary crime. I am to be accused of treason and conspiracy. I not only admit the factual truth of the accusation, I regard that treason and that conspiracy as evidence of my patriotism, my true love of Germany.’
Kaspar sat silent. There was no move from the guard in the interview cell, who stood like a statue, at a little distance. No doubt all this was reported. Frido was speaking softly but audibly. Now he was continuing.
‘That is all I intend to say to them. Now speak to me about Arzfeld. It’s been a hard winter so far, I imagine. Did we lose any trees in the November gales, I don’t think you told me? Have you had a letter from Lise recently?’
Kaspar said in a low voice,
‘Have you been treated correctly?’
‘I’ve been interrogated, in the way that’s now understood. Don’t let’s speak of it. It’s over now – now the trial date’s fixed. There’s not long to go.’
‘The trial!’ said Kaspar. He could not take his mind to trial and aftermath. He gazed at his son’s face. Frido said,
‘The trial will, I expect, be swiftly followed by the penalty. It will be the same as for most of my friends. Better men than me.’
His father looked away, incapable of speaking.
‘There’s one thing I want to say, Father, one very important thing. Marcia Marvell – I want you to know that I love her and that I have written a letter to her, telling her I love her. I don’t know what she feels in her heart but it would have been better, I think, to say nothing. It was thoughtless of me. She will suffer. I’ve had one letter back from her. I don’t know what she really feels, but I – please do all you can.’
Kaspar nodded. He said,
‘Lise has written everything about this to me.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. The girls were afraid to write too much to you, afraid letters might harm you, compromise you. Because she’s English. Of course it would have made no difference, not at all,’ said Kaspar, glancing at the guard, ‘but that’s what the girls thought. And Lise told me you had written to Marcia. I know you love her. There is nothing to regret in that, my son.’
‘Did Lise make any other comment?’
‘She did,’ said Kaspar slowly. ‘She told me she knew, also, that Marcia loves you – has always, in her heart, loved you. And always will.’
By nature an uninventive man, Kaspar looked at Frido’s expression and knew that his journey had been amply justified.
‘I intend,’ Kaspar said softly, ‘to pay a visit to the girls. Very soon.’ Frido nodded, and touched his father’s hand.
Then they spoke for a little of small things, of home, of a relative here, a farm servant there. The guard looked at his watch and spoke. Kaspar rose. He said gently,
‘You have chosen a hard road. God will sustain you.’
‘I think it best to say goodbye, Father.’
Kaspar took his son’s hand, holding it tight for several seconds. He looked away and moved to the cell door. There he paused, turned and looked very steadily at Frido, meeting his eyes.
‘You thought at one time that Werner had a special place in my heart. But I have always loved you.’
‘I know that.’
Colonel von Arzfeld slowly raised his hand in a gesture half salute, half farewell and turned away.
The Superintendent of the wards in which the girls wore themselves out day and night was a ferocious disciplinarian. In Sister Brigitta’s eyes junior nurses could do little right. Marcia, less pliable in disposition than Lise, would often have been close to rebellion were it not for the knowledge that any adverse report on her would probably bring her nursing career – and her liberty – to an end. In all this she had the love and loyal support of Lise; and Marcia thought that no sister could have been more to her than Lise had become, more supportive, more selflessly comprehending. They shared all things.
They shared in particular, in that winter of 1944–45, two visitors. The first, on 17th December, was a Captain Hoffmann. According to protocol, he first reported to the Director of the Hospital, then to the Ward Superintendent. Thereafter, Lise and Marcia were grudgingly summoned.
Captain Hoffmann had a stiff, formal manner. He was, he said, a close colleague of Captain Frido von Arzfeld. He had business in these days before Christmas which brought him to this part of the front, to the village in which the hospital was. Captain von Arzfeld had, therefore, asked him to visit the hospital and to pay his respects to Fraülein von Arzfeld. He had also brought a letter. He handed the envelope to Lise.
‘Also to Fraülein Marvell,’ Hoffmann said, turning gravely to Marcia, ‘and also a letter.’ Saying that he would report both girls to be well – ‘And hoping, one day, to see my brother in person!’ exclaimed Lise – Hoffmann saluted and left, taking punctilious leave of a stern-faced Sister Brigitta. That evening Marcia read and re-read Frido’s letter of 10th December. The girls shared a room in the nurses’ hostel.
‘Frido has written you a long letter,’ said Lise gently. Her own communication from Frido had made sufficiently clear what that to Marcia must contain. Marcia lifted her eyes to Lise’s and found that she only saw with difficulty through tears.
‘Yes, as you say, it’s a long letter, Lise.’
‘I expect he’s told you he loves you,’ said Lise with blunt impatience. She knew that it was so. In one way she rejoiced that it was so. Marcia was so much a beloved sister that the idea of her one day becoming so in family relationship as well as in affection was most desirable. It was suitable. It was – tidy.
But with another part of herself Lise was less convinced that Marcia was suited to Frido, much though she loved them both. Frido was so essentially serious, while Marcia – hard though she worked, much though she had suffered – was apt to find huge numbers of things subjects for laughter which she freely indulged. That Frido was
greatly in love with Marcia and had been for a long time Lise knew perfectly well. She said,
‘Frido feels matters strongly. He always has.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And what do you, yourself, really feel?’ For close though the girls were, they had never discussed Frido in these terms.
Marcia felt confused more than anything. She also experienced an untypical twinge of bitterness with life. ‘God help me not to love anybody again while this damned war goes on,’ she thought, ‘I’m death to them!’ Werner von Arzfeld lay in Poland. Toni Rudberg had not been heard of since Stalingrad – lucky, poor Toni, if he were simply dead she supposed. The thought of Toni stabbed her often. Now Frido was forcing her, again, to face emotions.
‘It’s hard to say what I feel, Lise. In one way I’ve always loved him. He reminds me of Werner, of course. And I know he’s a – a wonderful person. And it’s a marvellous compliment – to be told by somebody like your brother that he loves one, like both your brothers, Lise, darling. But it’s a great responsibility. One must be very sure, very truthful.’
Lise nodded agreement. She liked this way of defining the matter. Sure and truthful!
Marcia did not feel free to discuss, even with Lise, the other part of Frido’s communication – Anna’s secret, Anthony’s part in all this. She had been entrusted with a confidence and, at least for the present, even Lise must remain outside the dangerous circle of those who shared it. The remarkable fact that Anthony was the father of Anna’s son gave Marcia undiluted pleasure. From their first meeting she had loved and admired Anna, and – who could say? – when the hurricane sweeping over Europe ultimately lost its destructive force those two might come together again, peaceably, openly, honourably. It seemed highly improbable, but meanwhile the information brought Anthony nearer to her. She had always adored her brother and she loved the idea that he, too, had once been connected not only by passion but actually by fatherhood with this family to which she was bound by such extraordinarily compelling ties. It might, she thought, be reprehensible to think thus, but it was Marcia’s way. She knew, too, that Anna, of all people, would have a child by a man only if she really loved him. And she felt delighted and, in her uncomplicated way, proud that her brother had, once upon a time, certainly won the love of so true and so beautiful a woman. She had once said to Anna, ‘He loved you,’ and Anna had sighed and shed some tears and pressed her hand. But they had exchanged no further confidences about Anthony. Something had seemed to tremble on Anna’s tongue but she had not let it fall. Now Marcia knew what it was. She would treasure the secret. She would in due course write to Frido discreetly, gratefully, gently: a little noncomittally. It would be best to delay for a few days, to think about it, to choose the words with care. She wrote, in the event, on Christmas Day.
The girls’ second private visitor to the hospital came a month later, on 16th January, 1945. This was none other than Kaspar von Arzfeld.
Kaspar had been treated with what he regarded as discourtesy at Plõtzensee prison. To the Director of the Hospital, however, and to Sister Brigitta – both Prussians of traditional instincts – he was a Colonel and a nobleman, and entitled to respect. Lise, that afternoon was summarily informed that she was to take the afternoon off – ‘and Fraülein Marvell is to finish early, at five o’clock, so that she can join you. You have a visitor.’ Pressure on the hospital was intense at that moment, but Sister Brigitta privately thought that both girls would be the better for a short break.
Kaspar, Lise with him, was awaiting her at the visitors’ room in the hostel. When Marcia found them in the late afternoon, it was already dark outside. Kaspar had been provided with accommodation for the night. Marcia saw him with joy.
‘Colonel von Arzfeld!’ She moved forward to kiss him, a thing she had never done before. Then she saw his face, haggard, wretched. She also took in the fact that Lise had been crying.
He took Marcia’s hands and held them between his own. He seemed unable to speak and looked as if with supplication at Lise. Lise said in a strangled sort of voice,
‘Marcia, my father has news of Frido. Some weeks ago he was arrested. He is to appear before a court in Berlin.’
‘Arrested? Appear before a court?’
‘A People’s Court,’ said Kaspar, his voice unsteady, ‘accused of treason. Accused of being involved in the attempt on the Führer’s life last July.’
‘But – we had messages from him – before Christmas – from a Captain Hoffmann.’
‘He was arrested on 27th December. We did not hear for some time.’
The girls were silent, Lise’s tears welling again.
‘I have explained to Lise, dear little Marcia, that Frido intends to say nothing in his defence. In effect he will admit the charge – the facts. There can be only one penalty.’ He managed a few sentences about his visit to the prison. Marcia could not take her eyes from Kaspar’s face. Lise threw herself into his arms.
It was five days after this, on 21st January, that Anna came to the attic in the evening, stood by Anthony and laid her cheek gently against his without a word.
There’s a new problem. My cousin, Kaspar von Arzfeld is coming to stay here for several weeks.’
‘Soon?’
‘Very soon. I have a letter from him. He has seen Frido.’ Tears were running down Anna’s cheeks but she mastered her voice.
‘Frido is to go before a People’s Court on 23rd January – Tuesday. He intends to admit – everything. There is not the slightest doubt what they will do to him.’ She dropped her voice and muttered, broken, They will kill him. Like many others already.’
Anthony thought of the serious, intelligent face of Frido, bearing a little stiff, voice when arguing so calm, so reasonable, smile so affectionate, aura of simple goodness so extraordinarily touching. He could see Frido at Oxford; at Bargate; at Arzfeld. He was, he said to himself, thinking about an enemy officer – but he knew that he would feel the loss of Frido as sharply as any in the war. And it would, he supposed with an inward shudder, be a disgusting, a cruel death. There had been plenty of rumours current in Oflag XXXIII. There was something darkly mediaeval in the savagery with which German was pursuing German in these dreadful days.
Anna was still trembling, still pressing close against him.
‘I have asked Cousin Kaspar to come here soon for a while. I have always loved him, and Lise, as you know, is far away. He must not be alone for too long at this time.’
‘Of course not.’ Anthony’s mind was still following Frido – through echoing passages, towards what foul execution shed? Anna was murmuring with urgency.
‘My darling, it would be impossible for Cousin Kaspar to be here, and to avoid picking up some hint about you. Of course, he, himself, would have no doubts about his duty. For him, whatever is going on, Germany is at war. But even if he discovered or guessed nothing he would be compromised if there were later suspicions or investigations. They would associate those suspicions with Frido’s record. They would give Kaspar the benefit of no doubt.’
She seldom referred to her own risk. She must, Anthony knew, be living all the time with the fear of arrest, questioning, torture, death.
‘I could not have you both here at the same time,’ she whispered, sadly but firmly. ‘It would be too dangerous. For all of us. I’m sure of it.’
Anthony said, ‘I’m fit to go. I’m a bit feeble and I’ll go in short stretches. You can advise me on route and stops, the best way to plan it. I think it’s mild, for January.’ This last was certainly untrue. She put her arms round him. He smoothed her hair.
‘My darling Anna, I’ll get away safe, the war can’t last long. I’ll come for you, and we’ll make a new life together, won’t we? With Franzi?’
She didn’t answer, but kissed him. Then they began talking of practical matters with great earnestness.
Hard, sickening work, and a general fear that overshadowed even their private horror, made the days race past for the two girls durin
g that appalling winter.
All the nurses had heard the news of a Russian attack on 12th January. It was described as having been successfully beaten back with heavy losses and at first it had seemed far away, somewhere in central Poland, still that ‘East Front’ which, remote and barbaric, had so much dominated their imaginations since coming to work at the hospital. The hospital was pleasantly situated on the edge of a large village by the Oder river, a short distance north of Frankfurt-an-der-Oder and about ninety kilometres south-east of Berlin. It was not a military hospital although it had become customary to admit ‘complicated’ cases from the front, referred to the hospital Director by the military authorities.
Since 12th January, all had changed. Officers of the medical branch of the Wehrmacht had arrived with urgent demands. Every bed, the time of every doctor and every nurse, was to be made available for the wounded of Army Group A, now meeting the full fury of the greatest Russian offensive yet experienced in the war. Rumour spread like poison gas through the wards and corridors. It was whispered that the previous Saturday the enemy had first crossed the frontier into Silesia: and that, further north, they had broken into East Prussia. The Red Army was on German soil! It was unbelievable! It was horrible! But, as one broken soldier after another found consolation in muttering for a few snatched, precious minutes to a nurse about his private nightmare, none could doubt any longer that it was true.
The population of the village had feared this for some time. Cowed, murmuring behind doors and by now sceptical of the Führer’s promises, they had made their own deductions from the bland, official communiqués. Fighting around Warsaw, fighting east of the Masurian Lakes was one thing. Fighting the Bolsheviks who had crossed the Vistula and were tapping at the gates of Danzig was quite another. The people were gripped with terror, a terror which infected all within the hospital. Nobody had been allowed to leave the district – the Party’s local leaders had strict instructions and these were as strictly enforced. There was to be no flight westward. German soil would be triumphantly defended. It was defeatist treachery to doubt it.
