by David Fraser
After about thirty minutes he saw the roofs of houses: steep roofs already heavily clad in snow, red brick houses with snow on every ledge and lintel. There might be, there must be a barn with an open or unlatched door. The huge barns which stood behind every substantial house in such villages would provide admirable cover – dryness, darkness, even hay on which to sleep. He dragged his legs towards the edge of the village. The word ‘barn’ dominated his mind: he fixed on it, muttered it like an incantation. These barns were witnesses to an ancient system of husbandry, to communities of small farmers grouped for protection, for commerce, for society, for mutual assistance, each family going out from the village, tilling its own strip and growing, carting and storing its own produce. Anthony knew such barns. In weather like this families would be working in them, and as often as not the living rooms and a ladder to the upper floors opened off the barn itself. But Anthony would, he was sure, be lucky. He moved like a sleep-walker towards the village, now only a hundred yards away.
The first house – a house which acted, it seemed, like some sort of guardhouse to the village, a little detached from the rest – had exactly the sort of barn he envisaged. It extended from the back of the house, immense, beckoning. In front of the house an avenue of trees marked the beginning of the village street. Anthony, indifferent to all but physical discomfort and fatigue, supposed without concern that it was a pretty place. Amid the falling snowflakes it looked welcoming and romantic. Trying to look to right and left, to move with circumspection, Anthony walked towards the rear of the house, the end of the barn. It was all he could do to get one leg past the other, careless of whether he was trampling over garden, paddock or waste land. He could not believe he was as feeble as he had turned out to be. The hours of walking in deep snow had totally exhausted him. ‘I’m a mess,’ he thought, ‘but after an hour or two in here, I’ll be all right.’
There was a ditch, unperceived, and he fell into it heavily. He picked himself up, reached the massive door of the barn and pushed. It yielded. He pushed harder, and then fell on his face, rucksack hitting the back of his skull, as the door was opened suddenly from inside.
Anthony became aware of two skirts, two pairs of thick black stockings and worn brown shoes. He looked up and saw a stout, red-faced woman of middle-age in a shapeless coat with a handkerchief over her head. She was accompanied by an equally red-faced and only slightly less stout younger woman, similarly attired. Mother and daughter. They had to be. Anthony began to struggle to his feet to make an explanation. Next moment he gave up the attempt with an agonized yelp as a pitchfork probed and menaced his neck.
‘Lie still!’ said the elder woman. ‘Landstreicher! Tramp! Thief!’ She held the pitchfork like a reversed spear.
‘I’m not a thief,’ said Anthony, from the prone position, ‘I was looking for shelter from the snow.’
‘Well, who are you?’
Anthony indicated that he would like to rise but received a sharp reminder from the pitchfork and a forcefully enunciated ‘Nein!’ from his hostess.
‘I am a Dutch Engineer. I am travelling to the railway station at Wexter to catch a train, I’m on my way to the Ruhr, to Dortmund, to take up a new job in an engineering works there. I was walking to Wexter when the snow started. My name is Jan Vogt, a volunteer worker.’
‘Heidi,’ said the woman in a voice which sounded as if it was seldom disobeyed, ‘go to the Police station and ask Herr Steipel to come here.’
‘At once,’ said the younger woman, disappearing into the interior. Anthony knew that he could not attempt flight. She would raise the hue and cry, in between spearing him to death with a pitchfork. In his feeble condition he had no hope of getting clear. Besides, how could escape help? He needed, at the moment, shelter to survive. The only hope was that Jan Vogt’s papers would convince Herr Steipel.
Steipel took ten minutes to arrive. Anthony was aware of a long green coat, black boots and a rasping voice. He was however, permitted to stand, and then took in a Police shako, a dark green collar, a black leather belt and revolver holster. Out of all this Steipel looked at him without enthusiasm and silently took Jan Vogt’s papers in his outstretched hand.
‘Where have you come from?’
Anthony named a small place which he knew from the map lay some way to the east, but could credibly be served as a railway station by Wexter.
‘From Klosterwebel. I’m trying to get to Wexter.’
‘What were you doing in Klosterwebel?’
Anthony explained that he had been told to make his way to Dortmund from Silesia. Despairing, after some attempts, of moving by the main line railways from central Germany because of the weight of air attack on Leipzig and Berlin and the disruption of all services he had decided to try to move across country.
‘I was told there would be a better chance if I could get to Kassel or Hanover, more chance of getting on to the Ruhr. I have to get there, for my job, Herr Polizeileutnant.’ Anthony knew that he was flattering Steipel’s rank.
‘So why are you here, trying to get to Wexter?’ asked Steipel incredulously. ‘From Wexter trains go north or south. Where were you last in a train?’
‘At Dessau. I couldn’t get further west.’
‘And you walked from Dessau to Klosterwebel? In January, Vogt? It must be nearly a hundred miles!’
‘I got lifts on several farm carts, I’ve only taken five days and the weather’s not been bad. But yesterday, I tried to take a short cut and got lost. Someone told me there’s a railway station at Wexter, and I thought I’d try my luck by rail again. Then it started to snow.’
Steipel looked at him.
‘I must make a report. At the Police station. Move!’ He patted his holster and Anthony moved.
The Police station at Festerode was warm, and for that Anthony was grateful. His clothes were still sodden, there was no feeling in his facial muscles and he could only with difficulty move his fingers, but he was beginning to feel warmth. Steipel wrote at a desk while Anthony stood against a wall. After what seemed a long time Steipel looked up and said,
‘It’s my duty to search you.’ At the same time he emptied Anthony’s rucksack on to a table. Anthony watched him.
‘To search you,’ Steipel snapped again. ‘Take off all your clothes. At once.’
Steipel was no genius but he had always been reported on as conscientious and thorough. He found Anthony’s tally within three minutes. What was more creditable, he recognized it for what it was, although this was, in fact, his first escaped prisoner of war. He felt a glowing sense of personal achievement. A colleague stood guard over Anthony, naked, numbed and despairing. Steipel moved to the telephone.
‘Nothing of particular interest, Herr Obersturmbannführer.’ Schwede spent most days travelling, rather than sitting at Gau Headquarters. Petrol was damnably short but there was still an adequate ration for really important Party work. Schwede had always been active and inquisitive, a man who believed in seeing things for himself. His visits, he grimly noted, were already causing a stir. It was sadly true that even in the Party idleness could take root unless a man of principle and energy appeared, with a big boot and the strength to use it on a subordinate’s backside. Figuratively speaking, grinned Schwede to himself: or generally so. He returned to the central Gau office late on Wednesday, 31st January and looked in at the Duty official’s room.
‘Nothing of interest, eh?’
‘Local Police report. An escaped prisoner of war was recaptured at Festerode.’
‘Festerode?’
‘It’s a small place. The local Police officer searched a fellow pretending to be a volunteer worker, a Dutch engineer, and found he was an escaped British officer! We’ve taken his name off the list –’ He nodded to a list on the wall, where a green cross had just been pencilled across a name and photograph. ‘He’s been running since November!’
‘Captain Anthony Marvell,’ Schwede read aloud. Suddenly his heart missed a beat. A phrase from a letter, an odi
ous letter: ‘Son of your own brother, Anthony Marvell.’ It might be a common name in England, of course, but by God! He swung round.
‘Where’s this Englishman now?’
‘He’s in the Police Headquarters at Wexter, Herr Obersturmbannführer. He was taken there to await Army collection. He’ll go to whatever Oflag Military District Headquarters order. Then –’
‘Telephone Wexter now,’ said Schwede quietly. ‘This man may be more interesting than an ordinary prisoner of war. Tell them to hold him until I come. I’ll be there in half an hour. I want Pieck and Brockmann to come with me.’ Pieck and Brockmann were experienced Gestapo men. They were not under Schwede’s orders but already few people, from the Gauleiter himself downwards, were disposed to argue with him.
‘Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer.’
Schwede moved towards the door.
‘One thing. Tell them to take a photograph of Marvell. At once. Develop it instantly.’ He gave certain instructions.
The place of the wound on Anthony’s thigh sent shock waves of pain through his body whenever it was touched. It had not taken Schwede long to discover this fact, which might easily save time and trouble. He made a sign to Pieck who started quietly beating Anthony again at exactly that point. Pieck used a length of rubber hose. He did not exert much strength. There was no need. Pieck was an artist in measuring the degree of force appropriate to the occasion. It wasn’t in this case even necessary to lower the fellow’s trousers he was so sensitive! Pieck swung the rubber hose accurately, timing exactly the interval between blows. Four seconds.
Anthony screamed once, then closed his teeth in a mighty effort of will. He saw bright lights, a mixture of yellow and white, before his eyes. Schwede watched with satisfaction.
‘You realize you may have to face very serious charges – espionage and sabotage charges, completely outside conduct permitted to a prisoner of war? Even an escaped prisoner of war?’
Schwede, in fact, knew nothing which could support such charges. He wanted, however, to see Anthony squirm with fear. Best throw everything at him!
‘You not only escaped – it is possible that you killed a German civilian and stole his clothing. Such offences are not to be tried by the Army. They are nothing to do with the Army.’ All this, too, was invention. Schwede came to the heart of the matter.
‘We know you were helped. Were hidden!’
In a sobbing voice he hardly knew came from his own lips Anthony heard himself say, it seemed for the hundredth time,
‘I am a British officer. I have done only what is the duty of a soldier in any army, in any war. I escaped.’ He was sitting on a small, hard chair, legs tied by the ankle, arms secured by the wrist behind the chair. The chair was set on the floor of a large cell in Wexter Police station. Schwede told him, in a reasonable-sounding voice, that it was not the duty of German citizens to help such an escaper, and that to do so was a capital offence. He nodded to Pieck. Anthony could not hold back the screech that escaped as Pieck’s rubber hose was plied again. Then he retched horribly. More rubber hose.
They had arranged for a telephone extension to be fitted up in the cell and now it rang. Schwede, sitting at a desk which had been placed in a corner, lifted the receiver and gestured to Pieck to desist. Pieck yawned. It had been a long day. Now it was turning into a long night,
As from a great distance Anthony heard Schwede’s words –
‘Yes, I have seen it, it is a good photograph. She is positive? Good.’ Schwede replaced the instrument and looked grimly at Anthony.
‘A loyal woman at Kranenberg, a Fraülein Wendel, has been interviewed at the local police station, Marvell. She has been shown your photograph, taken, developed and printed here. It was of superior quality to the photograph circulated by the army authorities after your escape.’
Schwede nodded his head several times. Nobody could have guessed the jealous images raised before his eyes by confirmation that this contemptible creature, this Anthony Marvell, was, indeed, the ‘cousin’ seen in the dark corridors of Schloss Langenbach by the searching eyes of Maria Wendel. This dark-haired, miserable youth, now yelling under Pieck’s accurate strokes, had been hidden by that shameless woman, Anna Langenbach, hidden from the protectors of the Reich, hidden for weeks – and, without doubt, had been enjoying her body the whole time! Schwede choked.
‘Fraülein Wendel has confirmed that she saw you in Schloss Langenbach a week ago. You have been hiding there, Marvell. You had better tell us all about it. Then we can discuss other things.’
Pieck watched Anthony’s face carefully. This sort of business needed fine timing. Overdo it and you got nothing.
Anthony muttered, ‘I’ve nothing to say.’
Pieck sighed. Schwede could contain himself no longer. He pushed his chair back from the desk violently, walked round to the chair and smashed his fist into Anthony’s face three times. ‘You swine!’
Anthony moaned. Blood ran down his left cheek from a cut eye and forehead. His head rolled sideways.
‘You swine!’
‘Herr Obersturmbannführer,’ said Pieck reprovingly, ‘that’s not very scientific, if I may say so. That won’t help.’
Anthony showed no signs of life, and Pieck said sadly, ‘Now we’ll have to bring him round.’ He reached for a can of water.
At that moment the door opened and the local police officer came quickly in and reported to Schwede, talking fast –
‘… asking for you, Herr Obersturmbannführer.’
Behind him Schwede could see, without pleasure, a figure in the uniform of a lieutenant-colonel of the Wehrmacht. A lieutenant-colonel who now pushed into the cell, looked sternly at Schwede and spoke. He spoke in a deep, resonant voice that seemed to come from far down in his throat. He looked to be about fifty. One empty sleeve was pinned across his tunic. The ribbon of the Iron Cross was at his button hole. He wore thick pebble glasses.
‘My name is Bressler. I have responsibility in this area for all prisoners of war who fall to the jurisdiction of the Army. I am told you have a British officer here, Captain Marvell by name. Is this him?’
Schwede eyed Bressler with loathing. He said, ‘Marvell is suspected of serious offences which may need to be subject to civil process. He was also assisted in his escape by certain Germans whose activities are to be investigated by State Security. Marvell’s evidence will be relevant to these investigations.’
‘And you were in the process of obtaining this evidence, I suppose.’
‘I was, Herr Oberstleutnant,’ said Schwede grimly. ‘I was indeed.’
‘Then you will, if you wish, apply to the Military authorities for permission to interview Marvell. He will now be taken to Oflag VI where he will be subject to military trial and punishment for escape: and for any misdemeanors and breaches of discipline connected with his escape.’
‘Will now be taken?’ snarled Schwede. ‘I’ve not finished with him yet!’
Bressler had clearly anticipated this. He turned and snapped a command. Two soldiers entered the room, accompanied by two orderlies and a stretcher. Bressler had, it was plain, been promptly informed, and Anthony’s condition exaggerated rather than understated. The soldiers stood rigidly, awaiting orders. They were armed. The local police lieutenant carefully avoided Schwede’s eye.
‘This is irregular,’ said Schwede thickly. ‘It will be reported.’
‘I am acting in accordance with Army orders and recognized legitimate procedure,’ said Bressler shortly. He did not look at Schwede again, and made a peremptory gesture. Anthony, barely conscious, was carried from the room. A military ambulance was waiting in the dark street where snow was falling again.
On 1st February, a message again came for Marcia during the morning.
‘Marvell to the Superintendent’s office, at once!’
It was Müller again. He looked more hostile and more animated. Marcia felt, as she had before, a strong sense of nausea.
‘Fraülein Marvell, you’d best tel
l me the truth this time, all of it, and quickly. When I was here last week, you said you knew nothing of your brother’s connection with Frau Anna Langenbach.’
‘Yes.’
‘That was a lie. You had been told of it in a letter, from Frido von Arzfeld, even if you hadn’t known it before.’
‘A private letter – a confidence – I didn’t know whether to believe – perhaps a delusion – I couldn’t –’
‘Stop this fooling or you’ll be sorry. My business is state security, and we’re fighting a war. I want facts. You were told the Langenbach woman had a child by your brother. Did you know that your brother is a prisoner of war in Germany?’
‘In Germany?’ cried Marcia. She’s genuine, I’d say, thought Müller, I’d back that squeak for sincerity.
‘In Germany, where else? Furthermore, he at one time escaped from a prisoner of war camp. Now he may be faced with serious charges, as well as escaping.’
Marcia was silent. She was dumbfounded. Müller looked at her, a hard look.
‘We caught him again, of course. Yesterday. And we reckon the Langenbach woman helped him – helped him, an enemy officer, hide from the Reich authorities. And you – you who are a friend of Anna Langenbach – are standing there telling me that this woman, this “respected friend”, has been sheltering your precious brother and never got word to you about it? Your own brother? Is that what you’re telling me, eh?’ From habit, Müller’s voice had risen to a shout and he had moved round the table and was standing very close to Marcia. Something in the way he was shouting, in his overt bullying, strengthened Marcia. She felt a glorious surge of anger and it exorcized fear for a moment.
‘No, Herr Müller,’ she said, ‘that is not what I’m telling you. It is what you are telling me. I have said nothing, because I know nothing about it.’
