The Light and the Dark

by C. P. Snow

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps Reinhold Schäder. They think I might be useful. They’re very thorough people.”

  I could believe that easily enough. But I could not understand why, if Schäder or Roy’s other high-placed friends were behind the move, they should use this extraordinary method. It seemed ridiculous, and I said so.

  “They sometimes do queer things. They’re not as rational as we are.” Then he smiled. “Or of course they may have mistaken my tastes.”

  He considered.

  “That shouldn’t be likely. Perhaps Willy was the only one who’d volunteer to do it. You can’t imagine the little dancer trying to get hold of me for them, can you? But Willy wasn’t a particularly scrupulous young man. Or do you think I’m misjudging him?”

  I chuckled, and asked him what he was going to do about it.

  “You’re not going to reply?” I asked.

  “Not safe,” said Roy. I had half-expected a different reply, but he was curiously prudent and restrained at that time. “I need to stop them getting me into trouble. It might look shady. I’m not keen on getting into trouble. Particularly if they’re trying to hook me.”

  He had, in fact, already behaved with sense and judgment. The letter had arrived the day before. Roy had at once reported it to his departmental chief, and written a note to Houston Eggar, who was back at the Foreign Office handling some of the German work. Roy had told them (as Eggar already knew) that he had many friends in Berlin, and that this was a disreputable acquaintance. He added that one or two of the younger German ministers had reason to believe that he was well-disposed to them and to Germany.

  He was far more cautious than he used to be, I thought. His chief and Eggar had both told him not to worry; it was obviously none of his doing; Eggar had gone on to say that the Foreign Office might want to follow the letter up, since they had so little contact with anyone who had recently been inside Germany.

  Outside, the sirens ululated. They were late that night. In a few minutes, down the estuary we heard the first hollow thud of gunfire. The rumble came louder and sharper. It was strangely warming to be sitting there, in that safe room, as the noise grew. It was like lying in front of the fire as a child, while the wind moaned and the rain thrashed against the windows. It gave just the same pulse of rich, exalted comfort.

  We turned off the light and drew aside the curtains. Searchlights were weaving on the clouds: there was an incandescent star as a shell burst short, but most were exploding above the cloud shelf. There were only a few aircraft, flying high. The night was too stormy for a heavy raid. Two small fires were rising pink, rosy, out to the east. The searchlights crossed their beams ineffectively, in a beautiful three-dimensional design.

  The aircraft were unseen, undetected, untouched. We heard their engines throbbing smoothly and without a break. They flew west and then south; the gunfire became distant again, and died away.

  We looked out into the dark night; one searchlight still smeared itself upon the clouds.

  “They won’t find it so easy soon,” I said.

  “Who’ll stop them? Getliffe and his gang?”

  “They’ll help,” I said. “It won’t be any fun to fly.”

  “You’re sure, old boy?” said Roy very clearly, in the dark room.

  “I’m pretty sure,” I said. I had always had a minor interest in military history: since the war, with the opportunities of my job, it had become more informed. “It was the most dangerous job in the last war. It’s bound to become so again.”

  “On both sides?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean – the most dangerous job?”

  I defined what I meant. I said that special élite troops on land, like commandos, might take greater risks than the average fighting airman; but that the whole fighting strength of the air force would suffer heavier casualties than any similar number of men on land or sea.

  “They’ll take very heavy losses,” I said, staring at the night sky.

  “And we shall too?”

  “Quite certainly,” I said. “I don’t know how many fighting airmen will survive the war. It won’t be a very large percentage.”

  “Just so.” I heard the clear voice behind me.

  Two mornings later, Houston Eggar rang me up at my office. He was excessively mysterious. In him discretion was becoming both a passion and an art; both he and I had secret telephones, but he thought it safest not to speak. It would be wiser to meet, he said zestfully, revelling in his discretion. He would not give me an inkling of the reason. Would I mind going round to the Foreign Office?

  I was annoyed. I did not believe that he was as busy as I was. I knew that he enjoyed all the shades of secrecy. Irritated, I went past guards, sandbags, into the dingy entrance of the Foreign Office, followed a limping messenger down corridors and up stairs.

  Eggar was occupying a tiny ramshackle room, marked off by a pasteboard partition. The building was overcrowded, and, somewhat to his chagrin, he could not be accommodated according to his rank. One window had been blown out, and was not yet boarded over. It was a cold morning, and bitter draughts kept sweeping in. Eggar sat there in his black coat and striped trousers, muscular, vigorous, cheerful. He did not mind the cold. He worked like an engine, and he would be sitting in that arctic room until late at night, plodding through the day’s stack of files.

  He greeted me with his effusive cordiality, man-to-man, eyes looking straight into eyes.

  “Between ourselves,” he said, “I think I’ve got a job for you.”

  “I’m pretty well booked,” I said.

  “I know you’re not disponible. I know you’re getting well-thought-of round here. I hear your minister thinks the world of you.” Eggar was a generous-hearted man, and he was genuinely pleased that I should get some praise. Also he was thinking of one of his own simple, cunning, pushful moves. “But I want you for something important. I think we may be able to extract you for a week or two.”

  “I do rather doubt it,” I said. “What do you want me for?”

  “You’ve kept in touch with young Calvert, have you?”

  The question surprised me.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this is strictly in confidence – we’re particularly anxious that it shouldn’t get round, for reasons that I’m obliged to keep to myself. Strictly in confidence, young Calvert has received a letter from a German friend of his. I don’t want to give you a wrong impression. There’s nothing to blame Calvert for. He has behaved perfectly correctly.” Eggar told me the story of Romantowski’s letter over again; he produced a copy of the original, and I listened to another translation.

  “Very curious,” I said.

  “It may be useful,” said Eggar. “We’re finding out whether this chap Romantowski is really living at that address. If so, we want to chase it up.” He explained, as he had done to Roy, that they were uncomfortably short of news from inside Germany. “We think it might be worth the trouble of sending Calvert to talk to him.”

  I nodded.

  “Yes, we shall probably send Calvert out,” said Eggar. He looked at me, and added: “If we do, we should like you to go with him.”

  “Why?”

  Then Eggar took me completely aback.

  “Between ourselves, Eliot, you ought to know. You ought to remember that two or three years ago Calvert was inclined to see some good points in the German set-up. I don’t count it against him: a lot of people did the same. I’m not saying for a minute that today he isn’t a hundred per cent behind the war. But we can’t afford to take chances. I should be more comfortable if you went and helped him out in Switzerland. I expect he would be more comfortable too.”

  It was informal, rough-and-ready, fixed up like an arrangement between friends. It was the way things got done. I felt a new respect for Eggar’s competence.

  I could not escape being persuaded. If they wanted news badly enough to send Roy, it was as well that I went with him. Eggar beam
ed at me triumphantly. He would not have got me ordered there against my will, but now all was clear, he said, for him to call upon my minister. It was quite unnecessary, for the minister was the least ceremonious of men; I could have explained it to him in five minutes.

  But he was also a uniquely influential man, and Eggar was determined to know him. On its own merits, it was a good idea to despatch me to look after Roy; Eggar could always keep one eye on the ball. But the other eye was fixed elsewhere. From the moment he had thought of sending me, Eggar had been determined to make the most of the opportunity. It was an admirable excuse to introduce himself to the minister; he was out to create the best of impressions. He would never have a finer chance.

  33: Journey into the Light

  “We’ll get you there somehow,” said Houston Eggar heartily, when I asked about our route. The more I thought of it, the more my apprehensions emerged. In fact, it was so difficult to arrange the journey that it was cancelled twice. Each time I felt reprieved. But Eggar was determined that we should go, and at last he managed it.

  The Foreign Office had been able to trickle a few people in since the fall of France, and Eggar used the same method for us: but even so, and getting us the highest priority, he took weeks to produce our papers complete. The delay was almost entirely caused by the French, for we needed a visa through Vichy France.

  Though I viewed the journey with trepidation, I could not help being amused at the technique. For we were to fly to Lisbon in the ordinary way; there was nothing comic about that, but then the unexpected began; we were instructed to catch a German plane from Lisbon to Madrid, and another on the standard Lufthansa route from Madrid up north through Europe. We were to get off at Lyons, though the plane went on to Stuttgart. It had been done several times before by visitors on important missions, said Eggar: like them, we should carry Red Cross papers, and he expected all would be well. The French at last gave way. Eggar told us as though he had done all the difficult part, and ours was trivial; but, as a matter of fact, he was beginning to feel responsible.

  He became slightly too genial, and stood us a dinner the night before we left.

  We flew from Bristol on a halcyon spring afternoon. But we saw nothing of it, for the windows of the aircraft were covered over, and let in only a dim, tawny, subfusc light. The dimness made my plan for getting through the journey a little more difficult; I had to reckon on three hours’ sheer fright before we landed at Lisbon, and to help myself through I read quotas of fifty pages at a go before letting myself look at my watch. I had taken the Tale of Genji with me. Subtle and lovely though it was, I wished it had more narrative power. I could not keep myself from listening for unpleasant sounds. Once more I cursed and was ashamed of my timidity. I very much envied Roy.

  He was lively, exhilarated, much as he had been in the most joyous days. He had been exhilarated ever since he was asked to make the journey. He seemed glad that I was going, as though it had been a holiday when we were much younger; he had not shown the slightest suspicion or resentment; he had not asked a single question why I should be there. Yet I felt he was too incurious. He could not accept it as naturally as he seemed to. He was much too astute not to guess. Still, his face lit up at the news of our journey, just as it used before any travel. He had always been excited by the thought, not of anything vague like the skies of Europe, but the unexpected and exact things which he might hear and see: I remembered the post-cards that used to arrive as he went from library to library: “Palermo. The post office here has pillars fifty-six feet high, painted red, white and blue.” “Nice. Yesterday a Roumanian poetess described her country and France as the two bulwarks of Latin civilisation.” “Berlin. The best cricketer of German nationality is called Maus. (All German cricketers appear to have very short names). He is slightly worse than I am, slightly better than you.”

  He was excited again in just that fashion, as we got into the aircraft. He was stimulated, became more brilliantly alive, through the faint tang of danger. I envied him, reading my book with forced concentration, hearing him chat to a Portuguese business man. He knew that I should be frightened, that I should prefer to be left sullenly alone. His imagination was at least as active as mine, but it produced an utterly different result: the thought of danger made him keen, braced, active, like a first class batsman who requires just enough of the needle, just enough tingle of the nerves, to be brought to the top of his form. Portuguese was a language Roy had never had reason to look at, but he was asking his acquaintance to pronounce some words: Roy was mimicking the squashed vowel sounds, apparently with accuracy, to judge from the admiring cries.

  My first quota of pages dragged by, then in time another, then another. I had to read a good many pages again, to draw any meaning from them; not that they were obscure (they were about lords and ladies of the Japanese court in the year 1000, making an expedition to view the beauty of the autumn flowers), but I was listening too intently for noises outside. I wondered for an instant how the Genji circle would have faced times like ours. They happened to live in an interval of extreme tranquillity, though their civilisation was destroyed a couple of generations later. The Victorians too – they lived in an interval of tranquillity, though they did not feel it so. How would they have got on, if they had been born, like Roy and me and our friends, into one of the most violent times? About the same as we did, I thought. Not better. They would have endured it, for human beings are so made that they struggle on. The more one saw of human beings in violence and adversity, the more astonishing it was how much they could bear.

  The plane began to lose height earlier than I calculated. I was alarmed, but Roy had picked up a word, and smiled across at me affectionately, mockingly, with an eyebrow lifted: “We’re here, old boy. Lisbon.”

  It was comforting to feel the bumps beneath the wheels, comforting to walk with Roy across the aerodrome.

  “Five o’clock,” said Roy. “In time for tea. You need some tea. Also some cakes.”

  We were staying that night in Lisbon, and we strolled through the brilliant streets in the warm and perfumed air. For five minutes, it was a release after the darkness of England. The lights streamed from the shops and one felt free, confined no longer. But almost at once, one forgot the darkness, we were walking in lighted streets as we had done before. Roy went from shop to shop, sending off presents; except that the presents were mostly parcels of food, it might have been a night in Cambridge in days past.

  We caught the German aeroplane next day. It seemed a little bizarre, but not so much as when I first heard that this was the most practical way. The lap was a short one, Lisbon to Madrid; the windows were not darkened, I looked down on the tawny plains of Estremadura and Castille; we were all polite, everything went according to plan. I had been in Madrid just before the beginning of the civil war; it was strange to sit in a café there again, to read newspapers prophesying England’s imminent defeat, to remember the passions that earlier war had stirred in England. It had been the great plane of cleavage between left and right; we could recall Arthur Brown, the most sensible and solid of conservatives, so far ceasing to be his clubbable self as to talk about “those thieves and murderers whom Getliffe and Eliot are so fond of”.

  Roy mimicked Arthur Brown making that reproachful statement, and one saw again the rubicund but frowning face by the fire in the combination room. “I regard a glass of port as rather encouraging on a cold night,” Roy went on mimicking. We were sometimes nostalgic for those cosy autumn nights.

  The Lufthansa plane, on the run Madrid-Barcelona-Lyons-Stuttgart, was full of German officials, business men and officers. They knew we were English; one or two were stiffly courteous, but most of them were civil, helpful, anxious to be kind. Roy’s German was, of course, an aid: there is something disarming in a foreigner who speaks one’s language within a shade of perfection and who knows one’s country from the inside. I could now carry on some sort of conversation myself, and one youngish business man pressed sandwiches on us wi
th a naïf, clumsy, puppyish kindness.

  I was not expecting to be treated with such simple, amiable consideration. I did not understand why they should have gone out of their way to be kind. They were worried about our reception at Lyons, but anxious to assure us that we should be well looked after at Basel. “It is like a German town,” they said. “Yes, it is a fine town. All will be well when you come to Basel.”

  So, in that odd company, I had my first glimpse of the Mediterranean for three years, as we flew over the Catalan coast. Since we landed at Lisbon, I was not so timid about physical danger; but I had two other cares on my mind. I was not sure whether it was a convenience for both sides to let Englishmen travel under this deception of ours. If not, it was always possible that someone here would report our names when he got to Germany: Roy was well enough known in Berlin for it to be a finite risk. I did not believe that the German intelligence would be taken in for a moment by our Red Cross status – and we were due to return on this same route.

  For the same reason, I was nervous about the weather. If it did not let us touch down at Lyons, we should inevitably be taken on to Stuttgart. Could we possibly get away with it? Roy would have to do most of the talking: could I trust him to throw himself into whole-hearted lying? This time I was more afraid for him: of all men, he was the least fit to stand prison. I watched the clouds rolling up to the east.

  Once (it was an ironical memory) we had been forced down at Lyons. Flying home from Monte Carlo after that happy holiday with the Boscastles, we had met a snowstorm. It was uncomfortable to remember now.

  This time the weather did not interfere with us. We made our proper landing. Our German acquaintances inside the aeroplane wished us good luck, and I felt that now we had put the last obstacle behind us. It turned out otherwise. The French officials were not willing to let us disembark: they held the aircraft, the German officers getting first bleakly, then bitterly angry, while we were questioned. Our papers were in order; they could not find anything irregular; they remained sharp, unsatisfied, hostile, suspicious. Both Roy and I lost our tempers. Though I was too angry to note it then, I had never seen him abandoned to rage before. He thumped on the table in the control-room; he was insolently furious; he demanded that they put us in touch immediately with the protecting power; he treated them like petty officials; he loved riffraff and outcasts and those who were born to be powerless – but that afternoon, when he was crossed, he assumed that authority must be on his side.