The Way Ahead

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Is it grim, then?’ asked Polly, wincing.

  ‘It won’t make good listening for Gemma and James, Polly. Yes, it’s grim, but it doesn’t directly affect you and me, or our cherubs. Hang on until they’re in bed.’

  Chapter Six

  EVENING. GEMMA AND James were in bed, sound asleep after a long, exciting day. Boots and Polly were seated in armchairs in the living-room that was bright with pretty chintzes. The owner of the cottage, a sweet old lady now living with her widowed sister in Taunton, had made a pretty thing of the cottage as a whole.

  Boots recounted the events that had brought him back to England. The prolonged battle for Monte Cassino, defended in depth by the Germans, who held all positions of advantage, had been savage, the Allied casualties heavy. One day, Boots and his Corps Commander, Lieutenant-General Montrose, together with a Captain Francis, also on the staff, were driving back to headquarters after a consultation with unit commanders at the front. They slowed to edge a way past a truck containing Germans taken prisoner. A British sergeant in charge of the escort jumped down from the cab and ran to hail the staff car. Lieutenant-General Montrose ordered his driver to stop, although the sky was being repeatedly invaded by German fighters and Stukas.

  The sergeant, noting the pennant on the car and the presence of a general, saluted and said, ‘Sergeant Rogers, Middlesex Regiment, sir. Permission to have a word, sir?’

  ‘Make it a quick one, Sergeant Rogers, and it had better be worth my while,’ said Montrose.

  ‘Yessir, right, sir,’ said Sergeant Rogers. The noise of gunfire to the north-east was a persistent low drumming on every ear. ‘It’s like this. We’ve got a corporal among these here prisoners, and he’s raving, sir.’

  ‘Raving?’ said Montrose.

  ‘Like bloody hell he is, sir, and in good English, all about what Himmler’s SS are doing to Jewish people, according to his brother, who’s an SS sergeant. He’s shell-shocked, so it’s all coming out like he’s on his deathbed, poor bleeder.’ The sergeant, grimy-faced and battle-worn, was blunt. ‘He’s been gabbing on about some concentration camp in Poland, called Auschwitz, and about what his brother has told him the SS are doing to Jews there. Bloody flaming murder, sir, they’re gassing them by the thousand and burning the bodies.’

  ‘Sergeant, are you sure you haven’t been listening to the ravings of a lunatic?’ asked Montrose.

  ‘Sir, we’ve all heard rumours, but I’m believing I’ve been listening to facts. Gassing the poor bleeders and then burning them down to their bones, right, yes, that does take some believing. It’s bloody horrible, and it’s not all, it seems there’s other camps where the SS are doing the same thing, so the prisoner says. It’s my opinion, sir, that my best bet is to hand him over to you. Well, what he’s got coming out of his mouth is information of a kind special to my way of thinking, and he ought to be taken care of as a special case.’ A case for Intelligence, thought Boots. ‘He’s up in the cab, he’s been sitting between me and Corporal Harris, the driver. That’s for his own safety. The other prisoners, fourteen of ’em, jumped him as soon as he started to open his mouth to me. Well, it was all coming out in German, and they were getting earfuls of it and not liking it. I had to order the escort to use rifle butts on the buggers. Then he started to talk to me in English, so I had him out of the truck, and a bit later, up in the cab. Corporal Harris is holding on to him right now.’

  ‘Sergeant Rogers, are you serious?’ asked Montrose.

  ‘Too bloody true I am, sir. I’ve got this feeling it’s no fairy story. Permission, sir, on account of the nature of the information, to place prisoner in your charge?’

  Montrose, seated with Boots in the back of the car, said, ‘Get him down, Sergeant Rogers, bring him here.’

  The German corporal, helmetless and ashen-faced, his chin darkly stubbled, arrived at the car, Sergeant Rogers with him. Boots, out of the car, had the back door open. Sergeant Rogers pushed the man’s head down and shoved him in.

  ‘Good work, sergeant,’ said Boots.

  ‘I’m relieved to hand him over, sir,’ said Sergeant Rogers.

  Boots resumed his place, so that the German corporal was between him and the Corps Commander. Sergeant Rogers closed the door, Montrose gave an order to his driver and the car moved off. Sergeant Rogers saluted.

  The car raced for headquarters, passing Army vehicles moving up to the front. German fighter planes caught it out in the open after five minutes. All hell erupted around the car and other Army traffic.

  ‘Bale out!’ shouted Montrose. The car stopped, and out surged the driver, the Corps Commander, Captain Francis and Boots. Boots pulled the prisoner out after him, and they all ran for cover. Self-preservation was paramount as they went to ground off the road. There was a chance now for the German corporal to escape, but he flung himself down next to Boots and stayed there while cannon shells whistled, hummed and exploded. He vibrated and trembled, spilling words.

  ‘Auschwitz, Mein Gott, Auschwitz.’

  Boots thought him a man shot through with the violence of war and demons of the mind.

  The German fighters screamed and shrieked. Cannon shells struck the car forty yards away and it blew up and burst into flame. The heat fanned the grounded men.

  It lasted only a few minutes, the strafing attack from the air, but it caused casualties among men and machines. However, although Captain Francis suffered a flesh wound in his thigh, Boots, Montrose and his driver emerged unscathed. The German corporal had taken another psychological hammering, but came out of it with his teeth clenched and a strange resolve intact.

  In good English, he said to Boots as they clambered to their feet, ‘I wish to speak with someone important, I have much to tell, which I must tell or live in hell.’

  ‘British Intelligence?’ said Boots, brushing himself down while an officer in charge of an armoured truck radioed for ambulances.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I am Corporal Hans Thurber, and my brother Ernst is an SS sergeant serving in a concentration camp. Are you a good officer, a good man?’

  ‘Can I say so?’ said Boots, feeling an odd kind of pity for this haggard German. ‘No, you must find that out from other officers, other men.’ He scanned the sky. The Luftwaffe was still a force of might and power in Italy. ‘But I can tell you that if you have information you think we need to know, you’ll be listened to.’ As a measure of reassurance, he added, ‘Sympathetically’.

  ‘I will be grateful,’ said Corporal Hans Thurber.

  The torched car blazed away. Lieutenant-General Montrose commandeered the use of a replacement vehicle, and on arrival at headquarters was immediately called to a conference. He gave Boots the responsibility of taking exclusive charge of the prisoner, and Boot was present the following day when Corporal Thurber was interviewed by two Intelligence officers.

  What he told them had been recounted to him by his brother Ernst when they were on leave together two months ago. His brother, a tough SS specimen though he was, had begun to find his life and his duties at a concentration camp called Auschwitz unendurable. He put aside his oath of secrecy and poured out details of unimaginable horror. Thousands of Jews, thousands, arrived at the camp month by month, and all were gassed or worked to death, then shovelled into crematoria to be burned down to ashes. Men, women, and children. Ah, the children. Some no more than infants, who died in their mothers’ arms.

  If Sergeant Ernst Thurber of the SS eased his conscience in any way by confiding horror to his brother Hans, it did nothing for Hans except to land him with images and thoughts appalling to dwell on. Ernst asked for nothing to be said. Hans, aghast and bitter, asked if he was expected to take such a tale of enormities to his grave. Yes, you must, for the sake of Hitler and the German Reich, said Ernst. Accept, he said, that it has helped me a little in confessing to you, in sharing my sickness with you. I am not your priest, shouted Hans, I am a German soldier sworn to die for our Fuehrer if necessary. Our Fuehrer! Have I sworn such an oath for such a man? S
top shouting, for God’s sake, said Ernst, our Fuehrer has not done these things with his own hand. Damn him, said Hans, and damn you, I would rather you had shot yourself than saddled me with the knowledge of what you have done to help in the murder of thousands of Jews. Could it ever be right to murder one single person because of his religion or race? To murder them, small children as well, is that what we are doing at Auschwitz and other concentration camps? May God forgive you and our Fuehrer.

  All this and more was relayed by Hans Thurber to the two British Intelligence officers in the presence of Boots. Every word was difficult to believe, but belief hovered because the man was so convincing, although there was a suggestion of a suffering mind that might have been the result of a recent Allied bombardment of the Germans defending Monte Cassino, a bombardment that lasted forty-eight hours.

  Was there any proof? Did the prisoner have anything in writing or by way of photographs?

  No, he had only his brother’s emotional and turbulent verbal confession.

  A pity. All the same, London must know of this. London must decide the issue. The prisoner would be flown to England under escort. The prisoner asked for a favour, that Colonel Adams might be a member of the escort.

  Colonel Adams had other duties.

  The prisoner dug his heels in, and was told he was not in a position to ask for any kind of favours. The prisoner responded by saying he was a man unable to live in peace with himself, and therefore what he was asking for was a sympathetic favour.

  ‘Colonel Adams?’ said one Intelligence officer.

  ‘I’m more than willing to go, to have charge of him,’ said Boots.

  ‘Good.’

  The prisoner, dismissed, was taken away under escort.

  ‘That’s a man unable to come to terms with the infamy of Hitler,’ said Boots. ‘Or Himmler.’

  ‘Or with the sickness of his own imagination. Colonel Adams, one of our officers and a sergeant will keep you company on the flight, and it looks as if you’ll have to be present at London interviews. Any objections?’

  ‘None,’ said Boots.

  ‘We’ll ask Lieutenant-General Montrose to release you, perhaps for a month, in view of the fact that the man regards you as his confidant.’

  ‘I think that what we’ve heard will be enough to make London jump out of its skin,’ said Boots.

  ‘It might, yes, if we had any proof. As it is, we’re dealing with hearsay, Colonel. There have been hundreds of rumours and some accusations, but never any proof. Hearsay alone won’t do.’

  ‘But prolonged interrogation in London might dredge up a few bones with meat on them,’ said Boots.

  ‘Yes, so it might. But meat on those kind of bones? God Almighty, it’ll be meat that’ll stink to high heaven. We’ll signal London.’

  For two days, Boots spent much time with Corporal Thurber, establishing a close and reassuring relationship with him. The German willingly, if in a distressed way, offered extra details of his brother’s outpourings. All amounted to the same thing, however, a picture of the appalling fate suffered by Jewish people in the concentration camp called Auschwitz. On the morning of the third day, with Boots temporarily detached from Lieutenant-General Montrose’s staff, a flying-boat carried prisoner and escort to Gibraltar, where they were met by informed Intelligence men from London. There, Corporal Hans Thurber was interrogated for four consecutive days, always in the presence of Boots, who had succeeded in reducing the man’s hysteria and brought him to a calmer recounting of his brother’s confession. Calmer, he was more credible. And there were no variations in his story, only an unbreakable thread of bitterness and a sick disillusion with the glorified SS.

  Credibility, however, was still not proof.

  He was eventually flown to Southampton Water, with the Intelligence men. Boots went too. On arrival in Southampton itself, Boots was offered a break, either at home or in London. He chose home. He would be contacted there when he was needed again, say in three or four days.

  ‘And there you are, Polly, here I am,’ he said.

  ‘I’d be very happy if I weren’t so appalled,’ said Polly. ‘Boots, for God’s sake, do you believe this man?’

  ‘I’ve spent days with him, observed him, talked to him and listened to him,’ said Boots, ‘and yes, I do believe.’

  ‘That thousands and thousands of Jewish people are being gassed and cremated monthly?’ said Polly, incredulous.

  ‘I reserve my judgement on numbers,’ said Boots. ‘I can put thousands and thousands monthly down to the exaggeration that goes with disordered and tortured minds.’

  ‘But even a count of hundreds doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Polly. ‘And children, Boots? Infants?’

  ‘Is it possible, Polly, that Hitler’s Germany is more of a hell than any of us could ever imagine?’ said Boots sombrely.

  ‘If it’s responsible for the murder of little children and their mothers, yes, it’s a hell built by Satan himself,’ said Polly. ‘But could it be, could even the most devilish nation cover up the murder of hundreds of men, women and children, and by gassing them?’

  ‘That’s what puts a chink in belief,’ said Boots, ‘that’s why Allied governments need positive proof. You’re right, Polly, how could murder on that scale be hidden if it’s been going on for a year and more? I’d like to talk to Corporal Thurber again, and will do when I’m called to London. They’re giving him time to recover from disorientation. They want him stone cold sober, if that’s possible. He’s calmer than at first, but he still has spasms of hysteria.’

  ‘Darling, do you feel sick about all you had to listen to, and are you tired?’ asked Polly.

  ‘I feel a sympathy for Corporal Thurber,’ said Boots. ‘As for tiredness, it’s a little early for bed, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think I mentioned bed, did I?’ said Polly.

  ‘It’s a thought,’ said Boots.

  ‘Bed?’ said Polly.

  ‘With you, Polly,’ said Boots, ‘but not now, later.’

  ‘At our ages?’ said Polly, finding a smile.

  ‘Polly old girl, I’m not done for yet,’ said Boots.

  ‘Oh, good show, mighty man of everlasting iron,’ said Polly.

  ‘There’s one thing that’s happily constant,’ said Boots.

  ‘And what’s that, old sport?’ asked Polly.

  ‘You’re a lovely woman to come home to, Polly.’

  Polly’s eyes turned misty.

  ‘Don’t do it to me again,’ she said muffledly.

  ‘Don’t do what?’ asked Boots.

  ‘Put me in need of a hankie again,’ said Polly.

  Boots got up, took hold of her hands and brought her to her feet.

  ‘It’s a frightful world, Polly,’ he said, ‘made so by frightful men, but some of us are blessed with civilized and forgiving women. Women like you. Let me say that it was painful to lose Emily, but you’ve been a joy and delight to me.’

  ‘Dear man, don’t you know how much I always wanted to be?’ said Polly.

  The phone rang. Boots answered it. The conversation he had with the caller lasted more than a few minutes, and when he came back he looked stunned.

  ‘My God,’ he said.

  ‘Boots?’

  ‘Corporal Thurber hanged himself an hour ago, Polly. He was housed comfortably, with two Military Police sergeants to keep an eye on him. But he managed to hang himself in the bathroom by standing on the lavatory seat, tying his braces around the high window sash, then around his neck and simply letting himself fall. He was a man in torment, Polly, a man who considered himself monstrously betrayed by his brother and his Fuehrer. In common parlance, a decent man. I wonder, are there other Germans like him, others who can tell us what he told us, and would tell if they were free to do so?’

  ‘If all he said is true, Boots, then there must be, there must,’ said Polly. ‘Did he say who runs these concentration camps?’

  ‘Himmler’s SS,’ said Boots. ‘That’s believable,
if so much else isn’t. I’m still struggling with some doubt.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Polly.

  ‘Now Intelligence not only has no proof, but no Corporal Thurber, either,’ said Boots. He grimaced. ‘There’s a suggestion he might not have hanged himself if I’d been there, for he asked once or twice if I had deserted him, if I considered him a man who belonged to an insufferable people.’

  ‘Boots, you’re not going to blame yourself, are you?’ said Polly.

  ‘No, Polly, I’m going to have a whisky, a stiff one,’ said Boots.

  ‘And then?’ said Polly, aware that he was a shaken man.

  ‘There’s always you, Polly, thank God,’ said Boots.

  ‘That’s one thing you can always believe,’ said Polly.

  Chapter Seven

  LITTLE PHOEBE ADAMS, ADOPTED daughter of Susie and Sammy Adams, ran around the bedroom she shared with their natural daughter, Paula. She was shrieking with laughter, Sammy in chase of her. She scrambled over the bed, Sammy popped up on the other side, cut her off and collared her.

  ‘Got you, little sausage,’ he said.

  ‘Daddy, you cheated,’ she said, flushed and indignant. But she was happy to be up in his arms and to look into his smiling blue eyes. She was seven, a girl of giggles and responsive affection, and as much of a delight to Sammy as Paula, almost nine. Two of his other three children, Bess and Jimmy, were still in Devon as evacuees. The third, elder son Daniel, seventeen, had returned home three months ago, and was working at the factory in Belsize Park.

  Phoebe, with her dark curling hair, dark eyes and elfin prettiness, had her own special place in the affections of Sammy and Susie. They cherished her as if she had been their own, and in the same way that Boots and Emily had cherished Rosie as a young girl.

  ‘Did I cheat?’ asked Sammy.

  ‘Yes, you went so’s you could get in front of me,’ said Phoebe, who had a strange belief that Sammy and Susie were her natural parents. That was something Sammy and Susie were going to have to deal with eventually. ‘Daddy, again.’