by Hall, Ian
“There’s a hit list.” Ivanhoe’s tense lips hardly moved.
“So you already said.” I so wanted him to come to the point. If Ivanhoe was scared, then perhaps I had reason to be too. “And why is this important right now?”
“We don’t know who’s on it.”
God, he was wound tightly this morning. “So how can we act on something we don’t know?”
“Because we have our own list; made up in 1939.” He interlaced his fingers together, and twirled his thumbs. “But it only goes to 2,479 people in Scotland.”
I swallowed. Two and a half thousand people suddenly on a Nazi hit-list. “You’re not suggesting me?”
He shook his head vehemently. “No, no. You’re not on it. And that’s just our list. The German one is considered to be much more encompassing. But we’ve got reason to believe that several officials in the University are on the list, maybe as many as a hundred. And that concerns us… and, of course, you.”
By all things holy; it scared me that Ivanhoe was in my office for a specific reason. “Anyone I know?”
Ivanhoe stared straight ahead. “Ernest Covian.”
“Aye,” I nodded. A Polish professor in Philosophy; his name came as no surprise, some of his classes edged towards the subversive.
“Reginald Parish.”
That hit closer, I’d attended classes by him, but again he seemed radical, almost communist; his inclusion in any list would not have raised an eyebrow.
“Max Born.”
Ouch, another near hit, again I’d attended lectures, he was a high professor in Natural Philosophy. “I thought he was German?”
“He is, but he’s also a Jew.”
And of course, that sank the list into dangerous territory. Rumors were already circulating that certain British Jewish figures had gone missing. No one knew if they had gone into hiding, or whisked away by Nazi sweep teams.
“Klaus Fuchs.”
I shook my head.
“Rudolf Peierls.”
“He’s a big shot.” I said. “Up from Birmingham University for a year. He’s linked with a lot of talk coming out of the Physics boys.”
Ivanhoe smiled. “I knew I did right coming straight to you. Walter Kellermann.”
Again I shook my head.
“Right. Old boy. You have a new assignment. Get yourself into the University drinking dens, and see if you can get close to anyone in the communist fraternity. We think the big cheese on this list is Klaus Fuchs. He’s a German communist studying under Max Born, kicked out of the Hitler Youth. He’s wild, he’s prickly, but he’s a man we want to get under the skin of.”
“Can I use Alice?” I asked.
“Sure,” Ivanhoe stood up. “You’re dealing with Jerries, you might need Jerry-talk.”
And as I gathered my thoughts, counted friends and acquaintances that had even hinted of Commie support, Ivanhoe donned his ever-present Fedora and slipped out of the office.
In the afternoon, once I’d got my stories up to the Castle for Leutnant Möller’s approval, Alice and I hit the Teviot Place Student’s Union. Finding no friends in the bar, we sat back and waited, sipping our drinks slowly. It only took a few minutes for the fellow students on the fringes of my acquaintance to gather round my new beau. I sat back, both wallowing in my good fortune, and observing their conversations, trying to remember their political affiliations.
“You speak German?” Frank Strachan asked. He looked across the table to me in sheer amazement, a look of envy so transparent.
“Ein bisschen,” Alice’s natural accent made the short phrase even more exotic. She smiled, leaned into me for a hug, and carried on being the princess fighting off her new gang of attendant courtiers.
As the conversation swept from topic to topic, I casually mentioned Bobby Slight, who had been a friend of Strachan’s for a while, and if I remembered correctly, a bit of a ‘red’.
“I’ve not seen him for a while,” Strachan mused. “He dropped out of classes when the balloon went up, said he had far better stuff to be bothered with.”
“Better stuff?”
“Aye, you probably know, he was always a leftie,” Frank said, screwing up his face in distaste. “He practically lived at that house on Salisbury Road.”
“Salisbury Road?” I quizzed further.
“Aye, it’s about half way up; always got some communist posters in the windows. You can’t miss it.”
And so I let the conversation drop, the information safely stored.
We stayed a while longer, then made reluctant excuses to leave. It had been a while since I’d drank so much, and we had been there almost three hours. When we staggered outside, the weather had changed from grey to a nice coppery sunset, the last streams of sunlight firing low along Lauriston Place.
“Do you want to walk home the long way?” I asked.
Not answering, she took my hand and pulled me down Middle Meadow Walk, the tree-lined pavement between the old University Buildings and the hospital. Every so often, she’d stop, pull herself in front of me, and we’d embrace in the moistest of kisses. I’d drank a fair bit myself, but hadn’t given Alice’s condition the slightest thought: I’d been too deep in my intended targets. “Do you remember Troon?” she asked coquettishly.
Too right I did. I’d broken my duck that night with Alice, embroiled in a Biggles master-spy adventure. After Troon, things on both the loving and the spy-front had been quiet until today’s Nazi hit-list revelation. “Of course I do.”
“Where’s the nearest Hotel?”
In my befuddled state, I found I couldn’t think. “The Links Hotel, I think.” Even though it was just a couple of hundred yards from our apartment, I had no idea if it was still operating; so much had changed in the last six months.
“Get me there.”
Her tone was so demanding, I could do nothing to resist it. I swear we crossed the Meadows in record time. I glanced at mother’s kitchen window as we quickly traversed Leamington Walk, the high path across the top of the links. Passing the last greens of the golf course, I admit to feeling somewhat guilty, but when we breezed into the hotel foyer, a panting Alice in my arms, all my doubts were washed away.
The room cost me one pound fifteen shillings; almost half a week’s rent money, but by God it was worth it. We made love for most of the evening, and slipped out, semi-sober, at nine o’clock to traverse the couple of hundred yards back home.
In the morning, Alice shooshed me out of the house with some urgency, and practically dragged me back to the hotel. “We left my glasses in the room.” She said as an aside to the desk clerk. I almost gasped at her downright lie. Making love in the daylight was a new experience to me, and I must say as a free bonus to our expensive secret rendezvous, it was the icing on the cake.
We arrived at work at The Scotsman an hour late, but I didn’t give a fink. I didn’t even care who saw our condition and put two and two together. I was in love, and the world, for all its coal-scuttle helmets, felt like a wonderful place.
The small note passed to me by the usual faceless twelve-year old made instant sense. “Happy Birthday”, he said, deposited the note in my hand and left.
Fortune House
The child had given me my agency HB code; proof that the note came from Ivanhoe, but the note’s contents were vague. Usually I got some code-word to insert into the newspaper, this enigmatic name meant nothing to me.
I gave it some thought, then went to see my editor, Charlie Chambers. He’d been formally promoted to Chief Editor last month, after his predecessor, Arthur Brooks, had been executed outside the building in a hail of Schmeisser bullets.
“Fortune House?” I asked, sticking my head round his always-open door. “Ring any bells?”
“What’s it in connection with?” A well-chewed pencil hung in mid-air, waving at me like a magician’s wand.
“Just a story, no real detail yet.”
“Fortune House?” he mused for a moment, then realization hit. Ch
arlie was as transparent as an empty jam-jar. “Communists. They have a headquarters there. Or they did. I can’t think that the Jerries would be happy about it. Maybe they’re underground by now.”
In view of our investigation, I took particular notice of a blast of news hitting the paper the next day.
We all met in Charlie’s office.
Through Swedish radio, the newspaper had heard that Germany had attacked Russia on the 15th April, 1941, just six days previously. From every source we could then find, they’d met with only half-hearted resistance; the Blitzkrieg trump card had been played again, and once more had proven successful.
“That’s probably why the younger troops were swapped over in February.” I said.
“What?” Charlie’s question lingered in the air. Five faces were turned towards me. “When did you notice that?”
Ah, I’d slipped up, mentioning one of the reports I’d sent upstairs to Ivanhoe. “Oh, I just noticed, that’s all.” I felt my face redden. “I can’t believe you guys didn’t.”
Loose Lips Sink Ships flew through my mind. I forced myself to stay silent for most of the rest of the meeting. There were few details about the invasion, but once we had the initial information, it got confirmed from many sources.
The problem now was how we could get the story out to the British people.
And of course, I was chosen for the job.
“You seem to get on well with Leutnant Möller.” Charlie put the final nail in my coffin. “It’s settled.”
The same day, twelve forty-five, I stood in Möller’s office. I cleared my throat as he pushed the corrected stories across the desk, his normal method of dismissing me. Today I lingered. “There is a question, Leutnant Möller. One that we at the newspaper feel should be addressed.”
He looked up at me; his expression showed his disdain for either me or my race, I could not discern which. “Yes?” The look seemed to be a cross between ‘why are you still here’, and ‘shrivel up and die’; both emanated from him in equal measure.
I could feel the individual beads of sweat form on my brow, but since I’d begun the question, I now had little choice but to ask it. “Well, people have reported to our newspaper that Germany has invaded Russia.”
I could not believe his expression didn’t alter. Not one iota. His stare remained impassive.
“It is so. Glorious German troops have invaded the communist nest. We shall have victory before Christmas.”
“Can we print the story?” I felt his eyes bore into my skull for what seemed an hour.
“We shall see.” He bent back to his paperwork. “Be here tomorrow morning, nine precisely.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” I picked up my folder and left. The breeze across the Castle battlements never felt so good that day, cooling my face, rippling my jacket. I gave thought to my tryst with Alice, wondered if it had been the influence of alcohol, then recalled the morning repast, the frenzied coupling, knowing we were being late, knowing but not caring.
At two, we made our way onto the Bridges, looking for a tram south. As we crossed the road, I felt her fingers interlace with mine, and I gave them a gentle squeeze.
Our destination? King’s Buildings, Edinburgh University’s remote campus on the southern edge of town, home of the sciences, Chemistry, Physics, Geology, and much more.
I can’t remember ever having a reason to go to the King’s Buildings. I remember passing the campus a few times, but never going inside.
Today, the unfamiliarity gave rise to more nerves than I should have felt. Having Alice on my arm calmed me a little, but conversation between us became stilted, perhaps the mission was too prominent on our minds.
A number 1 tram was as close as we could manage, then a walk up the stiff slope of Mayfield Road. It didn’t help that it was now raining, the fleeting blue skies gone, and the paving stones were slippery with fresh raindrops.
I soon found the main building and walked straight inside. German banners hung on both sides of the entrance. It had been almost five months since the capitulation, yet I still shuddered at the sight of the blood-red flags.
I flashed my matriculation card to the man on duty. “We’re looking for the Student’s Union.”
“Small building, two blocks along.” He pointed west, then looked at his watch. “Better hurry; they close at three.”
“Close?” I could hardly believe it. “Ours never closes in the middle of the day.”
“They’re having a meeting.”
Alice and I exchanged glances, then left, still hand in hand.
The War through German Eyes
The low-ceilinged room was almost full, just a few seats at the back free, and we sat down, determined to be as inconspicuous as possible. I was extremely conscious that I was now out of my depth. My matriculation card had been checked at the door, Alice viewed suspiciously by the two man security detail.
Two long tables sat at one end of the room, five empty chairs behind them; the panel still had to arrive. I checked my watch; two fifty five.
We sat in silence, conscious that the crowded room was also relatively quiet, despite maybe one hundred students sat inside. Behind us, the doors closed, and through their misty windows I noticed the two man team taking positions outside.
“Very strange,” I whispered to Alice.
A few moments later, a door opened near the front and five men filed in. I recognized Max Born immediately. A small gathering applause welcomed them, but the oldest man waved it down, shaking his head.
They settled into their seats, then the central figure, the older man, stood up.
“Today is a difficult day for me.” I recognized an eastern European accent. The man cleared his throat, barking into his closed fist. “My beloved Russia has been invaded by the same people who now hold sway here.”
Gasps echoed in the room.
“But that it is not the matter at heart.” He looked around. “I see students, some professors, thank you all. No doubt some details of this will reach German ears,” he looked to either side, “Sorry, gentlemen. So I will keep my comments to my own, and ask that you seek your own conscience. We here at Edinburgh are involved in research, some of which was related to the war effort, most not so. But I am stating now my resignation from the chair of senior professor, and my leaving the University.”
Loud appeals rang across the attendance, shouts of denial, protests that he could not do what he intended. He held his hands up, stifling the noise quickly. “I will remain in Edinburgh, for I cannot in all conscience leave my adopted city. I now give the floor to graduate Kellermann.”
I recognized the name from Ivanhoe’s list.
The German accent was obvious from the first word. “As of today, I will now be taking Professor Alayev’s place in Natural and Complex Physics. I hope you will quietly show your appreciation of the Doctor’s contribution to modern science.”
His plea was met with muted applause.
“I shall continue Edinburgh’s research, and I shall also conduct all liaisons with the German High Command in Edinburgh. I have General Ullrich’s assurance that we will be unmolested and unaffected by any political changes in the hierarchy.”
His face became more serious.
“Professor Born and my colleague Herr Fuchs…” he indicated past Alayev to the far side of the panel, where a young man nodded. I took note, now I had eye-balled another on Ivanhoe’s list. “… have a special problem, and I have their permission to disclose it. Both are of Jewish descent, and as such feel they are under greater scrutiny. They will make their own decisions regarding their own future soon, but as yet, they will remain at the University.”
Another round of muted applause, so choreographed, it almost seemed they had practiced the art.
And to be honest, the meeting degenerated into minor moves, department switches, details so boring, I almost switched off. After half an hour, the meeting was closed, and the bar announced open once more.
Of course
, the line for beer was now one hundred people long, and we found ourselves at the very end of it.
A group of students surrounded Professor Alayev, so I pulled Alice towards him. Soon, I stood in front, my turn for an audience with the seemingly great man. “James Baird, Philosophy,” I shook his hand. “I also work for The Scotsman.”
His eyebrows shot into his forehead. “Interesting.”
“We found out this morning about Russia’s invasion. Can I ask where you got your facts?”
“Russian radio.” He allowed himself a warm smile. “I can still hear it on a good evening, if the weather allows.”
I nodded. “Do you have any details? I’m meeting the Germans tomorrow morning, and any facts might help me. I’m trying to get the Germans to allow me to print the story.”
“Ha! You will not be successful.” He leaned over to me confidentially. “I have only two details, but they are terrible news. The Germans have taken Minsk.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know where that is.”
Alayev smiled again. “It means the Germans have advanced a hundred and fifty miles in just three days. It means that the Russian Army is in full retreat. I am afraid that only the weather can now defend my motherland.”
“Like Napoleon?”
“Precisely, my young man. Precisely.”
Happy with the introduction, I made my goodbyes and sauntered over to join the beer line, but it seemed Alice had other ideas.
Kellermann stood alone, looking around, and Alice dragged me to his side. “Sie mögen es nicht, die Nazis?”
For a second, he seemed to not even understand, then he nodded. “Bayern?”
Alice gave her hand, which the young man cradled, bowed and kissed. I swore she blushed. “Mein Vater ist aus Augsburg.”
I smiled at the family geography lesson.
“Ihr Akzent ist sehr gut.” I think he then noticed me for the first time. “I say, her accent is very good.” He let her hand go, but I’d noticed; he’d lingered.
“James Baird.” I shook his outstretched hand. “Reading Philosophy.”
His eyes quizzed me. “So why are you here today?” he looked around. “In a Science meeting?”
