In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  Prosper Martyn, Lally’s late husband, had laid down a cellar of fine wines which would surely last for the duration of the war.

  Lally had been enchanted to see Minnie again.

  “I’m so sad we lost touch,” she said looking at the beautiful woman sitting opposite her. “But now that we have found each other again you and Dougie must come often, mustn’t they Alexander?”

  “Yes.” Alexander agreed. It had been a very happy few days and he had felt more relaxed than for some time. He liked his new friends, he loved seeing his family, being with Lally and his daughter with whom he spent many hours alone, trying hard to make up for being the sole parent.

  “And you must bring your mother and father. Where are they now?”

  “They live in the Bahamas,” Minnie said. “I’m very glad they’re safe there. Daddy had a heart attack a few years ago and I don’t think he could have endured the war. My brother Ronald is on convoys with the navy.”

  “And no news of Bart?” Alexander looked at Lally who shook her head. It was the first question he had asked on arrival, and now he asked it again.

  “Bart seems to have been away for ages. I’m sure he’s doing what he can. But I must say, darling, he didn’t seem to think he could do very much. However,” she leaned back and looked sadly at Alexander, “we must hope and pray. He is such a clever man.”

  “Is there absolutely nothing that anyone can do?” Minnie asked. “After all Irene is a British citizen.”

  “Which goes for nothing when you are at war with the country concerned. I blame myself for letting her go, well I didn’t exactly let her go. I strictly forbade her and that is what made her decide to run away. Had I been more helpful and understanding we might have been able to work something out. Perhaps I could have gone with her. Had I known she was so determined I would have. Of course I would.”

  “But you had to bring Netta back,” Lally pointed out. “I think it was very silly and stubborn of Irene to behave as she did. If we didn’t all love her and miss her and want her I’d be inclined to say she ... well, no I won’t say it.”

  “It isn’t her fault, Mother, if that’s what you were going to say,” Alexander said quietly. “She had no idea that this could or would happen. No one knew that Hitler was going to overrun Poland and that war was so near. At that stage, too, no one really knew what was going on in Germany, or how dangerous it was.”

  “I think you’re very brave,” Minnie said, her eyes brimming with tears of sympathy.

  “I’m not brave at all,” Alexander replied. “I miss her terribly. I’m frightened for her. I’ve already told you I feel guilty about her, but there is nothing more I can do. I must just do my bit in the war the best I can and hope that when it’s all over Irene will be safely restored to me.”

  A solemn silence fell which was interrupted by Lally who, as usual, looked beautiful and elegant in a dinner dress of soft blue velvet cut close to her figure. The men wore dinner jackets and black ties and Minnie had on a short, summery dress of swirling pink voile over taffeta which enhanced her dark good looks. It was the sort of evening redolent of the thirties, those pre-war years they had all enjoyed when days were filled with sport and outdoor pastimes, picnics, riding and swimming, and nights were for dinner parties, dancing to a gramophone into the small hours and, for those who were lucky, love.

  “Anyone for cards?” Lally enquired looking up as the butler entered.

  “I think just coffee and bed, Mother,” Alexander said. “We have an early start tomorrow. Minnie has to go up to London on the milk train.”

  Minnie and Douglas did go up to bed early and Lally and Alexander sauntered out onto the terrace.

  “It’s amazing that it’s warm enough to sit outside,” Lally said sitting on a sofa made of basketwork. Taking hold of Alexander’s hand, she pulled him down beside her. “They’re so nice aren’t they?”

  “Minnie and Dougie? Very. They seem very happy too.”

  “You remember I had my eye on her for you.”

  “I remember very well.” Alexander smiled.

  “She told me she had a crush on you then,” Lally confided. “But I think she is very happy as she is and you were always so besotted with dear little Mary. Oh dear, I wish you were happy with someone now, darling Alexander. You have been so terribly unfortunate.”

  “I have Kate. I have you.” Alexander’s hand encircled her waist but his mind was on the young woman who, in many ways, was becoming a distant memory, however hard he tried to perpetuate it. He had been that day with Kate to lay flowers on her mother’s grave, a ritual they often observed together. Alexander never wanted his daughter to forget her mother or who she was.

  “Oh, Alexander.” Lally suddenly clasped his arm and drew him close to her. “I am so very worried, so very apprehensive about you and the outcome of this war. I can’t help thinking we are on the verge of terrible things, these are the darkest days, and you are so vulnerable up there in the sky, so precious to me darling.” She leaned her head against his arm and quietly wept.

  “There, Mother, there,” Alexander said, stroking her gently on the shoulder, but the words of comfort he so wanted to express didn’t come easily to him.

  For that night instead of his customary optimism he felt a strange sense of foreboding too.

  It was great to be back in Berlin, though it had changed, of course. The streets were now blacked out for fear of Allied air attacks and most of the fun was to be had in the beer cellars when, as in days of old, the air was thick with cigar smoke, reverberating with the sound of clinking glasses, music from an accordion or a small band and loud raucous singing as the clientele got progressively more drunk.

  In those years Bart’s favourite haunts, before he bought his apartment, were the Kaiserhof and Adlon hotels where he had a suite and conducted his business, proceeding afterwards to the beer halls and cabaret; but he daren’t go there now. He dare not, in fact, go anywhere where he had once been a familiar face that might perhaps be recognised, and his presence in the capital city of a country at war with his would be reported to the dreaded Gestapo.

  It was certainly harder to do business and, since he had returned to the city he had had to be very careful who he contacted. These days people could go either way. Although he enjoyed being back Bart was aware of an edge, a heightened sense of danger, that certainly had not been there before and he was forced to resolve, once his business was done, to return the way he had come via Switzerland and Italy and wait for the end of hostilities.

  Besides, trade was poor. He could arrange for small shipments of goods via Switzerland, but the returns were hardly worth the danger in getting his merchandise across the border. It seemed safe enough to make use of his flat, safer than a hotel where passports were carefully inspected and often retained so that they could be checked and perhaps held by the police as had happened with Irene.

  His Spanish passport had been good enough to pass muster at the border, but after a more detailed examination he might not be so lucky.

  Herr Anton Lippe who sat facing him across the table in the beer cellar off the Kurfurstendamm, which they used often to frequent in the past, was a person of some mystery, but a clever and astute operator with an unrivalled knowledge of what went on in all echelons of Berlin society. Bart had no idea what his origins were, or where he came from, whether he was for or against the Nazis or even whether or not he was Jewish. In the past he had done a lot of business with him.

  It had been difficult to track him down on this visit, but, after a few enquiries, a few discreet messages, here he was, cautious, not smiling, grey eyes warily roaming the room, always on the alert.

  Herr Lippe was gloomy about business although there was always a market for good Scotch whisky.

  “I’m closing my operation until after the war,” Bart said pouring himself a glass from a bottle of the finest Mosel. “Cheers,” he said holding his glass towards his guest.

  “Cheers,” Herr Lippe said lugubr
iously. “To better times.” Then he lowered his glass and leaned confidentially towards Bart. “I think you are wise, Herr Sadler. It is very dangerous to be an Englishman in Berlin today, even with a Spanish passport.” He winked at Bart and permitted himself a rare, brief smile displaying an ugly mouthful of metal-capped teeth.

  “Herr Lippe, back at my apartment I have a case of the best Scotch malt whisky for you,” Bart said. “It is a sign of my appreciation for the work we have done together in the past, but as I know you have many contacts among the authorities I have one final favour to ask you.”

  “Do ask.” Herr Lippe’s face by now was grey and expressionless.

  “You remember you were able to obtain the release of Herr Schwartz from Sachenhausen Concentration Camp?”

  Herr Lippe half closed his eyes and then nodded. “Ah yes.”

  “Well, I am sorry to say that his daughter, who is married to a friend of mine, and Englishman, has got herself in a similar situation.”

  “She is in Sachenhausen Concentration Camp?” Herr Lippe raised his eyebrows and lit another of the endless chain of cigarettes he seemed to consume every day.

  “No. She is in Berlin.”

  “She is Jewish and didn’t get out of Berlin?” A look of astonishment momentarily enlivened Herr Lippe’s inscrutable features.

  “She came back to Berlin.”

  Herr Lippe whistled.

  “Exactly. The foolish woman tried to help a friend and then got caught herself. Somehow she lost her passport.”

  “And you want me to help you get her out?” Herr Lippe whistled under his breath again as though to emphasise the magnitude of the task.

  “I want you to find her for me. She is somewhere here in Berlin, but we don’t know where. If you can manage to find her I may be able to smuggle her out with me.”

  “Give me your address,” Herr Lippe said producing a grubby notebook, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Irene felt herself trembling as she pressed the doorbell of the apartment in a block on the far side of the Tiergarten, unsure as to whether or not she was falling into a trap. A message had come for her, purporting to be from Bart Sadler, but she knew it was not from him but from someone supposedly acting on his behalf.

  It was a chance she had to take. Perhaps her last chance. She pressed the bell again and then stood back as the door slowly opened revealing the strangely sinister silhouette of a man.

  “Irene,” he whispered.

  “Bart!” she hissed back.

  “Yes it’s me. It’s me.” He grasped her by the shoulder and drew her inside. Then he locked and bolted the door before putting on the light in the hall and gazing at her. “Irene, are you all right?”

  “Frightened,” she said leaning against him, almost sobbing with relief.

  He put an arm round her shoulder and then led her into a sparsely furnished living room with drawn curtains, lit by a single light.

  “I’m frightened myself,” he murmured going over to a table on which there were several bottles. “Berlin is a scary place. Very, very scary.” He turned to her. “Whisky, Irene?”

  “I don’t ...” she hesitated. “Well, yes, I will. Thank you Bart.”

  As he handed her the glass she looked intently at him. “It is so good to see you. You don’t know how good.”

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said. Then taking a chair opposite her he looked at her earnestly “Irene, I don’t know how much I can help you. You have no passport?”

  “My hotel kept it. Then they said the police had taken it.”

  “I am here on a Spanish passport. Frankly I am very nervous too.” Bart took a sip of his whisky as though to lend emphasis to his remark. “It isn’t like me at all to feel like this. But, frankly, I don’t want to stay too long. I am forced to be suspicious of everyone, even those people I did business with and trusted before the war.”

  “But how did you find me?”

  Relaxing a little, Irene slowly unfastened her coat. The strong liquor had brought a flush to her cheeks. Bart thought she had changed a great deal since he had last seen her; no longer vibrant and beautiful but a pale thin ghost, a very frightened woman.

  “I have a business acquaintance called Anton Lippe. He got your father out of the concentration camp. He has always had close links with the authorities, I don’t know how or why. He is a fixer, a clever, maybe unscrupulous, mysterious man. I said I had a case of whisky for him if he could trace you. He told me he thought he knew somebody who knew somebody else who might help ... obviously it led to you.”

  “I hope it doesn’t put Ernst in danger – the man who is sheltering me,” she explained. “He was the boyfriend of the girl I came to help. She had already been arrested or something. Anyway she disappeared. I have been in his flat now for six months and I’m nearly going crazy.”

  “I must get you a passport.” Bart jotted something down on a piece of paper. “Any passport will do. It means that I have to see Herr Lippe again, but it shouldn’t take more than a day or two. I hope then we can leave together.”

  “You mean you can really get me out of here?” Irene’s tired eyes suddenly shone with hope.

  Bart held up a warning hand.

  “I don’t promise. I don’t promise anything. It is a very tricky, very dangerous situation; but I promised Alexander.”

  “Oh, how is Alexander?” Irene’s voice shook with emotion.

  “He is a pilot in the RAF. I saw him briefly only a few weeks ago and told him I was ready for the mission which I have been planning for some months, but the fall of Holland and Belgium nearly scuppered my plans. It took me longer than I thought. But he thinks about you daily and sent you all his love and this ...” Bart reached inside his breast pocket and drew out a white envelope. “It is a letter for you; but read it later, and then make sure you destroy it. We must discuss –”

  His sentence was abruptly interrupted by a prolonged ring on the doorbell, followed by a loud banging on the door.

  “Were you followed?” Bart said urgently.

  “No, I’m sure I wasn’t. I came a long way round. I –”

  “Go into my bedroom, get under the bed, into the wardrobe, anywhere out of sight. If it’s the police I’ll bluster. Quick Irene, it’s the only chance we have.”

  He opened the door of his bedroom, pushed her in and shut it again. Then he quickly took the two whisky glasses into the kitchen, washed them, wiped them and put them away when the banging started again, this time louder and more insistent.

  He straightened his tie, smoothed back his hair and went into the small hall, drew back the bolt and unlocked the door. Two uniformed members of the Gestapo stood outside.

  “Herr Sadler –” one began.

  “You are mistaken,” Bart said in good German. “I am Xavier Suarez from Barcelona.”

  “I think you are Mr Bartholomew Sadler from England,” the first officer said, pushing past him. Then he stood in the centre of the sitting room and looked around. “You are alone?”

  “Quite alone. I was just going to bed.”

  The second officer opened the bedroom door, glanced around and pulled it to again. Then he cursorily inspected the bathroom and the kitchen.

  “Get your coat on Mr Sadler, Jew lover, we want to ask you a few questions at Gestapo Headquarters.”

  “But I assure you I am not the person you think. I ...”

  The officer gestured towards the door and Bart followed his gaze. There, with an apologetic half smile on his face and a slight deprecatory movement of the shoulders, out of the shadows stepped Anton Lippe.

  Irene waited until she heard the front door close and then cautiously opened the door of the wardrobe and, still unable to believe that her presence hadn’t been detected, went swiftly to the window. Drawing aside the curtain she saw Bart and his escort climb into a car and, after a few moments, drive away.

  On the pavement, also watching the car, stood another man just putting a cigarette to his lips. After a wh
ile, he turned sharply in the opposite direction and was soon out of sight.

  Irene ran across the floor of the apartment and gingerly opened the front door fully expecting to find a policeman outside waiting for her. She had heard everything that had been said, and was sure a trap had been set to catch Bart. Maybe she had been followed. But if so, surely they would have searched the apartment and found her in a very short time? It seemed that it was him they were after, not her.

  Jew lover they’d called him. Bart had been betrayed by someone, that was for sure.

  She shut the door, looked both ways along the dimly lit corridor and, still shaking with fear, made her way downstairs to the entrance.

  Scarcely daring to breathe she peered outside. There was not a soul on the wet empty streets. It was nearly 2 a.m. A woman alone at night would be an object of suspicion and she hurried towards the Tiergarten and the shelter of the trees.

  She had not the slightest idea what she should do now or where she should go fearing that Ernst, like Bart, might also be in Gestapo hands.

  Chapter Five

  Summer 1940

  Following the invasion of Belgium and Holland the tide of war continued to turn relentlessly against the Allied armies as the German panzerkorps swept all before them and the German 7th Armoured Division, commanded by General Rommel, penetrated deep into France. British armed forces attacked the German salient at Arras, but were forced back to their original positions until finally they had to evacuate the town.

  By the end of May the Belgian and French armies, as well as most of the British Expeditionary Forces, were surrounded and fell back on Dunkirk while being relentlessly attacked from the air by German Stukas.

  Ships from the British navy came to the rescue of the beleaguered armies, but the call went out for anyone with a boat to make for Dunkirk and help save the third of a million desperate men gathered on the beaches.

  Jack Sprogett’s unhappy and poverty-stricken early childhood had been abruptly transformed when his mother Elizabeth discovered she was the illegitimate daughter of Sir Guy Woodville and AgnesYetman.