“Punishment party. All Vopos. Wonder what they’ve done. Punishment fatigue, the Herr knows?”
“In the British Army we call that ‘jankers.’ What a pity they are not all doing that.”
A little later Hambledon said: “When I was at Eckertal one of the Frontier Police told me that there was one place where there is no Wire, somewhere beyond Walkenried, do you know the place?”
“Oh, yes. Between Walkenried and a little place called Neuhof. Nobody knows why there is no Wire there. There is the ploughed strip and that is all, but it is very closely watched.”
“I should like to go there, please.”
“As the Herr wishes, but there are many more beautiful and interesting places in our Harz than this melancholy Zonengrenze. At Walkenried there is a most interesting ruined abbey——”
“Some other day, perhaps.”
“Schön,” said Britz submissively and drove through Walkenried towards Neuhof. Here, at a point where the road bent sharply to the right, the ploughed strip swept up close to the road at the angle and there was no Wire. Britz stopped the car, Hambledon got out, and a couple of Volkspolizei who were leaning over a gate thirty yards off turned their binoculars upon him.
“If a car came along this road too fast and failed to take the turn,” said Hambledon, “the driver would find himself in the Soviet Zone whether he wished it or not. Probably with his wheels in the air.”
“It has been done,” said Britz drily, “but not often.”
“What happened?”
“The people were allowed out again after some delay. The car, usually, not.”
“Oh. Britz, is there any way by which a man could travel to Walkenried from Goslar and not be noticed at this end?”
“Please?”
“I was wondering whether there were any place where a stranger might inadvertently stray across the frontier, and it seems to me that this is the only place.”
“Ah. But here it is closely watched, as the Herr sees. There was a young Englishman who went missing the other day, when there was all that fuss and running about among the Vopos and the Russian Army, too. It was like upsetting a beehive, they say.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. There was a lot of excitement. It was said on the other side that he went across to meet a Russian officer and steal some plans of the frontier defences.”
“And what happened to him?”
“He was captured by the Russians but he got away from them, or so it is said on the other side, mein Herr. So now they are all looking for him and the Russian officer and, of course, the plans, or so they say on the other side.”
Hambledon drew a long breath.
8: Fear
Britz, who had been staring across into the Soviet Zone and speaking absentmindedly, turned and looked at Hambledon.
“The Herr is evidently interested, perhaps he has heard about this Englishman? The affair has not been made public.”
“I do know about him, Britz. I have come out from England for the express purpose of finding out what has happened to him.”
Britz looked suddenly embarrassed.
“I talk too much—I, who should know better. The police recommended me to the Herr, he said so this morning. I beg the Herr not to tell the police that anything is known about what happens on the other side, especially not to tell them that I know anything. I beg the Herr, please. The police do not know anything about it, please——”
“So the Chief of Police told me this morning. I see no reason why I should inform them. They are quite capable of managing their own affairs and I am here to obtain information, not give it.”
“Then the Herr will not tell them?”
“No.”
“I thank the Herr. If the police knew that there was communication across The Wire——”
“They guess it, Britz. Any intelligent man would. There must be communication; it would be impossible to stop it completely.”
“So long as they do not know how it is done or who knows about it——”
“Why are you so afraid of their knowing?”
Blitz’s eyes went to left and right.
“Let us get back in the car and drive away. We can be private in the car.”
Hambledon agreed. He looked back as they drove off; the two Vopos who had been leaning on the gate had climbed over it and were walking slowly towards them. When the car had passed through Walkenried again Hambledon repeated his question.
“It is only because, if the police knew there were means of getting news out, they would be demanding it all the time. What is happening there—what is that new building for—can you get a message through to such a man? Then pressure would be applied. It would be insupportable, the Herr sees that. It is all far too dangerous.”
Hambledon saw quite plainly that if it were the Soviet intention to establish a reign of fear along that frontier, they had succeeded admirably. The cameras which it was “inadvisable” to produce; the relatives who dared not speak to an unhappy old man; the hotels in Hohegeiss, Braunlage, and Walkenried, once tourist centres, now empty because German visitors will not sleep at night so near the Russians; the fieldworkers on the other side who kept their faces turned away from the West and would not even look——
What was even more revealing was the fact that it did not apparently enter the head of a single German to do a single thing about it. They were terrified and did not care who knew it. They cowered.
Hambledon averted his mind from the ugly picture and concentrated upon the task which he had come there to perform.
“I shall not tell the police anything about it,” he said, “upon condition that you tell me everything you know. This young man, where is he now?”
“I have told the Herr all I know, I think. It is all vague, nobody knows anything definitely; and when stories are whispered from one to another they are not very reliable, the Herr knows? Some plans were stolen from, it is said, the Russian Army by an officer, and this young Englishman had them. He was captured and escaped again. The Russians were still looking for him yesterday so he must be in hiding somewhere but nobody knows where. If anyone were hiding him they would not talk, naturally.”
“I suppose not. No.”
“May I ask the Herr a question? Has he been up to The Wire before? Has he made himself, how shall I say it, conspicuous? Not wishing to appear inquisitive, but I have never seen so many Vopos about before. Wherever the Herr stopped and alighted, there they were. Often and often I have driven along here and seen one or two, no more, but today——One would say they recognised the Herr.”
“Recognised me? How the devil could they when I have never been along here before?”
“They might have photographs. On those watchtowers of theirs they have cameras with telephoto lenses and if anyone seems to be taking too much interest in The Wire and might be troublesome, a photograph is taken and circulated. Then they watch for that person to come again. They are very good photographs,” added Britz, “if the light has been good. I have seen some of them.”
“They can,” said the irritated Hambledon, “take photographs of the backside of the road sweeper’s female donkey if they like and I hope they go cross-eyed studying them. They are not civilised.”
“They are subhuman,” said Britz calmly.
“Britz. Is it possible for a man to pass into the Soviet Zone provided he knew where to go and what to avoid and had contacts warned to expect his——”
“No.”
“But——”
“No. It is not possible. Listen, mein Herr. When I came across three years and more ago—three years and ten months—I left behind in Ilsenburg my fiancée. I begged her to come out with me, but her mother was ill and could not be left. Afterwards, when she was well again, it was too late. It is too difficult for a girl to get out; an active young man too often fails to do it. It is not The Wire itself, it is the control of movements on the other side, the restricted zones, the necessary passes, the——Doe
s not the Herr believe that if it were possible to go across I should do it? Not to see or speak to one’s future wife for nearly four years, it is hard. I get news of her from time to time, yes. She is well, this and that happens, but to see her, no.”
“Do people never come out, legally, by Helmstedt?”
“Oh, yes. Communists, with a job to do in the West. There are plenty of those about in the Western Zone, the Herr must know, but not my Elise, to join a man of military age who has skipped it to the West. Besides, if she could make the journey and evade the Vopos and pass The Wire and get clear away, they would take reprisals on her family, on her parents. One cannot have that. I tried to arrange something not so long ago but she would not come. The tears were running down her face as I begged her to listen, but she dared not. One does not know what they would do in revenge. They used to allow escorted parties of students to come across, under strict escort you understand, to join in our Jugendbund activities, camping and music and so on, but not now.”
There was a short pause.
“So you do go across,” said Hambledon quietly.
Britz uttered an angry expletive and slammed his hand against the steering wheel. The next moment he apologised.
“I beg the Herr’s forgiveness, the word I used was meant for myself, not for him. It makes me angry every time I think of it, to be kept apart from my fiancée all these years, and when will it end? She and I should have been married before this and sharing our lives together, not wasting our best years in sterility. It preys on my mind; the Herr will please excuse me.”
“Of course. It is abominable tyranny.”
Britz forced a laugh. “The Herr is really not a safe companion for a man with secrets on his mind. The Herr is altogether too easy to talk to.”
Hambledon had made his very considerable reputation largely by being “easy to talk to,” but naturally did not admit it. He said merely that a strong emotion long suppressed was always liable to escape in speech in any unguarded moment; it was natural, it was understandable. But it could be inadvisable.
“The Herr is perfectly right,” said Britz gloomily.
“Britz, will you try to get some news about the young Englishman for me?”
Britz looked doubtful.
“I do not believe one word,” went on Hambledon, “of all this story about his going over to meet a Russian officer and steal confidential papers. Storybook stuff. Rubbish. He is a young student at the University of Oxford, of which you may have heard. He is of a quiet and retiring disposition and working hard for a degree in law. He is rather young for his age, takes no interest in politics and knows nothing about the Army. He has not even done his military service; that was postponed until he had finished his studies. I don’t suppose he knows a multiple pom-pom from a regimental cooker. He is a babe in arms—especially in arms.”
Britz laughed.
“I did tell the Herr that whispered rumours were apt to be unreliable. This one seems to be even wider of the mark than most. The poor young man, I am sorry for him. From the story I heard, I took him to be a man well able to look after himself, not a dreamy student with his head full of dusty law. I suppose there are not two Englishmen loose in the Soviet Zone? May I ask the student’s name?”
“Micklejohn. I have not heard of another man being missing and I think I should have been told. It may be that there is a hunt on for the missing Russian and, possibly, for Micklejohn, too, if he was seen, and the two stories have got mixed together in people’s minds.”
“It is very possible. Micklejohn, I have it right? Micklejohn. I will see what I can do, mein Herr, not before Monday at earliest, but I will try. Today is Saturday and tomorrow Sunday, many people go up to The Wire on Sunday, their free day, and it is closely watched. May I offer the Herr, most respectfully, a word of advice?”
“What is it?”
“Let the Herr be careful of himself, even in Goslar as well as when he travels about. Yes, even in Goslar. There are plenty of Communists in Western Germany, as no doubt the Herr knows, and the Russians have many agents especially near the Zonengrenze. There are British troops stationed near by Goslar and they are a source of interest in themselves.”
“Yes, no doubt they would be. What sort of thing had you in mind when you warned me?”
Britz shrugged his shoulders. “Anything. Strange things do happen.”
“Abductions?”
“The police would say no.”
“Of course they would,” said Hambledon crisply. “I should, in their place. I am grateful to you for your warning and I will take precautions.”
* * *
Herr Otto Neumann, once a schoolmaster and now a farm labourer in the Soviet Zone, came again, as promised, to visit George Micklejohn in his attic.
“I hope that the Herr has almost recovered from his injuries?”
“How kind of you to ask. The injuries are nothing, I have almost forgotten about them, but I shall fade away very soon if I have to stay here much longer. The heat is nearly insupportable, there is no window which opens, the air is full of dust, and I haven’t stood upright for two days.”
Neumann clucked sympathetically and said that he had brought identification papers for the Herr “such as we ordinary people carry. They will not pass the Herr within the five-kilometre zone—it is necessary to remember that—but they will serve for a little stroll in the evenings to take the air, especially if care is taken unostentatiously to avoid the Volkspolizei. The local ones are not such savages as those who patrol the frontier, but they are still police and should be avoided.”
“Karl has promised to take me out this evening. I am, I believe, a nephew of his on holiday from Magdeburg.”
“That is right, I have it here. You are Georg Melcher of 247 Bahnhof Strasse, Magdeburg. The Herr will remember to answer to that name? And the address, if asked for, but of course the Herr will memorise the details on this paper. The Herr has, perhaps, some money? I am ashamed, but I have not, myself, more than enough to buy food——”
“Oh, please,” said George, and plunged his hands into his pockets. “I’ve only got West marks and that blighter Lentov went off with my travellers cheques in my passport, not that they would be any good over here, I suppose. Still, I cashed a cheque yesterday, so——”
“It is to obtain clothes and shoes, especially shoes. These the Herr is wearing are far too good, they will attract attention at once, and the English suit is most noticeable. Oh, no, that is far too much money. West marks are worth far more than East marks and the clothes will be cheap and not good, I fear. The Herr will not like them but it is necessary if he wishes to go out.”
“My dear Herr Neumann, I would change clothes with a scarecrow, if necessary, to get a little fresh air and straighten my spine again.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. I will go now and get something which will serve. I have here a German-Russian dictionary.” Neumann dragged from his pocket a small fat book, dirty and dog-eared and with one cover hanging by threads. “It is to-the-last-degree dilapidated and I fear some of the pages are missing but it is the best I could get. The Herr can entertain himself with translating the late General Vedovitch’s programme notes.” Neumann smiled gently.
“The late General Vedovitch?”
“Even so. You see, it did not look well for him, did it? He has annotated maps and pages of notes about the reorganised frontier defences. Does he guard them with his life? No. He gives them to a Russian civilian who is already suspected of pro-British leanings——”
“Pro-British!” said George, with a shout of laughter. “I must say he concealed them very well!”
“He loathed the British, it is said, but he was not trusted, for all that. I was saying, General Vedovitch gave the plans to Lentov and let him drive away in a car with a British prisoner——”
“And an escort with a horrible-looking gun——”
“You rid yourselves of the escort, did you not, upon some pretext? I argue as the Russian High Comm
and are arguing. Lentov and the Englishman and, above all, the papers are missing, though it is true that the car was found, wrecked. It follows, therefore, that either Vedovitch connived at your escape to curry favour with the Western powers, or he was made a fool of by a simple trick. Fool or traitor, it does not matter, they come to arrest him and he blows his brains out.”
Micklejohn was conscious of a certain degree of shock, it was the first time in his sheltered life that any man whom he had known personally had done himself to death, and so violently. Micklejohn was, as Hambledon had said, young for his age. The old schoolmaster watched the changing expressions cross George’s face but said nothing, and eventually the boy summed up.
“Well, I expect he’d bumped off plenty of people in his time. So the Russians think that Lentov and I were working together, do they? How silly. By the way, you said that these papers are details of the frontier defences, didn’t you? Are you sure——”
“No. That is why I want you to make an effort to check them. You have a young, active, and trained mind; my own is blunted with suffering. Besides, you have nothing to do at the moment and I have too much. Do you see what you can make of the papers and I will go out and get you some clothes. Auf Wiedersehen.”
Neumann went off with a sum of money so small in George’s eyes as to be quite inadequate, but presumably the German knew his business. He came back in an hour’s time with a shirt of some harsh material that scarified George’s unaccustomed skin, workman’s blue overalls of the bib-and-brace type; a pair of heavy shoes so stiff that they made Micklejohn feel like a Noah’s Ark figure from the nursery at home—Shem, Ham, or Japheth standing immovable upon a round base; and a peaked cap such as German workmen wear.
“The overalls are secondhand but clean, it would not be wise to have all new clothes at once. The other things are new and here is the money left over.”
Micklejohn, scarlet with embarrassment, tried to find an inoffensive phrase to beg the old man to keep the change and a little over, and was relieved to find that he was delighted to have it.
No Entry Page 7
