“For we are paid starvation rates and my clothes are what I stand up in. I thank the Herr most sincerely. Now, would he like to come downstairs? Karl waits below to take you out.”
9: King Charles
The moment when Micklejohn stepped out of the stuffy airless cottage into the pine-scented evening air was one of the most delicious he had ever experienced. His own clothes were taken out of the house in case it should be searched. He refused to receive any money for them although apparently they were valuable merchandise, especially the shoes. They disappeared and he never asked what became of them, but Karl acquired a new pullover and his wife a new kettle and a blanket, for which they solemnly thanked him.
Two or three days passed. Micklejohn kept close to the cottage and obtained fresh air and exercise by digging Karl’s potatoes. A few old and trusted friends, Hans among them, dropped in to see Karl’s nephew from the great city of Magdeburg, but the nephew could only speak in a whisper. He had, it was said, been suffering from a throat infection and had come to the country for his health.
“Your German,” explained Otto Neumann, “is far too good. It is the German of the old nobility and there are none left here. Can you stammer? No, better not speak at all, or as little as possible, a word at a time and the hand to the throat, you know? Yes.”
George worked hard at General Vedovitch’s papers and, considering that he had to start by teaching himself the Russian alphabet, he made good progress. He reported to Neumann.
“You were quite right. This is a thing called the Smirnov Plan for defence against attack from the West. These sheets are concerned with all the details and these signs on the top of the sheets refer to similar signs”—he pointed them out—“on the map here, and here. You see?”
Neumann nodded.
“I think the British should have these,” finished Micklejohn. “I suppose that would be possible. Things are passed across The Wire as a matter of course, no doubt.”
“Things are passed, but not as a matter of course and there is always considerable doubt about it,” said Neumann a little sharply. “The Herr does not yet realise the state of affairs here.”
George apologised and Neumann’s expression softened.
“We have lived so many years as—let us face it—as prisoners,” he said, “that it is as difficult for us to appreciate the point of view of the Herr, who has always been free, as it is for the Herr to realise what it is like to live in a concentration camp. However, there is an organisation which deals with such matters. I will get in touch with them and explain what is wanted to be done.”
Micklejohn amused himself by making a neat parcel of the Smirnov Plan and sealing it with cobbler’s wax. Neumann talked on and the deaf old woman pottered about attending to a stew simmering in a pot over the fire and occasionally interjecting a comment which had no bearing whatever upon what was being said. Karl’s cottage was well outside the village and so close against the edge of the woods that on windy nights branches rubbed upon the roof like soft hands seeking entrance. Micklejohn, in his attic, had found this a little disconcerting until he found out what caused it.
“Karl is late,” said his wife suddenly, in the toneless voice of the very deaf. “I say, Karl is late tonight.”
“Something has delayed him,” shouted Neumann in reply and got up to look out of the window. Before he reached it there came a sudden rush of flying feet and a boy of about twelve, Hans’s son, put a terrified face in at the casement.
“They are coming,” he said hoarsely, “searching the village—we are surrounded—Father says get out.” The face vanished and the boy dived through a hole in the hedge.
Micklejohn sprang to his feet and Neumann thrust the parcel at him.
“Inside your shirt—go out by the back door—hide in the woods.”
George pushed the parcel down the front of his shirt as he ran for the back door. A quick glance round the corner of the woodshed showed him a line of men in uniforms, spaced out like beaters, advancing from the village.
“Russians,” gasped Neumann. “Run!”
Micklejohn leapt for the woods and ran, turning and twisting among the trees. He stopped for a moment to look and listen and there came a whistle ahead of him, and another.
“They are all round,” he said to himself. “Now don’t panic. Fatal to panic.”
He leaned panting against the trunk of a big tree and the parcel under his shirt scraped his skin. To be caught with that on him——
The tree against which he was leaning was an oak; an automatic association of ideas leapt into his mind.
“King Charles,” he said, half aloud, and sprang at a low branch.
* * *
Britz came to see Hambledon on Tuesday morning as promised; Micklejohn had then been missing for a full week.
“I have brought the car,” said Britz. “If the Herr will be so good as to order me to drive him to, say, Hahnenklee, we can talk in the car without risk of being overheard, if the Herr pleases.”
Hambledon played up.
“It is a nice day,” he remarked as they strolled through the entrance hall of the hotel. “I should like to go somewhere, I think. Someone was telling me about Hahnenklee, though I’ve forgotten exactly what there is about the place—is it far?”
“Oh, no, mein Herr, half an hour, less than that. There is the Miners' Church there, very interesting. All built of wood and not a nail in the whole structure.”
There were people standing about in the hall, as people always do in hotels; some of them were staying there and Hambledon nodded to them in passing.
“I shall be interested,” said Tommy unblushingly.
“The scenery also,” said Britz, “is delightful.”
They got into the car and drove away; two men strolling on the pavement opposite to the hotel glanced into the car in passing. As soon as Britz had disentangled himself from the municipal dust cart, a local bus, and a waggon drawn by two horses, Hambledon said: “Well?”
“Not very well. The Herr Micklejohn was being hidden in a woodman’s cottage, but the Russians encircled that area yesterday and entered and searched all the houses.”
“Did they catch him?”
“It is not known, mein Herr. At least, he was not seen to be led away, but he might have been and my friends not have seen it. The news comes from the perimeter of the operation, the Herr understands, the Russians were about there a long time and it was not safe to go in.”
“I see. No one overheard anything that was said——”
“They were all speaking Russian and very few understand it.”
“No. What happened to the people who were sheltering him?”
“I do not know, mein Herr.”
“I suppose that he may have got away.”
“It is possible,” said Britz noncommittally.
“I wonder why the Russians suddenly searched that area.”
“I do not know, mein Herr. It may be that they are searching everywhere and came to that place in its turn, or it may be that someone talked.”
“Where is this place?”
“A small village just south of Ilsenburg. My informant did not know its name.”
“It does not sound too good,” said Hambledon.
“No, mein Herr. But there is always hope.”
Hambledon grunted and there was a short silence.
“If the Herr is interested,” said Britz, in the tone of one who is happy to introduce a more cheerful subject, “there is news of the Russian who disappeared with the papers.”
“Oh?”
“His name is Lentov, Andrey Lentov. He was not an Army officer but a civilian in charge of that area, an official of the Civil Administration of Occupied Territories.”
“Indeed.”
“They gave me a photograph of him,” said Britz, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet. “They thought the authorities here might like to have it in case he had got across to this side, and I thought the Herr might be so good as
to pass it on.” Britz stopped the car while he took a small print out of his wallet. “Here it is.”
Hambledon glanced casually at it, looked again more closely, and gave no sign of any particular interest.
“Andrey Lentov, you said. An official in the organisation for the control of Occupied Territories. Very well. I shall be seeing the Chief of Police in Goslar today and I will give it to him. He will know to whom it should be passed on if he does not want the information himself.”
“And if he should ask where the Herr obtained it——”
“It will be in vain.”
“Schön,” said Britz contentedly.
“You will do all that you can to get further news of the Herr Micklejohn, please.”
“I will do what I can, certainly, but it is very difficult just now. The disturbance on the other side is not yet at an end and it is still necessary to be extra careful about where one goes and to whom one is seen talking.”
“Did you, then, go across on Monday night?”
“What, with the frontier in that uproar? Heaven forbid!”
Hambledon thought to himself that Britz would certainly forbid it if Heaven did not, but it would be useless to ask questions to which he would certainly not receive answers. He assumed that there was probably a hidden telephone working somewhere, but the passing of a photograph implied personal contact. He tried another line of approach.
“Is there any smuggling across The Wire? I have had a good deal of experience of frontiers in one place and another and I have never known one where smugglers did not operate if it were really worth their while. I remember hearing about a case of smuggling brandy from France into Belgium, the operators laid down a pipe across the frontier, just underground you understand; they simply poured cognac into the pipe on the French side and their friends on the Belgian side merely turned on a tap and collected the outcome.”
Britz laughed.
“How long did this continue?”
“Until there was very clearly far more cognac in Belgium than was covered by the customs duty receipts. Then there was a real search made and the source was discovered.”
It is only human nature to cap one story with another.
“There used to be a great deal of smuggling across our Zonal Frontier before it was tightened up,” said Britz. “Clothes and boots mainly; for some reason they cannot make boots in the Soviet Zone. It is said that they have no leather but I cannot understand that, since they have cattle and horses in large numbers and they all have hides.”
“One would think so. What did they exchange for these things, or did they pay money for them?”
“Hams, mein Herr, principally. The East mark is worth much less than ours so for them to pay in money would come very dear to them.”
“I can’t see anyone staggering up to The Wire with a load of hams.”
“Not now, no. All that trade is at an end, but there was good money made out of it while it lasted.”
No doubt, but where a photograph can be passed other things can be passed also. However, Britz was plainly not going to talk about it. He changed the subject with some decision and Hambledon did not persist.
When they returned to Goslar, Hambledon went to see the Chief of Police.
“I have something to show you,” said Tommy. “I fear it has not helped me to find Micklejohn but I thought it might interest you.” He laid the photograph of Lentov upon the desk and the Chief picked it up.
“I have seen this man—of course! It is the man whom you found dead in your room. Who is he, do you know?”
“Andrey Lentov, a Russian civilian administrator of Occupied Territories——”
“I have heard of him. He is—was—in control of the sector opposite to us here. He was much disliked.”
“I rather gathered that somebody didn’t like him.”
“Do you know who shot him?”
“I have not the faintest idea.”
“Nor why he was shot in your room?”
“Nor that, either. Since he was in Micklejohn’s room with Micklejohn’s passport, there is a connection somewhere but I have no idea of what it is.”
The Chief of Police grunted and looked again at the photograph.
“It is the same man, there is no doubt at all. Where the devil did you get this, eh?”
“Just came across it,” said Hambledon blandly.
“I see,” said the German, and asked no more.
“Tell me,” said Hambledon, “is there no means at all of getting into the Soviet Zone legally?”
“There is, such as it is. If you are a member of a family resident in the Soviet Zone and there is really important business to be settled—family business—perhaps someone has died and there is property to be divided—it is possible to apply for a permit to visit the place. If you are very lucky the permit may be granted after a lapse of three months or so. The permit will allow you to enter the zone at Helmstedt, travel to the place you want to visit by a specified route, stay a specified number of days, and return by the same route, not diverging from it. While you are at the town or village you may walk about within its boundaries but you will not go outside them until you leave again for Helmstedt. And, of course, if the Russians have anything against you, such as having illegally fled the country, you would be very silly indeed to go back at all.”
“That is no good. Three months hence is far too long to help Micklejohn.”
“The Herr had some idea of finding out where he was and arranging a good excuse for a journey there? It would be a great risk but it might be possible, apart from the delay.”
“Is it always three months?”
“Or longer. Or they do not answer at all.”
Hambledon shook his head.
“There are, no doubt, cases where a man has successfully crossed The Wire and made his way into the interior without being caught.”
“Herr Hambledon, if you are tired of life I recommend the attempt.”
“I asked you——”
“I know you did. I have heard stories of men who have done it but I would not vouch for their truth. The five-kilometre zone inside The Wire—let me explain that——”
“I have heard about it.”
“Very well, then. Even if by some miracle you passed that you would still be under surveillance. Papers would be necessary and a proof that you had a right to be there doing whatever you were doing, and a background for your life, relatives, previous employment, and so on. Any police officer can demand your credentials and you would have to supply them.”
“I believe there is a song or an oratorio or something,” said Hambledon, getting to his feet, “called ‘Oh, for the Wings of a Dove.’ How I sympathise.”
“Not a dove, Herr Hambledon. She would not be safe.”
Hambledon left the police station. Twenty yards along the street two men were looking into a shopwindow, they did not look round as Hambledon passed, but he recognised them. They were the two who had watched him drive off from his hotel that morning.
* * *
Micklejohn climbed high into his oak tree, selected a comfortable crotch, and settled down to wait. The short summer night passed, the dawn broke, and the sun rose; with the returning light the search was resumed and Micklejohn, peering between leaves, saw the uniformed men still diligently searching the hedgerows, beating the coverts, and going into barns. Voices and footsteps below froze him to immobility and passed him by.
“ ‘And far below the Roundhead rode,’ ” quoted Micklejohn, “ ‘and humm’d a surly hymn.’ I wish they’d go away, I want my breakfast. Now I come to think of it, I didn’t have any supper, either.” He laid a hand over the area of gnawing emptiness and added: “Curse the Russians.”
10: Banger and Bacon
At about midday there came a hopeful change of scene. The soldiers could be seen to be gathering together in groups; Micklejohn climbed higher up the tree to a point from which he could see the road. Whistles were blown, presumably t
o recall stragglers.
“ ‘Trumpeter,’ ” said Micklejohn, who had a regrettable habit of quotation, “ ‘what are you sounding now? Is it the call I’m seeking?’ ”
Lorries came up the road in convoy and the soldiers climbed in, a few belated arrivals came, running, and scrambled in as the vehicles moved off. The village street was left silent and deserted.
“I wonder if they’ve all gone or is it a trick to get me out of hiding? Nobody moving yet; they think there’s a catch in it. Yes, there’s young Erich Meyer from the sawmill. And his father, and the old woman from the post office. Ha.”
He began to climb down quickly, but lack of food and sleep and too much excitement took hold of him and suddenly his head swam. He crawled down with painful care to the crotch where he had spent the night, sat down, and put his head between his knees. The giddiness passed and presently he heard someone moving about below. He stiffened and waited, listening intently. The man below was whistling. The tune was vaguely familiar without being quite recognisable, it reminded him of something—ah!
The whistling noise was Hans trying to remember “Tipperary.”
Micklejohn swung and slithered from one branch to another and dropped from the last branch to the ground. Hans rushed up and shook him warmly by the hand.
“Gott sei Dank, you are safe!”
“But starving,” said Micklejohn. “My stomach is sticking to my backbone.”
“Naturally. It would be. Come with me.”
“Are they all gone? Karl and his wife, are they all right?”
“Yes, the Russians are gone. They searched Karl’s house. You had left your cigarette case on the table but the old lady saw it and dropped it in the stew, yes, even as the soldiers came through the door she did that.”
“Good job it was empty. Can I go back there now?”
“For something to eat, yes, but not to stay. The Russians asked Karl where was his nephew and he said you went back to Magdeburg yesterday, so you must not be seen there again. Someone has told them about you and may tell them again if you stay there. We will find somewhere else for you to go.”
No Entry Page 8
