‘I can’t imagine your regulars are happy about that.’
‘You soon find out which of your friends are German sympathisers,’ Kasper said, sipping from his cup. ‘They think I’m a hero for supporting the war effort. The Poles, on the other hand, have stopped talking to me completely.’
‘That’s so unfair. It’s not your fault,’ Viktor said. ‘As you say, you weren’t given an option.’
‘My customers don’t see it like that,’ said Kasper, glancing at his watch. ‘You’re going to have to excuse me, I’m expecting a Wehrmacht truck any minute. You can stay here while they’re here if you want. It would be good to catch up some more.’
‘No, I’d better be going,’ he said, draining the remnants of his coffee. ‘As you can imagine, I’ve much to do.’
‘I understand,’ said Kasper, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘You too. I’ll drop by in a few days when I have resolved a couple of issues.’
Carrying his groceries under his arm, Viktor headed towards the port. A robust, icy breeze blew in from the sea. Thankfully, the man with the hat was now nowhere to be seen. To his frustration, new security barriers had been erected since he was last here, sealing off the entrance to the harbour. Mounted on the wall, next to the barrier, were four brass clocks showing the tide times for the day. The next high tide was at five-thirty that afternoon. Perfect.
He returned to find the two British soldiers sitting at the kitchen table, playing noughts and crosses.
‘Welcome back,’ said Tommy after Viktor had locked the door.
‘How is it out there?’ Henry asked.
‘Awful. I’m not cut out for this kind of business.’
‘You’re doing a great job,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Come, sit down and have something to drink. Tommy’s just made some.’
‘I’d never made it before,’ said the blond soldier. ‘We only really have tea back home. I’m afraid my coffee making has been somewhat experimental.’
‘His last few attempts were way too strong. It was totally undrinkable.’
‘I think I have it sussed now,’ said Tommy proudly.
The two British soldiers listened carefully as Viktor described the heavy Wehrmacht presence in the city and the new security at the port.
‘Sounds like we can’t take too many chances,’ said Henry.
‘No, you must stay hidden.’
‘We do appreciate everything you are doing for us,’ Tommy said.
Viktor smiled before describing his plans for making contact with his cousin.
After a light lunch, he prepared for his meeting with Gregori. It was clear his anxiety was returning.
‘Take a book to read,’ Henry said helpfully. ‘You might be waiting for your cousin’s ship to come in, and it’ll help you take your mind off everything.’
‘Good idea,’ said Viktor, disappearing upstairs for a few minutes.
‘I think I’m ready,’ he said when he returned.
‘Not quite,’ said Tommy, handing him the letter for the British Consulate.
‘Ah, yes. Mustn’t forget that,’ Viktor said before departing.
‘What are we going to do now?’ Tommy said, closing the door. ‘I’m bored with playing games. All the books are in Polish, and so is the radio.’
‘We’re just going to have to sit it out,’ said Henry.
‘I’m worried about Viktor. He seems very jumpy.’
‘Yeah, it can’t be easy for him. I’m sure he’ll be okay.’
‘I do hope so.’
With the envelope safely tucked into his inside jacket pocket, Viktor walked down the alleyway towards Hucisko Street. He rejoined the everyday hustle and bustle of the city’s pavements, strolling to the tram terminal where he would begin his two-stop journey.
Under the shelter, trying to remain inconspicuous, he waited until the number twenty-nine to Sopot appeared. Climbing aboard the burgundy and cream tram, he paid the conductor for his ticket and then settled into a seat two-thirds of the way towards the back, opposite the side door.
Through the window, he watched the queue of passengers on the platform boarding the tram. Worryingly, an SS soldier took his place on the front row, behind the driver. A stocky middle-aged lady made her way down the aisle, taking the seat next to Viktor. This was perfect. Everyone, including the guard, would think they were married. Hopefully, a couple would draw less attention than a single man would.
The sight of the station of Sopot brought him great relief. As the noisy tram slowed into the seaside town, the lady stood in preparation for leaving. Viktor exited via the side door and ambled along the platform, trying not to draw attention to himself. A group of Wehrmacht soldiers came towards him, chatting among themselves. Wherever he looked, there were Germans. Unperturbed, he searched for his next tram to Gdynia.
After showing his ticket to the conductor, Viktor took a seat. Within a few seconds of boarding, they began the slow, noisy trundle out of the station. This time, there were no soldiers on board, so he relaxed, staring out at the scenery.
After several hours of travelling, the tram pulled into Gdynia. He left the terminus building and commenced the short walk to the quay where he hoped to find his cousin. As he got nearer, he saw a similar level of security to the docks back in Danzig. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. His heart sank, his legs turning to jelly, as he turned around.
‘Viktor, I thought it was you,’ said Gregori, giving him a firm hug. ‘What brings you all the way out here?’
‘Hello,’ he said softly. ‘I need to speak with you in private.’
‘Of course. It sounds serious. Are your Zofia and the kids okay?’
‘They’re fine, I think. I’ve left them in Olsztyn. It’s a long story. I need a favour from you, but we can’t talk about it here.’
‘Okay, Come with me.’
They walked up to the barrier, which led to the quayside. A Wehrmacht guard looked at them menacingly, enquiring about their business. Gregori explained he was the captain of a trawler and Viktor had applied to be a member of his crew. The guards looked the two men up and down, checked their identity papers, then let them both pass.
Gregori’s boat, Powodzenie, was moored about a hundred yards along the barnacle-covered quay. The fisherman jumped nimbly onto the deck, helping his less agile cousin aboard. The ship lurched, causing Viktor to grab desperately to the side rail. They went below to a simple cabin with a bunk in the corner.
‘We can talk here,’ he said, closing the door.
‘I don’t even know where to start,’ Viktor said.
‘It must be important if you have travelled all this way to see me,’ Gregori said, pouring two small shots of vodka into two battered mugs.
Viktor told his cousin about the events of the last few months. The fisherman laughed at the thought of him being a fugitive, but Viktor did not think it was funny.
‘I can’t think of a less likely criminal,’ Gregori said with a smirk. ‘But where do I fit into all this? Please don’t ask me to help them escape. If I am caught, they’ll shoot me.’
‘No, I wouldn’t ask you to do that, but I have a letter I’d like you to take to Sweden. I want you to deliver it to the British Embassy in Stockholm. It tells them about the soldiers and asks their government to arrange their rescue.’
‘I see. So, you want me to be the messenger?’
Viktor nodded, sipping at the vodka.
Gregori sat in silence, thinking for a few moments before agreeing.
‘It’s going to be tricky,’ he said. ‘The Germans are like hawks at the moment. They’re watching the ports and meticulously checking documents. So, if I have the slightest notion the Germans have gotten wind of this, the letter goes into the water in a weighted bag, okay?’
‘I understand. When do you next go to sea?’
‘If this weather holds, and with the tides being what they are, we should be good for tomorrow night. The crew don’t need
to know about our agreement. The fewer people who do, the better. We often stop over in Stockholm anyhow, so they shouldn’t suspect anything.’
Viktor thanked him, handing over the envelope. ‘When will you return?’
‘We are usually at sea for six days,’ Gregori answered, walking across the room and placing the letter in a safe concealed behind a wall panel. ‘If we come back any sooner, the Germans will ask too many questions. I want to keep everything as normal as possible.’
‘I do understand, but it’s going to be a long wait.’
‘I know, but I can’t do anything out of the ordinary. It’s too risky.’
‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘I’ll aim for us to be unloading our catch on Tuesday evening, ready for Wednesday’s fish auctions. The good thing is when a fishing boat returns there are so many people on the quayside, you know, harbour staff and fisheries personnel. The Germans probably won’t notice you.’
‘Tuesday it is then. I’ll look for you at the barrier.’
31
The two British soldiers were extremely bored while Viktor prowled around the house, always on edge. After endless hours of prowling back and forth, anxiety got the better of him.
‘Why don’t we open the shop?’ he asked.
The other two stared at him incredulously.
‘If you work the ovens, I could serve,’ Viktor added.
‘But we know nothing about baking,’ said Tommy.
‘No, I teach you. It’s easy,’ he replied. ‘I make mixture, and you put in oven.’
‘If you think we can do it, then let’s have a go,’ Henry said positively. ‘It would sure liven up this place.’
He showed them around the cramped kitchens behind the bakery before spending several hours making dough. Tommy chalked notes on a blackboard, recording how long each type of bread took in the oven. After sampling their handiwork over lunch, they made multiple batches of tarts and biscuits.
By the evening, trays of loaves, cakes, doughnuts, and cookies were stacked on the worktops, more than enough for the next day. For the first time since arriving in Danzig, they went to their respective rooms laughing. Viktor kissed Zofia’s pillow before quickly falling asleep with a smile on his face.
After a hearty breakfast, Henry and Tommy started work in the kitchen, while Viktor prepared for the reopening. Once satisfied with the appearance of the shop’s interior, he turned the sign around on the back of the door, then lugged a steel advertisement onto the pavement outside. It was two hours before the first customer came in. However, by midday, a steady stream had returned as word circulated about the Cwiklinskis being back in business.
Occasionally, a bell would ring, summoning Viktor to the kitchen to resolve a problem, but otherwise, it felt good to return to normality. With something to take their minds off their incarceration, the atmosphere had improved, and the two British soldiers appeared to be thriving. At the end of the day, the till was full of money, and the house echoed with laughter.
The little bakery on the corner of Hucisko Street and Drzewny Road became increasingly busy over the next few days. Alarmingly, they even received a regular order from the Wehrmacht headquarters.
On Tuesday morning, he opened as usual, but Viktor placed a handwritten notice in the window saying today would be half-day closing. Mrs. Dabrowski, one of his most loyal customers, was waiting outside when he unlocked the door.
‘Morning, Mr. Cwiklinski,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Magda. What can I do for you this morning?’
‘I would like a rye loaf and half a dozen lemon tarts,’ she said. ‘Some of the ladies are coming for afternoon tea.’
‘That sounds lovely,’ said Viktor, placing the bread in a white paper bag and the pastries in two cardboard boxes.
‘How are the family?’
‘Oh, they’re very well. They’re staying with my family at the moment.’
He rang the items through the cash register, counting out the coins she had given him as he placed them into the drawer of the till.
‘Enjoy your afternoon with your friends,’ he said, handing her the correct change.
‘Thank you,’ she called back over her shoulder as she left the shop.
Midway through another busy morning, the quartermaster from the Wehrmacht garrison joined the back of the small queue of customers. Viktor’s anxiety levels rose as the soldier moved along the line. The officer collected his regular order of five trays of croissants, and Viktor gave him an additional couple of cakes for free. Thankfully, Tommy and Henry were out of sight in the kitchen.
Standing behind the counter, Viktor rested on his elbow, daydreaming. The bell on the door rang, dragging him back from his thoughts. He looked up to greet the next customer as an SS hauptmann entered the bakery.
Viktor swallowed hard and greeted the officer warmly, his pulse racing. Had his cousin been captured? Had the Germans found the letter?’
‘Good morning.’
‘Hello. How can I help you?’
‘You look familiar. Have we met before? the hauptmann said.
Viktor recognised the man too but was unable to place him.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, trying to appear casual. ‘Is it bread or cakes you’re after?’
‘I’m afraid I am not here to buy anything. I’m making some enquiries.’
It dawned on him, this was the officer who had virtually strangled him in front of Zofia and the children all those weeks ago.
‘How can I help?’ Viktor asked, hiding his quaking legs.
‘We’re investigating some British soldiers who may be sheltering in Danzig.’
‘British soldiers?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No, why would they be here?’
‘Escaped prisoners. We don’t know for certain they’re in the city, but if you encounter anything suspicious, please report it straight away?’
‘Of course, Sir. I will keep a lookout, but I must lock up now. Today is my half-day, but if I come across anything, I will inform the police immediately.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like these for later?’ Viktor said, showing two cherry buns before placing them in a paper bag.
‘That’s very kind,’ he said, taking the gift.
With that, the hauptmann left and proceeded next door to continue his enquiries. As soon as the officer had gone, he locked the door and then rushed into the kitchen.
‘What is it?’ asked Henry. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Worse,’ he said. ‘SS hauptmann been in shop.’
His words caused both of them to freeze.
‘Can you describe him?’ Tommy asked.
‘I’ve met him before,’ he said, having described the dark-haired hauptmann. ‘A few months ago, when my wife and I were travelling. He’s searching for you two. I forget his name.’
‘Roehm!’ said the two soldiers in unison.
‘Damn!’ Henry said. ‘We can’t stay here.’
‘I have to leave now. I go see Gregori. Don’t light lamp and keep away from windows.’
Viktor put on his coat, grabbing his hat, scarf, and gloves before leaving.
***
Roehm walked along the seafront, lost in his thoughts. Where were the British soldiers? He stared out into the bay, watching the turbulent, grey water breaking onto the pebbly beach. His leather-clad hands gripped the railings while he continued to stare straight out to sea. Something was bothering him. He knew the baker from somewhere, and there was a connection with the British soldiers, but how?
The salty breeze caused a tear to run down his cheek. Suddenly, he remembered; the checkpoint where they had first been spotted. He reconstructed the events of the last several months. Could the baker have been their contact in the country? Where did he say he was going? Come on, Andreas, think! Where was he going that day? Was it Olsztyn?
Roehm could not be sure, but Olsztyn was where the Polish political activist, who had escaped with th
e British soldiers, had been arrested. In his world, coincidences never happened. This was too important to ignore. He scurried back down the promenade where his squad car was waiting. As the hauptmann approached, the driver straightened his tie and then started the engine. Climbing onto the back seat, Roehm shouted, ‘Take me to the Fourth Army’s headquarters now!’
From the tone of his superior’s voice, he knew not to ask any further questions and sped away.
Roehm beat his fist in anger as they became stuck behind a slow-moving delivery van. They moved infuriatingly slowly until the vehicle turned down a side road, allowing the driver to floor the accelerator. With wheels screeching, they careened through the city.
The car snaked through the narrow streets, nearly colliding with a market stall. Eventually they pulled up outside the Civic Hall. A giant Nazi flag flapped in the bitter breeze as he barged his way into the building, towering over a corporal who sat behind the reception desk.
‘I need to speak to the duty officer.’
‘May I ask who you are?’
‘I’m Hauptmann Roehm of the SS. Now please don’t waste my time. This is urgent.’
‘He’s in a meeting.’
‘Well, go and get him.’
The corporal thought about challenging him, but thought better of it. ‘Yes, Sir.’
Agitated, Roehm paced back and forth in the dark foyer, fidgeting endlessly with his pocketwatch.
‘The duty officer will see you now,’ the soldier said.
He grunted his recognition, following the young man upstairs to the first floor. Striding past the corporal, he addressed the officer directly.
‘My name’s Roehm, SS hauptmann for the Eastern Section.’
The squat Wehrmacht officer shook Roehm’s hand without standing and gestured to a seat opposite him.
‘What can I do for you, Hauptmann?’
‘I’m investigating the escape of two British prisoners and a Polish national from a work camp south of here. I believe they are hiding in the city.’
‘Ah, yes! Do you mean these?’ The officer handed Roehm a printed sheet containing photographs of the fugitives. The images were not good likenesses, but it was clearly the baker and the two escapees.
The Danzig Corridor Page 22
