The Night Before Morning

by Alistair Moffat

  Katie and I had often walked under the old arch and into the quadrangle for lectures. On two sides were the schools, the lecture theatres of tiered benches and scuffed desks where both modern languages and English literature were taught. We first met, or rather sat near each other, in one of the most tedious, tired and hilariously badly delivered lectures on early English drama. A grey, careworn, dusty professor in an ancient black gown talked to us about a sixteenth-century comedy called Ralph Roister Doister and its cast of characters, such as Dobinet Doughty and Madge Mumblecrust. Rambling, disconnected references to writers none of us had ever heard of, and the fact that most of the time the professor spoke so quietly – mumbling about Mumblecrust, addressing his remarks, it seemed, to his tie – made for an hour that itself became a comedy. Students who had long since ceased to take notes looked wide-eyed at each other, shaking their heads. But it was Katie who cracked first. After a shapeless succession of remarks about the play’s links with Roman comedy, the professor revealed that the play had probably never been performed. What started as a giggle from Katie quickly became infectious and built into an outburst of uninhibited laughter. ‘Yes, yes,’ said the professor, looking up and apparently startled to see a hundred students sitting in front of him, ‘very amusing.’

  When we pushed open the heavy oak door into St Salvator’s Chapel and turned to walk up the nave, Father MacKenzie was waiting for us at the altar steps. He had lit two tall candles on the altar and one on a small table at his side.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, shaking hands. ‘I much appreciate your taking the trouble to do this,’ and I introduced Katie.

  ‘Now, you do realise that a ceremony of betrothal has no status, especially since you belong to different churches?’ he said, ‘And it’s a number of centuries since a mass was said in this one.’

  We all smiled and Father MacKenzie began.

  ‘Beloved of Christ. It is the dispensation of Divine Providence that you are called to the holy vocation of marriage. For this reason, you present yourselves on this day before Christ and His Church and before His sacred minister.’

  He then recited the rubric, which I repeated: ‘In the name of our Lord, I, David Erskine, promise that I will one day take thee, Katherine Grant, as my wife, according to the ordinances of God and Holy Mother Church.’

  Katie repeated her version of the vow and when I slipped a ring borrowed from Aunt Jenny on her finger, Father MacKenzie placed the ends of his stole over our clasped hands and we kissed. And from the dark shadows of one of the back pews, someone began clapping their hands.

  ‘This is not my church either,’ said an American voice.

  A small, bespectacled man with a scarf wound twice around his neck walked into the candlelight. ‘Please forgive me intruding. But may I be the first to congratulate you both?’ As Father MacKenzie folded his stole and put on his overcoat, for the chapel was chilly and he was anxious to be away, the man went on, ‘And now that this beautiful ceremony has told me your names, may I introduce myself? I am Isaac Feldman. And your guess that I am not a Catholic – or a Protestant – would be correct!’

  He went on to explain that his own faith did not prevent him from coming into the chapel for a few moments of peace, and that he had not wished to disturb us by getting up to leave. ‘Are you coming to the evening service?’ he asked. ‘It begins, I think, in an hour. Afterwards, my colleagues and I will be having a New Year’s Eve party to celebrate St Silvester. Would you like to join us? It seems that you have something to celebrate, too.’

  When I replied in German, prompted by the reference to St Silvester, to thank him, he smiled broadly, ‘How good it is to hear my native tongue so softly and gently spoken, for once, Mr Erskine.’

  *

  While we were at St Salvator’s, the MacDonalds and Katie’s parents had paid a flying visit to friends who lived just outside the military perimeter, and we promised to rejoin them quickly at home and not take unnecessary risks. Father MacKenzie invited us to come back to St James and the chapel house on the Scores. It would be much better and safer to telephone from there than be seen walking around after curfew, even though the evening service had been permitted.

  Up in the choir stalls, Jamie Griffith-Smith had heard every word spoken in the echoic old church.

  He decided to stay put. When Erskine and his fiancée returned for the evening service, there would be soldiers in the quadrangle and in the streets – the escorts that Kritzinger had organised for the Americans and their families. It would be a straightforward business to make arrests then and with more than three hundred worshippers, many of them women and children, it was his judgement that Erskine would not risk resistance and the shooting that might involve.

  *

  Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

  Alles schläft, einsam wacht.

  The service started with a young boy, his voice not yet broken, being introduced – and encouraged – by Professor Feldman: ‘This is a carol from Austria, where some of us grew up as children. It is really about Christmas Eve, but I hope you will forgive us. I hope it will be good to hear it on the eve of a new and perhaps better year.’

  I felt the tears prickle as the crystal purity of the melody floated high in the nave of the old church and beyond it, over the rooftops of the snowy town. It was the sound of another, better, Germany and Austria. St Salvator’s Chapel was full, with many standing at the back and the choir stalls were crammed. And between each precious line of the carol, the congregation seemed barely to breathe.

  Christ, der Retter, ist da,

  Christ, der Retter, ist da.

  In a gesture that caught the moment perfectly, the university chaplain, a gruff old Highlander who used to referee rugby matches and penalise swearing, shook hands with the young boy. And in as emphatic a voice as the Reverend Ruaridh Macleod deemed appropriate, he said, ‘Danke, danke schön’. And then the chaplain raised his hand for the benediction, to bless us all in English, and in his own Gaelic, and to encourage us to hope that 1945 would bring joy.

  As the congregation began to shuffle towards the narrow doorway and out into the snow-covered quadrangle, I put my arm round Katie’s shoulders.

  ‘No kissing in church, now,’ she whispered. ‘The rest of us are all Presbyterians here, even if you have plighted your troth.’

  The chapel took a long time to clear and an exasperated murmur seemed to be building as the congregation filed out into the cloister. It was very cold and the evening was growing late, but no one was moving very far. When Katie and I eventually made it out and into the quad, we saw that the great doors under the arch of St Salvator’s Tower had been closed, and frustrated people were rattling at the two wrought-iron gates in the west and north walls. In the gap between the schools and the east end of the chapel, there was a large detachment of soldiers.

  Katie and I looked at each other. ‘Quick, back into the chapel.’ There was a little-used door on the street side, beyond the tower. We might be able to force that open.

  But before we could move, a series of arc lights clanged on, very brightly illuminating the quadrangle and the milling, confused congregation. Then a voice crackled through a loudspeaker. ‘We have information that the traitor, David Erskine, is hiding among you. If he does not immediately give himself up, then we will open the doors under the archway.’

  There was another loud murmur, more confusion amongst the crowd, trying to make sense of what they had just heard. I realised that the Germans did not know what I looked like.

  ‘And as you all pass under the archway, we will begin counting. We will begin the process of decimation. Unless Erskine comes forward now, every tenth person, be they man, woman or child, will be removed and immediately shot.’

  Amidst the gasps, I turned to Katie. ‘This is the end. There is no choice. I have to give myself up.’

  X

  Before I could reach the archway and the waiting soldiers, the sky was suddenly lit by a flash of bright yellow light. A momen
t later, the night air was rent by an explosion like a clap of thunder. The roiling tumult of the crowd in the quad froze, and then there was another flash, a second explosion and, in the stunned silence that followed, I could hear Professor Feldman shouting, ‘Herr Colonel! Herr Colonel!’

  Out of the archway marched an officer, a long, black leather coat over his SS uniform. He met Feldman only yards from where Katie and I stood.

  ‘It’s the laboratory,’ Feldman said to the officer. ‘I’m certain. We must go immediately. God knows what’s happened. I need my people. They’re all being held here.’

  As both men turned to leave, Feldman saw me and stared for a moment before rushing off with Kritzinger. Over his shoulder, the colonel shouted, ‘No one else leaves.’

  And just as they reached the cobbled pavement beyond the arch, John Campbell appeared, as if from nowhere, stood directly in front of the German officer and said, ‘I am David Erskine.’ In the shock and rush of the moment, Campbell turned, sprinted across the street and disappeared down an alleyway.

  ‘Find him!’ roared Kritzinger. ‘And bring him to me alive.’

  When the soldiers set off in pursuit, the crowd surged under the archway and dispersed very quickly in all directions like frightened animals running for their lives at the sound of gunfire. For many minutes, chaos streamed around the streets of St Andrews as people frantically sought the sanctuary of their homes. The colonel and the professor got into a car that sped up College Street towards the Bute laboratory.

  ‘Who is David Erskine?’ asked Feldman.

  ‘A former British officer who is responsible for the deaths of too many of our soldiers.’

  *

  Weaving in and out of the many narrow alleyways that link the three arterial streets of the old town, pausing, hiding in the shadows, waiting for groups of soldiers to pass him before moving on again, Campbell came to the cathedral precinct. In the darkness, crouched over, using the hundreds of headstones for cover, he thought it a good place to evade capture at least for an hour or two, or until the hue and cry calmed down. The soldiers looking for him had torches but in the undulating ground of the graveyard, he was not confident he would see them before they saw him. Behind him ran the high precinct wall, ancient, but now part of the fortress St Andrews had become, and beyond that lay cliffs and the sea. Realising that he had fled into a culde-sac, Campbell needed to find a hiding place, and quickly.

  *

  Sirens wailed and fire engines raced up to the West Port – only to discover that the medieval gateway was too low and narrow to pass through. At the western end of Market Street, soldiers were frantically dismantling and dragging aside the wooden barricades, erected only a few weeks ago, to allow the firemen to get to the blaze at the Bute laboratory. Moving in the opposite direction, Katie and I sought the camouflage of the crowd that had rushed out of the quadrangle and we stayed in their midst. Soldiers made no attempt to stop us and, not long after, we were running up Hepburn Gardens.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Jenny MacDonald as she opened her front door. ‘The town is in uproar. What on earth has been going on?’

  From what he could see from the upstairs windows, Robert was sure that the fire and the explosions that may have caused it was consuming the Bute Building.

  When I related the meeting with Isaac Feldman and the astonishing events after the service at St Salvator’s Chapel, Robert reckoned that he must be one of the Americans that the Bedellus, Jimmy MacRae, had told him about. From the brief conversation I had overheard between him and Kritzinger, I judged that the professor led a team of American scientists.

  ‘Whatever they’re doing, the Germans seem to think it’s extremely important. Vital. But they have won the war. They’re holding the world to ransom. What could be so important? What makes them behave with such brutality?’ said Robert as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘And what happened to cause the explosions and the fire? And where’s John Campbell? He must still be somewhere in the town. I hope he’s all right.’

  I tried to reassure Robert. ‘He can look after himself. He trained as a commando. I expect he’ll find his way back.’

  After a bewildering, exhausting day, we sank into the sofas in the sitting room, grateful not to be out there and involved. Katie and Jenny fortified themselves with stiff drinks and went through to the kitchen to marshal a very late supper.

  ‘Erskine!’ Griffith-Smith walked into the sitting room and pointed his pistol at me. ‘Get up. Now! You will come with me immediately.’

  Robert MacDonald also stood up, his mouth agape at this sudden intrusion, unable to speak.

  As I got to my feet, Jenny came into the room. ‘Jamie, isn’t it?’ she said quietly. ‘Jamie Griffith-Smith.’

  He turned to look at her and, as she smiled at him, that distracted moment gave me a second to lunge across the room. Grabbing his wrist, I punched him as hard as I could in the stomach and when he doubled over, the gun rattled across the parquet floor. Katie picked it up and pointed it at Griffith-Smith.

  ‘No, no,’ said Jenny. ‘Please, put that thing away.’ She turned to the winded intruder and said, ‘What are you doing here, Jamie? Why are you wearing that uniform?’ She took his arm very gently. ‘What’s happened to you? I don’t know what has persuaded you to work with these terrible people, but I want you to tell me.’

  *

  By the time Kritzinger and Feldman reached the Bute Building, the firemen had begun to play their hoses on the blaze. ‘It’s gas,’ one of them shouted above the din of the pumps, ‘I can smell it.’ Having drenched the façade of the building and soaked some of the interior as water poured through the smashed glass windows, the firemen were attempting to quell a blaze that had consumed a wooden annexe close to the laboratories.

  Feldman turned to Kritzinger. ‘I think the firemen are correct: the explosions were from gas containers. The electrical wiring here is very old and in need of constant maintenance. Some of the light switches spark when they’re used. It could have been something as simple as that.’

  Kritzinger was clearly agitated, shifting from foot to foot, not really listening, perhaps mentally composing a report for his superiors in Berlin that assigned blame to anyone but him. He knew that would not matter. What mattered to them were results, and this fire, accident, whatever it was, would inevitably cause delay. He would be blamed for that.

  ‘Sabotage,’ the German said to Feldman. ‘Was it sabotage? That’s what I want to know.’

  The flames were beginning to die down as the hoses soaked the fire.

  ‘All of my people were at the chapel, Herr Colonel. How could it be sabotage?’

  Kritzinger turned to face the little professor. ‘All I am interested in is progress. And if there is no progress, then I will have no choice but to take action. That is why your families are all here. We did not bring your wife from America to cook your supper, Feldman. She is here as a guarantee that you will make this work as soon as possible. And if you do not, she will suffer. Am I making myself clear?’

  *

  John Campbell could see two groups of soldiers, or at least two groups of torch beams, on the far side of the railings that ran on the town side of the cathedral precinct. In a few minutes, they could be amongst the ruins and the headstones, searching for him. If they did the sensible thing and formed a line to sweep the ground, it would be very difficult for him to outflank them and make his way back into town. The snow had stopped falling but any movement would be more easily seen against the pristine white background. And he was leaving tracks. Sitting with his back against a particularly grand memorial, he looked around the graveyard. To the right of the high east gable of the cathedral stood a tall, square-sided slim tower.

  When he reached what looked like the walls of a small church at its foot, Campbell saw that there was an entrance. Pushing open the heavy door, he plunged into the black darkness of the windowless tower. With one hand on the outer wall, feeling for the steps with his feet, he realised t
hat he was turning up a spiral staircase. The exit at the top came up so quickly that Campbell stumbled and almost fell over the low parapet. Below him, he could see the soldiers’ torches shining in the graveyard, swinging from side to side, their beams sweeping across the headstones, punctuated by the occasional shout in German. It was illogical, but Campbell imagined height to be an advantage, even though there was only one way out of the tower and many more of them than him.

  From his high vantage point, Campbell could see the lights of the town spreading out in the distance. South Street and North Street radiated from the cathedral and he could make out activity in both: vehicle headlights and the occasional patrol of soldiers lit by a streetlight. But the glow of the dying fire at the Bute Building seemed to be a focus of activity with many comings and goings. The line of searchers below him washed past the foot of the tower, more interested in looking into the nave of the roofless church on its eastern side. Campbell brushed away the snow that had collected on the platform at the top of the tower and sat down with his back to the parapet. Despite himself, and despite the cold, he fell asleep.

  *

  Surrounded by the Grants, the MacDonalds and me, Griffith-Smith suddenly seemed a forlorn figure and at first he made no response to Jenny MacDonald’s question about his loyalties and working for the Germans. Staring silently at his feet, he let out a long sigh and looked at the beautiful woman who had made him blush as a boy and was now holding his hand. Perhaps memories of a lost, sunlit past flitted through his head. Perhaps he remembered a lunch under the apple blossom in the orchard at Kingsbarns. A sea breeze blew some of the tiny white petals into the air. Long ago, in another time, Jenny had smiled at him across the table. Now, she made him cry. Tears began to run down his cheeks.

  Jenny squeezed his hand. ‘Sit down here by me. Robert, can you please find Jamie a glass of brandy?’

  Griffith-Smith sniffed, wiped his cheeks with his fingers and looked at me. ‘When you told me about those memoranda you read about Jewish deportation from Hungary, and about labour camps, I was listening carefully.’ All of his languor, polish and ease had evaporated, and when he turned to Jenny, his voice was trembling. ‘My wife, Miriam, is Jewish. Last night, her mother telephoned from Glasgow to say that they had received a letter from the Department of Internal Affairs. I had no idea such an organisation existed. It told the Levinsons – my wife’s family – that they had been selected for resettlement in Perthshire and that arrangements for transport would be made as soon as a departure date was set. They should be ready to travel at any time and bring only one suitcase. Everything else would follow. Several of their friends and neighbours received identical letters.’ Griffith-Smith shook his head and went on, ‘Because their mother is Jewish, all of my three children will be considered to be Jewish.’ And the tears came back.