Silence in the Desert, page 6
‘So how does all that affect me, if I may ask, Colonel?’
Metting actually smiled, as he took off his small round glasses and rubbed them with his handkerchief. ‘Hauptmann Beckendorf, we’ve decided we need someone with battle experience and an appreciation of the use of signals intelligence, as our eyes in the field. You would be our link with the signals intelligence units reporting to General Rommel. And you would be available should something unexpected happen.’
Leo thought better than to ask what that meant.
The Colonel continued. ‘You’ll know about General Rommel’s success in the Western Desert. The arrival of the Afrika Korps to rescue our Italian allies after their defeat by the British. Everyone’s surprise when Rommel attacked even before all his supplies were ashore at Tripoli. He saw the opportunity, and took it. A sudden victory by surprise and daring, causing the Allies to withdraw back to Tobruk.’
‘Yes, Colonel, I read all about it. Something to be proud of.’
‘Indeed. But there’s another factor in Rommel’s success. The Afrika Korps’ Radio Intercept Company. It’s made an outstanding contribution. The British seem to be incapable of radio silence. Their armoured units chatter to one another all the time. Some of their cavalry regiments, armoured reconnaissance units, seem to think they’re out fox hunting. They shout hunting jargon over their wireless net. Remember the name Alfred Seeböhm. He commands the Radio Intercept Company.’
Leo listened, fascinated. This was right up his street.
‘We would want you to get to know Seeböhm. His information is vital input for Rommel’s decisions, but it will never be the complete picture. You would act as coordinator of all sources of intelligence flowing to the General.’
‘Including information from the Black Code source,’ said Leo.
‘Exactly, Captain. And unlike other radio intercept companies you may have run into, Seeböhm’s has cipher experts.’ He paused. Then came the big question. ‘Now, how do you feel about taking this on? As a front line soldier, you’ll not be used to being asked, rather you’ll have been ordered to take on something. In our case, we want to be sure that our man will be totally committed to the role.’
Leo was silent, digesting the proposition. It would remove him from front line command, the route to promotion. Was it a dead end to his military career? He’d be on his own, not surrounded by friends and colleagues in his regiment of the Fallschirmjäger. On the other hand, he found signals intelligence a fascinating field, almost a science.
Metting allowed him time, didn’t interrupt his train of thought.
Finally, Leo looked up into the wizened face watching him through the small round rimless glasses.
‘I would like to take it on, Colonel. Thank you for explaining the background so openly with me. I believe I can do well for you as well as for General Rommel.’
‘Excellent. Let’s take a walk around the facility here. Then we’ll go and enjoy a good lunch at the Bergerhof, not far from here. I know your next stop is Rome and, in my view, your next boss is the best Commander-in-Chief in the Wehrmacht.’
7
English West Country, October 1941
As the taxi pulled out from the railway station and headed south down the familiar road, Bill’s mind was on Françoise. Still no news. Her undercover work just swallowed her up. He thought of their first meeting, only a month ago. That evening at the Royal Albert Hall. It was a Free French rally, and de Gaulle was up on stage. Great singing by French from all over Britain, pledged to continue the fight. The invitation came to him from the Secret Service people for whom he’d been flying agents across the Channel. Moon flights, they called them, in the eight-day period around the full moon. They told him he’d met her before, the sister of Henri de Rochefort with whom he’d been at school, the place he was now heading for.
They didn’t tell him why she was in London, nor did she. He just worked it out, with the benefit of some hindsight. The car pulled in through the school gates, up the broad drive and into the quadrangle. It felt the same and yet different. The Abbey was as always, imposing and beautiful, in the background. He was sure the services were still performed devoutly and meticulously, as he remembered them. The school, he knew, would be different. He’d heard it was over-spilling with boys from other schools. Additional prefabricated buildings were accommodating the boys evacuated from the preparatory school close to London, and other schools in bombed-out areas. Above all, the mood was sombre. Everyone was haunted by the horror of that Saturday on the cricket field, nine boys killed, and the student pilot. And the inquest that followed, held in the school gymnasium. Then the court martial which he attended at Devonport, the flying instructor in the leading aircraft pleading guilty to wilful disregard for Admiralty Fleet orders relating to low flying. John Smith was now his friend.
Bill might be able to meet with the Head Master, and perhaps the Abbot. He was there on a personal fact-finding tour, but they probably knew he’d assisted Counsel for the Defendant in making the case for leniency.
As Bill entered the main hall of the school, he passed the school shop and noticed the typed sheet displayed close by, giving latest news of old boys and members of the Abbey community. Lists of deaths and casualties, and those missing. None of his close friends were on there. He wondered what Henri was up to, no news since he’d left for Africa with the Free French. Nor of Leo, of course, since he was on the other side. And what about Rooky? Henri said he was on the Narvik expedition at the start of the war. Perhaps the Monastic Bursar would have more information.
Back outside, walking up towards the monastery, he passed the new wartime buildings. His attention was suddenly grabbed by the monastic graveyard, identical metal crosses over the grave of each monk who’d passed on towards higher things over the past century. What held his gaze were the flowers over new graves, marked temporarily with just single names. These were the boys, he realized, nine of them.
‘It was an awful day. You’ll have read about it in the press, but here are some cuttings. Also, photographs, and extracts from Hansard,’ the Bursar said as he pushed a pile across his desk towards Bill. ‘The Queen Mother came to present one of the boys with the Scouts’ VC, and to lay a wreath. You’ve seen the new graves?’
‘Yes, I just walked past. A tragic sight. I was in the House of Lords Gallery when the accident was discussed. I expect you know I gave advice to the Defendant’s Counsel. Because I’m supposed to be an expert on low flying the Hurricane,’ he added.
‘Yes, of course. I understand perfectly. So the Instructor was severely reprimanded, and dismissed his ship, whatever that means in the Fleet Air Arm.’
‘Since there’s a war on, I would think he’ll be flying again soon. Before this tragedy, he was regarded as one of the best instructors they had. Changing the subject, do you have any news from Dom Brendan Rooker? Henri de Rochefort was in Norway with him, but I’ve heard nothing since. We were both in his house.’
‘He’s in the Western Desert, as I understand, now with the Irish Hussars. Must be having a rough time. That’s where the action is.’
Bill took his leave from the Bursar. He was due back at Speke, his new posting, after the weekend. In the meantime he would stay in one of the Abbey guest rooms, and eat his meals with the community. The Benedictines were noted for their excellent food, and he wondered what to expect in wartime. Certain to be much better than the boys would be getting, he reasoned. He would walk up to the cricket pavilion and pay his respects to those who perished there only a few months before. After that, he must read his notes on navigation at sea, in readiness for his passing out tests at the Merchant Ship Fighter Unit, MSFU. All being well, the next stop would be the CAM ships, the Catapult Aircraft Merchantmen. Where he hoped he’d be seeing John Smith again.
8
Tripoli, Libya, October 1941
Theresa felt restless as she lay in her bunk, in a cabin she was sharing with two other girls on the female deck. Her long, lithe body didn’t fit comfortably in the confined space. They’d been told to remain below until they berthed. Danger of attack from the air. How effective were the large red crosses on the outside of the vessel? Seemed to work during the voyage so far. Those unfortunate boys halfway over, their troopship struck by a torpedo. At least she and the others were able to help when the poor wretches were hauled from the rafts and out of the water.
Sick with sadness, her life and friends abandoned, emotion welled up inside her. Her family even further away. She tried to think of the future, what lay before her in Africa. She knew the risks she’d have to take were nothing compared with certain deportation and slave labour if she’d stayed behind. Several months of being Theresa Krüger, now in the uniform of a Luftwaffe nurse, there was everything to go for. Through the porthole, the beautiful sea front of the city spread out before her, a legacy of pre-war Italian design and engineering.
That meeting with the Reverend Mother would always come back to her. Her welcome, the friendliness, the sympathy. The baptismal certificate of Theresa Krüger, born in Hamburg twenty-five years before. Just two years older than she was. Goodbye Elisabeth Steiner.
‘We have the ration cards for food and for clothing,’ Reverend Mother said. They were seated in a plain room, just a crucifix on the wall. It seemed so simple. Then the warning. ‘Beware of what you say and how you appear, your attitude and manner,’ she said. ‘Stay clear of complications, keep a low profile. Be positive at your work.’ Elisabeth knew the interviews and medical examination would be the most frightening obstacles to her escape. ‘Prepare yourself, leave nothing you could trip up on.’
‘Now, Theresa,’ said Reverend Mother, the first time Elisabeth heard herself being addressed by her new name. ‘We have a nun here, Sister Agnes, who can help you. She’ll suggest your background story. She knows the difficult questions. You can trust her, and learn from her. She’s an experienced nurse from the last war.’
As Reverend Mother went out to find this person, it suddenly struck the new Theresa that she mightn’t be the first to be helped by these lovely people.
Reverend Mother returned after a few moments, followed by a tall stern-faced nun, well into middle age. She made the introductions, and then departed with the priest. Theresa was left alone with Sister Agnes, who did actually smile as she poured out coffee for the two of them, saying ‘Reverend Mother has explained to me what you are doing, Theresa. Let’s start with the change in your identity.’
‘Thank you, Sister,’ said Elisabeth.
Sister Agnes sat back in her chair, stroking the large crucifix on the front of her habit. ‘Let me suggest how to create your cover. The story behind Theresa Krüger. Most of the usual questions about parents will not apply, since you hardly knew them. Your father, Theresa, was killed in 1918 at the battle of Amiens when you were only one year old. Your mother died a year later in the great flu epidemic.’
Elisabeth was enthralled, discovering the person she was becoming. This from a woman of the world, not just the stern, middle-aged nun who introduced herself.
‘You were not adopted. Just after the war ended, there was starvation in Germany. The house of our Order in Hamburg agreed to take you in. We have the original records. You grew up with other orphans at a home we maintained close to the Convent, and you went through a Catholic schooling. You were brought up a Catholic, as I understand.’ The nun’s face showed up her age, years of hard work, but the lines gave way to a warmth which reassured Elisabeth.
‘Yes, so I took part in the religious lessons and ceremonies when at school.’
‘So that’s the background story, where you came from, Theresa Krüger. You are a fine girl. Taller than most, but slim, and elegant in your movements. Attractive, and with your fair hair you aren’t obviously Jewish to look at.’ She paused, evidently hoping she was helping the young girl’s confidence. ‘Now, tell me how you came to be a trained nurse. Then we can decide how to dress it up for the interviewing officer. I understand you’re thinking of joining the Luftwaffe.’ The nun sat back, smiling, hands clasped in her lap.
‘My father was a professor of medicine and research chemist at Freiburg University. When Hitler came to power and the Nuremberg laws were passed, he and my mother knew it was only a matter of time. He would have his job taken away, to be given to a non-Jew. He already had close links with the Pasteur Institute in Paris. His special interest was vaccines. At the time, the French were expanding their plantations in Indo-China, rubber in particular, and they offered him a position devoted to anti-malarial vaccines, sponsored by the tyre company Michelin.’
‘Interesting. And what about you?’ said the nun.
‘I was just finishing my college education here in Munich, and was interested in medicine. My father knew the Director of the American Hospital in Neuilly, on the edge of Paris. The Director was originally a military surgeon from Baltimore, who came over to help the British Army in France early in the last war. I did two years there, training to be a nurse, and received my diploma. They made me learn English also.’ She stopped, thinking whether to mention it. ‘My training included the treatment of casualties from chemical warfare. My father wanted me to learn how to handle that. He seemed to know a lot about it, and helped me himself.’
‘I see,’ said Sister Agnes. ‘After the gas used in the trenches in the 1914 War, the medical services would have to be ready if it happened again. How terrible.’
‘Then, rather stupidly and against my father’s wishes, I returned to Germany with ideas of becoming a doctor.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said the nun, her natural sternness giving way to a broad smile. ‘What happened to your family when war broke out?’
‘My father faced a dilemma. His work by then was very important to the French. He knew a lot, not only about vaccines, but about the use of chemical agents which could be used in warfare. He didn’t want to leave France but after Pétain’s deal with Hitler, the Vichy French government also classified him as a Jew. It would be madness to return here and face being sent to a concentration camp. His American friend spoke to someone in the US Embassy, and the offer of a professorship at Baltimore came through quickly. The United States still being a neutral country meant there wouldn’t be any immigration problems.’
The nun looked intently at Elisabeth. ‘Chemical warfare, Theresa. So far that hasn’t happened, praise be to God. How did you know of his involvement in that?’
‘I overheard a conversation late one night at home in Paris. My father, and a visitor trying to persuade him to leave France which was now an ally of Germany. You see, I think he thought of his research, his work, as above politics. Politics was not his concern. He thought everyone should have access to his research. In that way, governments would come to the same conclusion, that the consequences were too terrible for either side to run the risk.’
Theresa, as she now was, paused. ‘So he must have decided to take the advice. After I returned to Munich, that was. He and my mother and younger sister, boarded a vessel at Le Havre and just went, to America. They asked me to join them, but I refused. My life was here and that was it. Call it foolishness, but at my age I just trusted my luck. Now I realise what a mistake I made. I’m an obstinate person, Sister.’
‘I see. So there’s no problem of next of kin making enquiries when you disappear, Theresa.’
‘That’s right. And I heard that the Luftwaffe needs nurses for North Africa, female as well as male.’
Suddenly the question came. ‘How can you reconcile fighting for the Nazis with their treatment of the Jews?’ The nun was now deadly serious.
‘I’m German. I love Germany. I hate the Nazis, but as a nurse I will be playing my part in helping our soldiers and airmen. And of course, it’s a solution to my big problem. How otherwise do I avoid deportation?’
‘What about your qualifications?’ asked the nun.
‘I intend to keep to my true story of training at the American Hospital in Paris. The Director there is still the same one, my father’s friend. He’s stuck to his job, and America remains neutral. I think he’ll agree to re-issue my nursing diploma in my new name, Theresa Krüger. My father told me before he left, that he would ask him to remember me, in case I needed help. He knows we’re of Jewish origin.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to say,’ exclaimed the nun. ‘You’re certainly bold.’
‘Achtung! Achtung! Bitte aussteigen.’ The ship’s public address system blared out, ordering all to prepare to disembark. Theresa Krüger was up on deck in no time, kit bag dragged behind her, thankful to be out in the open and stand in line with the other nurses. Still early morning, the heat was building up. Hats on the side of their heads gave little protection from a blazing sun. Libyan Arab dockhands were securing the lines as the hospital ship made fast alongside the wharf. Trucks stood ready to transport them and their baggage to her new home, Tripoli.
‘Find yourself chairs, everyone. I’m going to give you some background to the fighting out here.’ The Luftwaffe officer was really good-looking, thought Theresa, as she sat next to a couple of her new friends from the voyage over. A young captain, probably even younger than he looked, the officer moved across to a map bearing small coloured flags and lines drawn in wax crayon.
‘The desert war moves quickly, it’s hard to know where the front line is sometimes. The airfields change hands frequently, and our forward dressing stations are always on the move. You’ll start here in Tripoli, in the Wehrmacht military hospital. You have to get used to the climate and the food. Life is different out here.’ There was a rustle of expectation among the nurses.
The Captain continued. ‘When we arrived last January, General Rommel went on the attack immediately. The British had pushed our Italian allies out of most of Libya, and were surprised the Afrika Korps went into action so soon after arriving. We took them unawares. Our advance was spectacular, into Cyrenaica and almost to the Egyptian frontier, although the enemy held on to the port of Tobruk.’
Metting actually smiled, as he took off his small round glasses and rubbed them with his handkerchief. ‘Hauptmann Beckendorf, we’ve decided we need someone with battle experience and an appreciation of the use of signals intelligence, as our eyes in the field. You would be our link with the signals intelligence units reporting to General Rommel. And you would be available should something unexpected happen.’
Leo thought better than to ask what that meant.
The Colonel continued. ‘You’ll know about General Rommel’s success in the Western Desert. The arrival of the Afrika Korps to rescue our Italian allies after their defeat by the British. Everyone’s surprise when Rommel attacked even before all his supplies were ashore at Tripoli. He saw the opportunity, and took it. A sudden victory by surprise and daring, causing the Allies to withdraw back to Tobruk.’
‘Yes, Colonel, I read all about it. Something to be proud of.’
‘Indeed. But there’s another factor in Rommel’s success. The Afrika Korps’ Radio Intercept Company. It’s made an outstanding contribution. The British seem to be incapable of radio silence. Their armoured units chatter to one another all the time. Some of their cavalry regiments, armoured reconnaissance units, seem to think they’re out fox hunting. They shout hunting jargon over their wireless net. Remember the name Alfred Seeböhm. He commands the Radio Intercept Company.’
Leo listened, fascinated. This was right up his street.
‘We would want you to get to know Seeböhm. His information is vital input for Rommel’s decisions, but it will never be the complete picture. You would act as coordinator of all sources of intelligence flowing to the General.’
‘Including information from the Black Code source,’ said Leo.
‘Exactly, Captain. And unlike other radio intercept companies you may have run into, Seeböhm’s has cipher experts.’ He paused. Then came the big question. ‘Now, how do you feel about taking this on? As a front line soldier, you’ll not be used to being asked, rather you’ll have been ordered to take on something. In our case, we want to be sure that our man will be totally committed to the role.’
Leo was silent, digesting the proposition. It would remove him from front line command, the route to promotion. Was it a dead end to his military career? He’d be on his own, not surrounded by friends and colleagues in his regiment of the Fallschirmjäger. On the other hand, he found signals intelligence a fascinating field, almost a science.
Metting allowed him time, didn’t interrupt his train of thought.
Finally, Leo looked up into the wizened face watching him through the small round rimless glasses.
‘I would like to take it on, Colonel. Thank you for explaining the background so openly with me. I believe I can do well for you as well as for General Rommel.’
‘Excellent. Let’s take a walk around the facility here. Then we’ll go and enjoy a good lunch at the Bergerhof, not far from here. I know your next stop is Rome and, in my view, your next boss is the best Commander-in-Chief in the Wehrmacht.’
7
English West Country, October 1941
As the taxi pulled out from the railway station and headed south down the familiar road, Bill’s mind was on Françoise. Still no news. Her undercover work just swallowed her up. He thought of their first meeting, only a month ago. That evening at the Royal Albert Hall. It was a Free French rally, and de Gaulle was up on stage. Great singing by French from all over Britain, pledged to continue the fight. The invitation came to him from the Secret Service people for whom he’d been flying agents across the Channel. Moon flights, they called them, in the eight-day period around the full moon. They told him he’d met her before, the sister of Henri de Rochefort with whom he’d been at school, the place he was now heading for.
They didn’t tell him why she was in London, nor did she. He just worked it out, with the benefit of some hindsight. The car pulled in through the school gates, up the broad drive and into the quadrangle. It felt the same and yet different. The Abbey was as always, imposing and beautiful, in the background. He was sure the services were still performed devoutly and meticulously, as he remembered them. The school, he knew, would be different. He’d heard it was over-spilling with boys from other schools. Additional prefabricated buildings were accommodating the boys evacuated from the preparatory school close to London, and other schools in bombed-out areas. Above all, the mood was sombre. Everyone was haunted by the horror of that Saturday on the cricket field, nine boys killed, and the student pilot. And the inquest that followed, held in the school gymnasium. Then the court martial which he attended at Devonport, the flying instructor in the leading aircraft pleading guilty to wilful disregard for Admiralty Fleet orders relating to low flying. John Smith was now his friend.
Bill might be able to meet with the Head Master, and perhaps the Abbot. He was there on a personal fact-finding tour, but they probably knew he’d assisted Counsel for the Defendant in making the case for leniency.
As Bill entered the main hall of the school, he passed the school shop and noticed the typed sheet displayed close by, giving latest news of old boys and members of the Abbey community. Lists of deaths and casualties, and those missing. None of his close friends were on there. He wondered what Henri was up to, no news since he’d left for Africa with the Free French. Nor of Leo, of course, since he was on the other side. And what about Rooky? Henri said he was on the Narvik expedition at the start of the war. Perhaps the Monastic Bursar would have more information.
Back outside, walking up towards the monastery, he passed the new wartime buildings. His attention was suddenly grabbed by the monastic graveyard, identical metal crosses over the grave of each monk who’d passed on towards higher things over the past century. What held his gaze were the flowers over new graves, marked temporarily with just single names. These were the boys, he realized, nine of them.
‘It was an awful day. You’ll have read about it in the press, but here are some cuttings. Also, photographs, and extracts from Hansard,’ the Bursar said as he pushed a pile across his desk towards Bill. ‘The Queen Mother came to present one of the boys with the Scouts’ VC, and to lay a wreath. You’ve seen the new graves?’
‘Yes, I just walked past. A tragic sight. I was in the House of Lords Gallery when the accident was discussed. I expect you know I gave advice to the Defendant’s Counsel. Because I’m supposed to be an expert on low flying the Hurricane,’ he added.
‘Yes, of course. I understand perfectly. So the Instructor was severely reprimanded, and dismissed his ship, whatever that means in the Fleet Air Arm.’
‘Since there’s a war on, I would think he’ll be flying again soon. Before this tragedy, he was regarded as one of the best instructors they had. Changing the subject, do you have any news from Dom Brendan Rooker? Henri de Rochefort was in Norway with him, but I’ve heard nothing since. We were both in his house.’
‘He’s in the Western Desert, as I understand, now with the Irish Hussars. Must be having a rough time. That’s where the action is.’
Bill took his leave from the Bursar. He was due back at Speke, his new posting, after the weekend. In the meantime he would stay in one of the Abbey guest rooms, and eat his meals with the community. The Benedictines were noted for their excellent food, and he wondered what to expect in wartime. Certain to be much better than the boys would be getting, he reasoned. He would walk up to the cricket pavilion and pay his respects to those who perished there only a few months before. After that, he must read his notes on navigation at sea, in readiness for his passing out tests at the Merchant Ship Fighter Unit, MSFU. All being well, the next stop would be the CAM ships, the Catapult Aircraft Merchantmen. Where he hoped he’d be seeing John Smith again.
8
Tripoli, Libya, October 1941
Theresa felt restless as she lay in her bunk, in a cabin she was sharing with two other girls on the female deck. Her long, lithe body didn’t fit comfortably in the confined space. They’d been told to remain below until they berthed. Danger of attack from the air. How effective were the large red crosses on the outside of the vessel? Seemed to work during the voyage so far. Those unfortunate boys halfway over, their troopship struck by a torpedo. At least she and the others were able to help when the poor wretches were hauled from the rafts and out of the water.
Sick with sadness, her life and friends abandoned, emotion welled up inside her. Her family even further away. She tried to think of the future, what lay before her in Africa. She knew the risks she’d have to take were nothing compared with certain deportation and slave labour if she’d stayed behind. Several months of being Theresa Krüger, now in the uniform of a Luftwaffe nurse, there was everything to go for. Through the porthole, the beautiful sea front of the city spread out before her, a legacy of pre-war Italian design and engineering.
That meeting with the Reverend Mother would always come back to her. Her welcome, the friendliness, the sympathy. The baptismal certificate of Theresa Krüger, born in Hamburg twenty-five years before. Just two years older than she was. Goodbye Elisabeth Steiner.
‘We have the ration cards for food and for clothing,’ Reverend Mother said. They were seated in a plain room, just a crucifix on the wall. It seemed so simple. Then the warning. ‘Beware of what you say and how you appear, your attitude and manner,’ she said. ‘Stay clear of complications, keep a low profile. Be positive at your work.’ Elisabeth knew the interviews and medical examination would be the most frightening obstacles to her escape. ‘Prepare yourself, leave nothing you could trip up on.’
‘Now, Theresa,’ said Reverend Mother, the first time Elisabeth heard herself being addressed by her new name. ‘We have a nun here, Sister Agnes, who can help you. She’ll suggest your background story. She knows the difficult questions. You can trust her, and learn from her. She’s an experienced nurse from the last war.’
As Reverend Mother went out to find this person, it suddenly struck the new Theresa that she mightn’t be the first to be helped by these lovely people.
Reverend Mother returned after a few moments, followed by a tall stern-faced nun, well into middle age. She made the introductions, and then departed with the priest. Theresa was left alone with Sister Agnes, who did actually smile as she poured out coffee for the two of them, saying ‘Reverend Mother has explained to me what you are doing, Theresa. Let’s start with the change in your identity.’
‘Thank you, Sister,’ said Elisabeth.
Sister Agnes sat back in her chair, stroking the large crucifix on the front of her habit. ‘Let me suggest how to create your cover. The story behind Theresa Krüger. Most of the usual questions about parents will not apply, since you hardly knew them. Your father, Theresa, was killed in 1918 at the battle of Amiens when you were only one year old. Your mother died a year later in the great flu epidemic.’
Elisabeth was enthralled, discovering the person she was becoming. This from a woman of the world, not just the stern, middle-aged nun who introduced herself.
‘You were not adopted. Just after the war ended, there was starvation in Germany. The house of our Order in Hamburg agreed to take you in. We have the original records. You grew up with other orphans at a home we maintained close to the Convent, and you went through a Catholic schooling. You were brought up a Catholic, as I understand.’ The nun’s face showed up her age, years of hard work, but the lines gave way to a warmth which reassured Elisabeth.
‘Yes, so I took part in the religious lessons and ceremonies when at school.’
‘So that’s the background story, where you came from, Theresa Krüger. You are a fine girl. Taller than most, but slim, and elegant in your movements. Attractive, and with your fair hair you aren’t obviously Jewish to look at.’ She paused, evidently hoping she was helping the young girl’s confidence. ‘Now, tell me how you came to be a trained nurse. Then we can decide how to dress it up for the interviewing officer. I understand you’re thinking of joining the Luftwaffe.’ The nun sat back, smiling, hands clasped in her lap.
‘My father was a professor of medicine and research chemist at Freiburg University. When Hitler came to power and the Nuremberg laws were passed, he and my mother knew it was only a matter of time. He would have his job taken away, to be given to a non-Jew. He already had close links with the Pasteur Institute in Paris. His special interest was vaccines. At the time, the French were expanding their plantations in Indo-China, rubber in particular, and they offered him a position devoted to anti-malarial vaccines, sponsored by the tyre company Michelin.’
‘Interesting. And what about you?’ said the nun.
‘I was just finishing my college education here in Munich, and was interested in medicine. My father knew the Director of the American Hospital in Neuilly, on the edge of Paris. The Director was originally a military surgeon from Baltimore, who came over to help the British Army in France early in the last war. I did two years there, training to be a nurse, and received my diploma. They made me learn English also.’ She stopped, thinking whether to mention it. ‘My training included the treatment of casualties from chemical warfare. My father wanted me to learn how to handle that. He seemed to know a lot about it, and helped me himself.’
‘I see,’ said Sister Agnes. ‘After the gas used in the trenches in the 1914 War, the medical services would have to be ready if it happened again. How terrible.’
‘Then, rather stupidly and against my father’s wishes, I returned to Germany with ideas of becoming a doctor.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said the nun, her natural sternness giving way to a broad smile. ‘What happened to your family when war broke out?’
‘My father faced a dilemma. His work by then was very important to the French. He knew a lot, not only about vaccines, but about the use of chemical agents which could be used in warfare. He didn’t want to leave France but after Pétain’s deal with Hitler, the Vichy French government also classified him as a Jew. It would be madness to return here and face being sent to a concentration camp. His American friend spoke to someone in the US Embassy, and the offer of a professorship at Baltimore came through quickly. The United States still being a neutral country meant there wouldn’t be any immigration problems.’
The nun looked intently at Elisabeth. ‘Chemical warfare, Theresa. So far that hasn’t happened, praise be to God. How did you know of his involvement in that?’
‘I overheard a conversation late one night at home in Paris. My father, and a visitor trying to persuade him to leave France which was now an ally of Germany. You see, I think he thought of his research, his work, as above politics. Politics was not his concern. He thought everyone should have access to his research. In that way, governments would come to the same conclusion, that the consequences were too terrible for either side to run the risk.’
Theresa, as she now was, paused. ‘So he must have decided to take the advice. After I returned to Munich, that was. He and my mother and younger sister, boarded a vessel at Le Havre and just went, to America. They asked me to join them, but I refused. My life was here and that was it. Call it foolishness, but at my age I just trusted my luck. Now I realise what a mistake I made. I’m an obstinate person, Sister.’
‘I see. So there’s no problem of next of kin making enquiries when you disappear, Theresa.’
‘That’s right. And I heard that the Luftwaffe needs nurses for North Africa, female as well as male.’
Suddenly the question came. ‘How can you reconcile fighting for the Nazis with their treatment of the Jews?’ The nun was now deadly serious.
‘I’m German. I love Germany. I hate the Nazis, but as a nurse I will be playing my part in helping our soldiers and airmen. And of course, it’s a solution to my big problem. How otherwise do I avoid deportation?’
‘What about your qualifications?’ asked the nun.
‘I intend to keep to my true story of training at the American Hospital in Paris. The Director there is still the same one, my father’s friend. He’s stuck to his job, and America remains neutral. I think he’ll agree to re-issue my nursing diploma in my new name, Theresa Krüger. My father told me before he left, that he would ask him to remember me, in case I needed help. He knows we’re of Jewish origin.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to say,’ exclaimed the nun. ‘You’re certainly bold.’
‘Achtung! Achtung! Bitte aussteigen.’ The ship’s public address system blared out, ordering all to prepare to disembark. Theresa Krüger was up on deck in no time, kit bag dragged behind her, thankful to be out in the open and stand in line with the other nurses. Still early morning, the heat was building up. Hats on the side of their heads gave little protection from a blazing sun. Libyan Arab dockhands were securing the lines as the hospital ship made fast alongside the wharf. Trucks stood ready to transport them and their baggage to her new home, Tripoli.
‘Find yourself chairs, everyone. I’m going to give you some background to the fighting out here.’ The Luftwaffe officer was really good-looking, thought Theresa, as she sat next to a couple of her new friends from the voyage over. A young captain, probably even younger than he looked, the officer moved across to a map bearing small coloured flags and lines drawn in wax crayon.
‘The desert war moves quickly, it’s hard to know where the front line is sometimes. The airfields change hands frequently, and our forward dressing stations are always on the move. You’ll start here in Tripoli, in the Wehrmacht military hospital. You have to get used to the climate and the food. Life is different out here.’ There was a rustle of expectation among the nurses.
The Captain continued. ‘When we arrived last January, General Rommel went on the attack immediately. The British had pushed our Italian allies out of most of Libya, and were surprised the Afrika Korps went into action so soon after arriving. We took them unawares. Our advance was spectacular, into Cyrenaica and almost to the Egyptian frontier, although the enemy held on to the port of Tobruk.’
