War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 27
“We’ve learned some details from POWs who escaped when your camp was evacuated and made their way down the lines,” said Jarek. “Plus, the SOE has infiltrated that corner of Poland most thoroughly. The camp commandant, they say, was frantic over his missing wife but tried to hide it from his superiors, maybe hoping the evacuation of the camp would provide cover. A contingent of SS came to oversee the withdrawal and the junior officers—aspiring SS no doubt and bootlickers, most certainly—dropped broad hints about the missing prisoners and the missing wife. The commandant was relieved of his command, taken into custody. He’s probably jailed in Berlin. Senior camp guards were dispatched to find you.”
“What of the driver and the guard we left bound at the house?” Gordon asked.
“The house was not checked for well over a week, Lieutenant, and by that time, they were dead. Most fortunate that they were not able to offer information that could have headed off your escape at its inception. You should have shot them both in the head before you departed. That kind of sentimentality can catch up with you.”
“What about the cook and the housekeeper?” Gordon wanted to know. “They were most helpful to us. Are they safe?”
“I’m impressed, soldier, with your concern for them. Safely away, we believe. We can’t be absolutely certain, but they are out of Sagan and we’ve had no reports of anything going awry. Now, there is a washroom around the corner and I would encourage you to get a bite to eat. Then we’ll talk about tomorrow.”
The men relished removing their many layers of wet, dirt-caked clothes, all of them rinsing their filthy socks and laying them to dry over the radiator. They took turns washing up, lathering their red, chapped faces with a bar of harsh soap and shaving with the single razor that had been left for them. Returning to the office, they waited for Jarek to continue.
“It is nearly eleven. You have four or five more hours to rest before we load up to take you to Babia Góra. We have a newspaper truck that does not draw suspicion when it’s on the streets in the early morning. The occupiers do not molest us because they believe we are distributing their propaganda and we are. If they looked more closely, they would find our leaflets in the folds of the paper that tell the truth of what is happening in the war. From Babia Góra, it is a brief trek over the border and from there, it is seventy kilometers to Kalinov, Czechoslovakia. The terrain is forested and rocky but affords safety. You must follow a path that stays south of the ridge—the highest in the Carpathians, by the way—so that you don’t accidentally wander back into Poland. Questions?”
. . .
Fortified by sleep and cups of hot coffee, the men’s conversation was hopeful and energetic as they traveled south. One of Jarek’s young aides was at the wheel, offering all he knew about the terrain they would soon face and the odds they would encounter German patrols this high up in the mountains. He hoped not, but with the Nazis withdrawing, there could be stragglers who would like nothing better than to pick off an Allied soldier. As the men leapt from the truck bed, eager for this final leg of a mission six months in the making, the young Pole made the sign of the cross over each of them, thanking them, and wishing them powodzenia—good luck—in the hours ahead.
It was mid-morning and after a good look at Floyd’s map, updated with Jarek’s notations, the group began their long walk. As they walked, silently, purposefully, Gordon finally allowed himself to consider the possibility he might soon see his family, that the nightmare of his long captivity could end. He wondered suddenly where Annalise was, whether she had left Kraków, only to discover the camp closed and her husband jailed. What were her options? Perhaps she would she try to get to Switzerland and her children because backtracking to Berlin held its own dangers.
Within an hour, they had crossed into Czechoslovakia, an event they had expected to involve more high-stakes drama. They paused for a brief moment, shook hands, and clapped one another on the back before proceeding on their way. After several more hours, they emerged from the most thickly forested portion of the mountain crest and heard the rumble of trucks. They hoped these belonged to the Soviet army. They did not. The men melted into the forest and waited, ears straining for any sound that might signal a soldier’s approach. Melvin stood behind a tree, his eyes trained on the direction from which the vehicle sounds had come, wondering how they had managed to progress this close to a road without realizing it. He peeked out, waited, and seeing nothing, stepped into the open, believing he and his colleagues were alone. The machine gun fire shattered the pastoral quiet of the woods and Melvin fell, blood erupting from the many holes in his chest, his torso.
Al sprang from the ditch in which he’d hidden, coming at the shooter from behind. He raised the Lugar and fired, Gordon racing with him to provide cover, scanning for a second shooter. The German sentry took the bullet in his back and he fell forward onto his knees. As he dropped, he waved his weapon, his finger still pressed on the trigger, releasing another storm of bullets, one that ricocheted off a tree to strike Graham in his femoral artery, another hitting Gordon first in his shoulder, then piercing his side. As the landscape went black, Gordon heard a loud howl, not realizing that it was his own voice, crying in pain as the bullet shredded the tissue and muscle of his chest and worked its way just above his heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
No one can serve two masters.
–Jesus of Nazareth
Matthew 6:24
Kraków, 1944
Annalise took so long to take stock, to decide her next steps, that after a few days, Piotr flirted with the idea of calling the Gestapo himself to come get her out from underfoot. She seemed to think of him and his family as her new house staff and took to demanding food and beverage when she wished them instead of waiting for it to be offered, turning up her nose at dishes she disliked and suggesting ways they could be improved. Sitting in the mornings with her tea, she chose to ignore the peril she faced, for the first time in her life having no man to oversee her passage from one place of relative safety to the next. Her options were narrowing. The staff car had been discovered and impounded and while it had not yet been linked back to the escapes from Stalag-Luft III, officious Nazi investigators would eventually discover its provenance. If Annalise revealed herself to the High Command as a kidnapping victim who needed the Germans to transfer her back to Berlin, they would quickly put the critical puzzle pieces together—that the escapees had traveled through Kraków and could be nearby.
“They will interrogate you,” said Piotr. “They may look for evidence you played a part in assisting the escape.”
“There is no evidence to uncover,” she responded. “I will persuade them I did not cooperate and they will believe me and arrange my passage home. It is mostly the truth. I certainly did not plan to make a trip here. They will reach out to Reinhard and he will vouch for me.”
Piotr smiled. The commandant would not be in a position to vouch for anyone for some time, perhaps ever. “The way back will be difficult, you know. The Germans are in full retreat west, jamming the roads with troops and trucks and armored vehicles. Your husband’s camp has been evacuated and the Home Army is asserting its control over more territory every day. You may be a liability, rather than the high priority for repatriation you think you should be.”
He could see it irritated her that he refused to display the deference she was accustomed to.
“Only months ago,” she spat, “I hosted the best minds of the Reich at a party that was talked about for months, and now I’m consigned to debating a vile little man I could get before a firing squad if I wished.”
“Indeed, Frau, I’m sure if you’d had a hint you would be mistreated this way, apart from the commandant’s rank and authority, you might have thought twice before leaving him. Nevertheless, we’ve one more thing to discuss: the valise. What about that?” Piotr had kept the small suitcase locked away from her since she arrived, a safeguard for her cooperation.
“What about it? I expect you to return it to me. I will tell the authorities the prisoners allowed me to pack before they carried me off.”
“But its contents—pieces of exquisite jewelry, many, many, in fact. The fine French lingerie, and that very thick pile of Reichmarks. How will you explain that?”
She closed her eyes, gathering herself before she spoke. “I do not appreciate you pawing through my things.”
“Frau Schröder, the Gestapo will not simply paw through your things. They will seize them. And before they steal them, they will assert that they have evidence of your mutually cooperative relationship with escaped Allied prisoners who allowed you to retain valuables instead of stealing them from you—the lingerie perhaps not, but the other things certainly. I do not think that even you, with your considerable interpersonal skills, could settle those questions satisfactorily. Remember, the Gestapo does not require a complete set of facts; a hint of wrongdoing is enough for them to exact retribution.”
They sat in silence, Annalise sipping her cold tea.
“You could abandon the valise here, my dear. Showing up at the High Command without your possessions—with only your tattered Ausweis, no change of clothes—will make the story more believable and ensure…”
“What? Leave my family heirlooms with you? And the money? That is what you’re after, is it, to appropriate my things?”
“Frau, if you wish to leave here with the items in your valise, be my guest. Good luck to you. Should you point the Gestapo my way, remember that I have the second Ausweis, the Jewish version, that I do not believe you wish disclosed. I am respected in this town. It’s how I have managed to survive this long without getting caught: they believe me loyal. So, in my view, you have but one choice to ensure your freedom and the retention of these items that seem so very important to you: avoid the authorities and allow the network to pass you through the lines. You may be questioned at the Swiss border, but you won’t be shot on the spot. The Swiss are accustomed to all kinds of wild stories. Alternatively, you can stay here and we’ll sip tea together like this for the remainder of the war. It should not be all that long, and at that point, I shall turn you in to the Allies.”
“When I return to Germany,” Annalise said imperiously, rising to her feet to make her point, “and tell my husband of this blackmail, it will be you who is in danger. He will dispatch agents to your door and close down your little operation here.”
Piotr raised a hand to his head, as if an important piece of information had just come to mind, something that could not wait.
“A moment, Frau, because I realize there is one more thing I neglected to tell you. A thousand apologies. Forgive me if I implied that your husband had moved with the camp, that he was still in command of a relocated operation. He is not. He is in Berlin, in jail, charged with high treason because his wife ran off with her lover, a British solider, a bit of news he tried to hide from his superiors. So, alas, he cannot do you terribly much good now. Perhaps not ever.” Piotr rose and stood eye to eye with Annalise, who had no quick retort, no sharp dismissal this time. “So, do what you like, Frau. But whatever it is, it’s time you removed yourself from this home because as well-mannered houseguests go, you have much to learn.”
. . .
The next morning, her jewelry and soon-to-be worthless Reichmarks sewn into the multiple layers of clothes she wore, Annalise walked out of the row house behind a partisan who would take her the first few miles on her journey to freedom. Her blonde hair was hidden underneath a leather cap, her face streaked with tears in fear of what lay ahead, her stomach roiled with nausea. Piotr handed over both sets of identification papers to her as she left, not knowing which might afford her safer passage at this moment in the war.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Truth is a divine word. Duty is a divine law.
–Douglas Clyde Macintosh
Elsworth, 1944
Beryl’s mind raced as she and Colin followed Reverend Dowd back to the parlor—was she needed at the hospital? Had there been a fresh attack in London?
The man who had arrived late to the service intercepted the vicar as the little group made its way toward the parlor. The two exchanged a whispered conversation, the vicar nodding, the man falling in with Colin and Beryl.
“Vicar, what is it?” She implored as they arrived in the tiny meeting room.
“Colin, Beryl.” He took their hands. “There is news. This is Andrew Wilkins, an agent with British intelligence. I have just this moment read a telegram with news of your husband.”
Mother and son stared dumbly at the old man. “His things, do you mean? His ashes?” asked Beryl. “What further news?”
“Only that he is alive, in France. Alive and well.”
“That cannot be,” Beryl said firmly, hands reaching for the bookcase to steady herself. “Who is claiming this?”
Wilkins responded. “The War Office, the information confirmed by agents in my section. Lieutenant Clarke is in the company of a British unit in southern France. He escaped through Czechoslovakia with assistance from a variety of special operatives. He was shot and wounded, Mrs. Clarke, but we are confident he will fully recover.”
The news stunned mother and son. Beryl swayed, then reached for Colin for ballast. He gripped her wrists and guided her to the settee, their eyes locking, tears gathering. With his mother safely seated, Colin bent at the waist, hands on his knees, searching for equilibrium.
“Where was he shot?” he asked, breathless, bewildered.
“Well, if you’re asking geographically, he was shot outside Kalinov, Czechoslovakia, as he attempted to escape with four other soldiers. If you’re asking where he was hit, his shoulder took the initial fire, but the bullet traveled into his torso. He’s had several surgeries, but appears now to be on the mend. No lasting damage.”
“But how did this happen?” Beryl asked finally. “Why was I told he’d died of typhus?”
Wilkins let out a long sigh. “That is a complicated story. It took some work for us to unravel, put some pieces together, but we had reliable intelligence on the lieutenant so by mid-summer…”
“Midsummer?” said Beryl sharply. “You knew last summer that he was alive? Why was I not apprised? Why, in God’s name, would you leave me and our son to grieve over this when it wasn’t true?”
“To be perfectly frank, Mrs. Clarke, it was because of some activities he was involved in, in Poland, that we did not think he would survive. Would you have preferred we tell you he survived the infection, only to tell you now that he had been caught and killed attempting an escape six months later? Does it make that much difference?”
“Yes,” she said to no one in particular. “It makes a tremendous difference. Had I known Gordon was alive—even if it had only been for the past six months—well, it would have made more difference to me than you can possibly know.”
But the intelligence officer did know. Their delay in informing her was unfortunate, certainly, as the woman had only taken up with the American after she believed she’d been widowed. But his office and the agencies with whom he coordinated did not make decisions to defend the United Kingdom predicated on such things.
After a few minutes of silence, the vicar gently inquired what Beryl would like to do now. “Your friends are still gathered in the sanctuary and we must offer an explanation of what’s happened. They will perhaps want to speak with you so you can stay here and be less available for that or we can return to the service and I’ll explain and send them on their way as best I can. I can’t say there’s a Church of England protocol for an occasion such as this.”
They would return to the sanctuary, they decided, to share this unbelievable news with the people whose love had sustained them these many months. After that, they would reconvene with the intelligence officer to learn details of Gordon’s return. The Clarkes clasped hands tightly and followed the vicar back thru the narrow hallways to the sanctuary, Wilkins following at a distance. Beryl’s head was bowed as she took her seat next to Jack. After failing to catch her eye, Jack reached his arm protectively around her, gave her a squeeze, then rested it on the top of the pew.
The vicar whispered a few more directives to the organist, then mounted the pulpit, dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief. The music ended, and he spoke.
“Dear friends,” he began, “the family would like to express their deepest thanks to each of you for your steadfast friendship and support. But we have just learned that Lieutenant Gordon Clarke, the one whom we gather to mourn today, has no need of our grief. He has been found alive, in blessed good health, having escaped to France. He is with the British army and most certainly eager to return to his dear family.” The murmurs built as the assemblage expressed astonishment at the news. Reverend Dowd charged right into a prayer because, despite there being no Anglican liturgy to cover this very specific set of circumstances, he well knew prayer was always the proper response to miracles.
“Blimy!” Hugo exclaimed as he leapt from the pew and threw his arms around Colin. Both boys sobbed, as Hugo repeated over and over, “Colin… your dad! Your bloody dad!”
The twins began a little jig, prompting Ivy to pull the closest one to her back into the pew, reminding them laughingly, “We’re still in church!”
Seeing the odd paleness of her skin, Wills rose and sat next to Beryl to ask if she needed water—anything—whispering phrases that were incomprehensible to her along the lines of “How did… when did… what do you…?” She could not respond because by this time, she had turned to Jack, her eyes sorrowful, anticipating the pain ahead. He nodded, trying valiantly to smile, mouthing that this was great news. Wonderful news. The best news. Good for Colin—again and again.
Encouraged by the vicar to allow the family a time of privacy to absorb this joyful albeit shocking news, the attendees shuffled past Beryl’s pew as they departed, several giving Colin a pat, offering Beryl a wave or blowing a kiss, many of them signaling to Ivy that they would be over soon to hear all the details. As the church emptied, Beryl asked Ivy if she could take the children to allow her a moment with Jack. When they had left, Beryl reached for Jack’s hand, so comfortingly familiar to her now, a hand that had dried her tears too many times to count.
