The traitor, p.24
The Traitor, page 24
Yours sincerely,
Dimitri Kirov
Two days after that letter had arrived, she had received a phone call from Kirov.
‘I shouldn’t really be telling you this, Miss Lockhart,’ he had said, ‘but you should keep trying – you must keep trying. The records you seek do exist, and one day they will be opened. Write to us every year, pester us by all means. One day it will work.’
‘But Mr Kirov . . .’
The line had then gone dead.
Amy had little idea when ‘one day’ would be, but she supposed it would be a long way off. She would keep trying, as Kirov suggested, even if the truth about her father was somewhere in a vault in the middle of Moscow.
It seemed absurd. All she wanted was a few sheets of paper, and it seemed as if the whole world was stopping her.
Chapter Five
February–April 1944
MANY OF THEM had children, and they liked talking about them.
‘You should see my son, he’s a real knock-out – the girls love him!’
‘I hope he treats them well!’
‘My son speaks five languages.’
‘My daughter is the most beautiful pianist.’
‘Mine plays the violin.’
‘Maybe they could play together!’
And it was comments like that which ended such conversations. To talk about the future, as though it would be milk and honey, was a sin. The women didn’t want to embrace such thoughts, they just wanted to keep the images of their children frozen in their heads, putting them into a kind of inner present borrowed from years long since passed.
‘How about you, Anna? Do you have any children?’
‘I have a small daughter,’ 10678 replied.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Amy.’
‘A pretty name! How old is she?’
‘Six.’
‘And where is she now?’
‘In England.’
‘In England?’
But this was when 10678 stopped answering. Even if she got Amy back, she would have lost all those years. How many was it now? Four. ‘Dada in car’ echoed from the past. What words did she know now? She’d be able to run. To go to the lavatory on her own. Read and write. Have some proper friends. Ask where her mother was.
The railway carriage was nearly empty, save for a few officials wearing swastika armbands over heavy suits. Pugh and Butcher were stretched out along the uncomfortable benches, attempting to get some sleep. They had left Hildesheim at five that morning, and by now, at two o’clock, all were exhausted. Worstead was sitting opposite, doing his best to read a book on the Valkyries. Evidently the German classes were of some use then, Lockhart thought.
Lockhart looked out the window. It was flat countryside, ploughed brown and dull, and made duller by the rain. The occasional village in the distance broke the monotony, but there was little else of interest. He felt that he should keep his eyes open, take in all he could, but he too was tired. They wouldn’t be arriving in Danzig until tomorrow morning, assuming that all the lines were intact and there wasn’t too much military traffic. Strasser had warned him that trains could wait for hours – if not days – on end, and they could count themselves lucky if they completed the journey in around twenty-four hours.
He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and leant his head back against the seat and the side of the carriage. His left hand felt a small bump inside his tunic. It was his letter to ‘Hattie’, along with his pass, whose few small pages confirmed his apparent treachery. Grey, the size of a passport, and emblazoned with the SS runes on its cover, his SS Personalausweis confirmed that he was six foot tall, was born in London on 2 February 1913, had Blutgruppe O running through his veins, and held the rank of hauptsturmführer. The small photograph of him stapled to the inside front cover had been cut into a clumsy octagon, and stamped with two spread eagles. He could barely look at it.
The other item that he had been issued with was far more welcome: a Luger. However, Strasser had forbidden him any ammunition, so the pistol was not much better than a club. Strasser had said that was just as well, as the Luger’s capacity to jam meant that it made little difference whether it had bullets in it or not. Naturally, Lockhart would have preferred to have been properly armed, but it was reassuring to be carrying a gun again.
The group had three nights in Danzig before visiting their first POW camp, Stalag XXa near Thorn, a few hours south. Except for Lockhart, the men found the break an opportunity to sleep with nearly every dockside prostitute. Even the normally abstemious Butcher had struck personal gold by finding a half-Japanese girl. Lockhart was in no mood to stop them, reasoning that a sexually satisfied Pugh, Butcher and Worstead would be a little more relaxed and malleable. Lockhart was slightly surprised that Worstead cheated on Beth, but he didn’t ask. It made him think there was no Beth, that the whole story had been a lie, but then he knew that many men did not see whoring as cheating, especially away from home in wartime. Even if Lockhart had been the cheating kind, however, he would hardly have been tempted by what was on offer – mostly young Polish girls beaten and abused by German sailors, emaciated and riddled with God knows what.
Danzig was a grim place, Lockhart thought. Colourless and cruel, beaten down and cold, its soul broken. Sailors everywhere, green from malnourishment, and the occasional submariner, pasty from months under the Baltic. What had once been a proud port was being raped by the war, abused and spat out. It was fucked, thought Lockhart, there was no other word for it. Its women, its buildings, its pride – all were being gruesomely fucked until they were dry and cracked. Soon it would be empty, just a churning mass of black fog, steel, concrete and flesh. And sitting on top of this industrial corpse, its fluids seeping into the gulf – the drip tray under a stained dissecting table – would be the inevitable swastika, flapping wildly in a hollow gale.
The city made Lockhart feel nervous. It felt like the future, or how he imagined it – an absence of warmth and love, no freedom, and just a waiting, a longing even, for death. The future would be modern and yet barbaric, a new type of paganism, complete with its soot-rimmed chimneys and its new tortures. The human would be a unit, a statistical unit that would work to build the heartless dark glory of the Nazi corporate state, an eyeless beast that ate its own offspring, their sinews stuck in its bloodied and worn teeth as it gorged.
But Lockhart also felt nervous because of what he had to do. He had to face the friend, dressed as he was as the enemy, and persuade the friend to join him in wearing this vile costume. Surely it was impossible? But then maybe there were more opportunist Hulls, and maybe there were a few more Pughs who had kept their fascism tucked away under straw mattresses. Perhaps the latest recruiting leaflet, this one written by Pugh, might encourage them to come forward to declare themselves.
As a result of repeated applications from British subjects from all parts of the world wishing to take part in the common European struggle against Bolshevism, authorisation has recently been given for the creation of a British volunteer unit.
The BRITISH FREE CORPS publishes herewith the following short statement of the aims and principles of the unit.
1) The British Free Corps is a thoroughly British volunteer unit conceived and created by British subjects from all parts of the Empire who have taken up arms and pledged their lives in the common European struggle against Soviet Russia.
2) The British Free Corps condemns the war with Germany and the sacrifice of British blood in the interests of Jewry and international Finance and regards this conflict as a fundamental betrayal of the British People and British imperial interests.
3) The British Free Corps desires the establishment of peace in Europe, the development of close friendly relations between England and Germany, and the encouragement of mutual understanding and collaboration between the two great Germanic peoples.
4) The British Free Corps will neither make war against Britain or the British Crown, nor support any action or policy detrimental to the interests of the British people.
Published by the British Free Corps
Lockhart scrunched the leaflet up and threw it on to the floor of his grubby hotel room. It was the last night before they were due to leave, and he was lying on a stinking bed, still in his uniform, staring at the exposed masonry at the top of the wall.
His mind was churning with his priorities, priorities that conflicted, priorities that shifted. First, he had to find a trustworthy NCO, someone who could pass on the letter. That was essential – London had to know about the sarin, if Nicolas was telling the truth. And in the mean time, he had to find out more about the gas. What would it be stored in? How could it be destroyed, if at all? He needed help, needed to find an expert, but who? And where would he find him? Perhaps London could help, but he couldn’t assume any assistance from that direction.
Secondly, he had to go through the motions of recruiting traitors to serve in the unit – a prospect that revolted him, but something that had to be done if he was to stay alive. The deeper he became involved in the recruitment drive, the more London would get to hear, via POWs’ letters back home, of his treachery. And if London thought he was a traitor, then they wouldn’t believe his message about the sarin.
But he needed to find some more men. If he was going to do something about the gas, then he had to assemble a team, a body of men who would be able to join him. Men like Hull and Andreae, men who he could rely upon to be loyal to him. If he was going to have to deal with the sarin himself, if he was going to have to track it down and destroy it, then he couldn’t do it alone.
And always there, at the back of his mind, was Anna. His thoughts kept returning to her, wondering where she was, how she was, if she was. The thought that he might be able to see her soon was almost too good – he didn’t allow himself to believe that it would happen. The notion that Strasser would be true to his word was inconceivable, but there was surely some chance of it.
It was either the church or him, but Lockhart felt hot. He guessed it was him, as he vainly inserted a finger into his stiff collar, fruitlessly attempting to cool down. He was sitting in the front pew, next to Richard and his father. His leg was jigging violently up and down.
‘Keep still, brother,’ said Richard. ‘You’ll just make it worse.’
‘Make what worse?’
‘Your sweat.’
‘Shit. Is it really—’
‘Shh! You’re not supposed to say that in here.’
‘Shi—’
‘You nearly said it again!’
‘All right, all right. Pass me a handkerchief.’
Richard produced one from his breast pocket.
‘I was saving this for the ladies,’ he said, before handing it over.
‘Your brother, the groom, takes precedence,’ said Lockhart, bending down in the pew to wipe his face out of sight of the two hundred or so members of the congregation.
‘This organist, even though he’s ancient, is pretty good,’ said Richard.
‘Is he? I wouldn’t know – you know I’m rubbish at the piano.’
‘Who is he?’
‘All I know is that he’s some sort of music professor, Saunders or something.’
‘Have you seen his tails?’
Lockhart looked over to the organ. Richard was right to remark on Saunders’ tails – they were filthy, covered in assorted grey and white stains, moth-holes visible from ten feet away.
‘I hope whatever lurgies that lie within the evil tails of Mr Saunders do not migrate to the chaste and ivory purity of your bride’s dress.’
‘Stop it,’ said Lockhart, struggling not to get the giggles.
An usher, one of Anna’s cousins, approached them.
‘They’re here,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Bill,’ said Richard.
The news knocked the schoolboyish giggling out of the two brothers. Lockhart looked at his father, who gave him a slight nod and a wink. There was a sadness in his eyes. He would have wanted Ma here today, Lockhart thought, he would have wanted her here so badly. Lockhart and Richard walked up to where the priest was standing; he gave them both a reassuring smile. Saunders stopped playing, and for a few seconds Lockhart could hear the muted sounds of shuffling and coughing coming from behind him. He felt the top of his forehead moistening, and started to worry that he would look like a sweaty wreck.
Anna looked more sensational than he could have imagined. When he first saw her, arm in arm with her father, he felt an enormous sense of calm, an instinctive – rather than a merely rational – realisation that he was doing the right thing, that this was who he had always wanted to be with. The church, the world felt still, and to him there was no noise, just the sight of her graceful approach. His leg stopped shaking, although he had to force himself to stop worrying about the drop of sweat that he could feel crawling down from his forehead.
By the time she was standing next to him, he felt completely serene. His eyes studied every part of her veiled face, and she was doing the same to him. Every few seconds, an uncharacteristic bashfulness on both their parts meant they both looked away, but it was only for a few seconds. Neither of them really sang ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer’, but just mouthed the words, all the time gazing at each other. Anna’s father made up for them, singing both loudly and mostly in tune.
As the train drew in to Thorn station, Lockhart noticed that they had a welcoming committee on the platform.
‘Looks as though we’ve got the commandant himself,’ he said, addressing the men, who were buttoning up their tunics and replacing their caps. Although it was noon, both Worstead and Pugh looked tired, still recovering from the excesses of the previous evening. Butcher looked alert, having shunned the company of his half-Japanese conquest and turned in early. Lockhart, typically, had slept badly, although anxiety at what the afternoon might bring negated any exhaustion. The train drew to a halt, and the men got up, Lockhart putting on his overcoat and his cap. It looked bloody cold outside, judging by the NCOs shuffling their feet and rubbing their gloveless hands.
They stepped out on to the platform. A paunchy middle-aged Wehrmacht major came forward to greet them. He had a pleasant enough face, like that of the typical jolly butcher, thought Lockhart, albeit with a huge greying Prussian moustache.
‘Hauptsturmführer Lockhart?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Major Jüttner at your service.’
Lockhart was relieved to see that Jüttner gave him a normal military salute, and not a Heil Hitler. Lockhart saluted back.
‘Thank you, Major,’ he said. ‘And these are Oberscharführers Butcher and Worstead, and Rottenführer Pugh.’
The men saluted the major in turn, Pugh and Butcher showing off their most fanatical Heil Hitlers, as if to make up for the traditional salutes of Lockhart and Jüttner, who was indicating that they should make their way to the cars at the station entrance.
‘I must say, Hauptsturmführer Lockhart, I have been looking forward to meeting the legendary members of the British Free Corps.’
‘I didn’t realise we were legendary, Herr Major.’
‘Oh but you are! It’s quite something when one learns that the British are helping us to fight the Russians.’
Lockhart practised his idiot smile.
‘Well, they are the real enemy.’
‘Quite so! And I must say, the leaflets you sent last week have caused quite a stir in the camp.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘The prisoners seem to be looking forward to meeting you very much, although I doubt that your reception will be exactly friendly.’
‘I didn’t expect to be welcomed with open arms.’
‘They will take some convincing. I’m afraid those leaflets have been put to an unexpected use.’
‘Really?’
‘Apparently the prisoners have tied them together with string and hung them in the latrines.’
Lockhart was delighted, knowing that Pugh, who was following close behind, would have heard every word of their conversation. It seemed appropriate that his crude propaganda should be put to an even cruder end. Lockhart did his best to sound serious.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Herr Major.’
‘Ach! Never mind! You know how inventive prisoners can be.’
‘Quite. So, has there been any interest at all?’
‘We have had two approaches so far – you shall meet them after your address. They’re not exactly the most upstanding members of the prison community, but I would have thought you would be interested in any potential recruits for your unit.’
‘Very much so. I’m sure we’ll be able to whip them into shape.’
‘I’m sure you will – the SS has quite a reputation for turning men against their true natures.’
Lockhart saw at once the major’s deliberate ambiguity. What did he mean? Was he in some way trying to get Lockhart to open up, to reveal that he wasn’t a real traitor? Or was it just a comment on the renowned brutality of the SS? Act dumb, thought Lockhart, idiot smile.
‘I’m sorry, Major, I don’t know what you mean.’
Jüttner laughed.
‘Oh Hauptsturmführer, I think you do! But never mind. Here are the cars. You come with me, and your men will go with mine. It’s about a twenty-minute drive and then we shall have some lunch, before you address the prisoners at half past two. You must be hungry, yes?’
‘Starving.’
He was indeed starving, but he had no appetite. The thought of speaking to four hundred British POWs – all men and NCOs, brutalised by the toughness of the camp regime – and preaching to them of the rightness of the Nazi cause against the Russians was too much. Jüttner and two of his junior officers had been asking him questions all the way through lunch, and Lockhart had allowed his subconscious to answer. Where was he from in England? Oxford. They had heard of Oxford – a nice town? Very nice, thanks. And what did he study there? Classics. The classics, eh? So you are a very educated man, Mr . . . sorry, Hauptsturmführer Lockhart. A little? Come, come – you are too modest! More wine?
