The traitor, p.6
The Traitor, page 6
They don’t notice him at first. There are at least twenty of them, all laughing in that loud way that always makes him feel so uneasy. Eventually, Sir Oswald spots him, and strides over, a broad smile forming under his dark moustache.
‘Aaaaaah! There you are! Did you have a good trip down?’
He goes over and shakes Sir Oswald’s hand. The Leader looks the picture of health and is very much at ease.
‘Very nice, thank you, Sir Oswald.’
‘I’m so glad. I say, have you come from a funeral?’
He looks around – everybody else is wearing light summer suits or tweeds.
‘My other suit is at the cleaner’s.’
It is a lie, and he knows they must know it is a lie, but what else can he say? That he has only got one suit?
‘Never mind – so long as you are comfortable. Now then, we’re all having a drink before lunch – what would you like?’
He doesn’t know what to say. Normally he only drinks beer, but everybody else seems to be having cocktails.
‘I think I’ll have a cocktail.’
‘Any particular one? Jessop here can make you anything from a Stinger to a punchy Mint Julep.’
Is Sir Oswald doing this on purpose? Surely he knows that people like him don’t drink cocktails? He looks at Sir Oswald’s glass – it looks nice enough.
‘I’ll have what you’re having, Sir Oswald.’
‘Gin and French? Whatever you say. Jessop – could you get the man a gin and French? Now come along and I’ll introduce you to a few of our benefactors, especially Sir George, who has heard so much about you.’
He is glad that he hasn’t brought Eileen along. She would be an embarrassment, and besides, he wants to concentrate on making a good impression and not worry about her behaviour. She’ll learn one day, when he has reached the top. Hopefully, she could become like one of the ladies here.
Later, his speech is met with polite applause. Sir Oswald tells him it was ‘capital’, but he doesn’t feel so sure and goes to bed early. He hears laughter as he walks slowly up the stairs.
November 1943
‘Where’s Daddy?’
‘Daddy’s not here, darling.’
‘But he was here last birthday.’
‘I know, but he’s had to go away, Amy, he’s gone to help fight the Germans.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a brave man, fighting for his country.’
‘And where’s Mummy?’
‘She’s gone too, gone to help her mummy.’
‘Where?’
‘Why don’t you just blow out your candles? Come on, deep breath, and then blow!’
Amy blew out the candles, watched by her Aunt Ellie, Uncle Peter and their two children, her cousins Harry and Sam. What she did know was that Auntie Ellie was her mummy’s sister, and that she didn’t like Harry and Sam, who would tease her because she was a girl, tease her because she didn’t live with her own mummy and daddy.
Daddy used to come and see her, sometimes every few days, bringing her a toy or occasionally some chocolate. She loved it when Daddy came – he was always so funny, and he looked so smart, wearing his Army uniform. Why did Uncle Peter not wear an Army uniform? Amy asked. Because Uncle Peter, said Daddy, was doing something far more important, which meant that he had to wear a suit and tie. What did he do then? Aha, that was a secret – a secret that little girls weren’t allowed to know. And that would annoy Amy, who would stamp her feet, and say that that wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t fair that little girls shouldn’t know things. Once she remembered Aunt Ellie saying, ‘Oh, she’s Anna’s daughter all right,’ and Daddy laughing. But Daddy didn’t come here any more, and Aunt Ellie and Uncle Peter would never tell her where he had gone, and just said that he was ‘very brave’.
There was a picture of Mummy on the wall in her bedroom, the bedroom she shared with Sam, her younger cousin. She couldn’t really remember her mummy, and once she said something that made Aunt Ellie cry.
‘Mummy’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘No!’ Aunt Ellie replied. ‘You mustn’t say that, Amy. Mummy has just gone away for a little bit, and she’ll be back soon.’
‘Back with Daddy?’
‘That’s right, darling – back with Daddy – and then you can go back to your own house, with both of them.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Very soon.’
‘But when? When?’
‘Soon, Amy, soon. Come on, it’s time for bed.’
And she would lie in bed until Sam had gone to sleep, and when he had done so, she would get up and take down the picture of Mummy from the wall. She would open the blackout curtain next to her bed, and if the moon was out, she would look at the picture for a long time, tracing her little fingers over her mummy’s smiling face. And when she got tired, she would fall asleep clutching the picture, feeling the hardness of the frame on the pillow next to her.
Sometimes, Aunt Ellie would get up in the middle of the night, and check up on them. Each time, she would find Amy clasping the picture, and she would attempt to remove it, release it from her niece’s grasp as gently as possible. But Amy’s grip was too strong, and Aunt Ellie, try as hard as she might, found that there was no way she could take the picture of her sister away.
Chapter Two
November 1943
OBERSTLEUTNANT WALTHER DIETRICH lit a cigarette, put his feet up on the desk, and closed his eyes. It had been a long night, chasing partisans all over the hills. They had shot two of the bastards as they were running from the arms dump, but God knows how many had escaped. Three of his men had been killed, and he wanted blood. It didn’t matter whether it was the blood of the partisans or the civilians – they were all in it together. He had already issued the order to take thirty hostages, but before he shot them, he would have breakfast. Never go to work on an empty stomach, his mother had always told him. Perhaps he would have a snooze as well. What was the time? Nine o’clock. Yes, that would be good: a quarter of an hour for breakfast, a couple of hours’ sleep, and then up in time to kill the rabble. He was too tired to hear all that pleading and wailing. It would only make him irritable.
His batman brought in coffee and boiled eggs. Their shells were too hot and he dropped one of the eggs back on the plate with a small ouch. He blew on his index finger, waggling it in the cooling jet of air. That was better. He then bashed the eggs with the spoon and gingerly unshelled them with a few more ouches. Their yolks were slightly runny – just how he liked them. He took a swig of coffee and belched gently. He noticed how foul his breath smelt with its mixture of caffeine, egg and tobacco. If Rosa was here she would have complained and refused to kiss him. Oh well, that was one of the benefits of being away from her, not having to worry about domestic niceties. Whores never complained.
He finished his coffee and stood up, bringing another chair near to his. He then sat again, pulled his boots off – they smelt almost as bad as his breath – and put his feet up on the other chair. The bright morning light disturbed him. He reached for his cap, leant his head back and placed the cap over his face. Much better. Apart from the fact he had to endure his breath again, he was now comfortable. He was asleep in five minutes, snoring volubly.
Ten minutes later he was being shaken awake by his batman.
‘Oberstleutnant,’ the young man urged, ‘they’ve captured one of the partisans.’
‘What?’ Dietrich asked blearily.
‘One of the partisans has been captured – he’s in the cells.’
Dietrich swung his feet off the table, knocking the empty coffee cup on to the floor, where it smashed.
‘Clear that up, Schmidt,’ he barked. ‘And pass me my boots – I don’t want to walk on this floor now.’
Schmidt did as he was told, and bent down to clear up the fragments as Dietrich heaved his boots on.
‘In fact, this office is a mess. Have it cleared before I get back.’
‘Yes, sir. It will be done right away.’
‘Good.’
Dietrich turned on his heel and walked towards the door, grinding small shards of cup into the tiles.
The parade ground of the Rethimno barracks was quiet. Much of the garrison, which was nearly a thousand strong, was either on manoeuvres or chasing the andartes responsible for last night’s attack. Others would be trawling the town for suitable hostages.
Dietrich passed a row of lorries. Some mechanics had jumped back to work upon spotting the oberstleutnant’s approach.
‘I want them all fixed by this evening,’ Dietrich shouted. ‘I shall even test one myself at random.’
The mechanics saluted, their eyes bulging in worry and disbelief.
Dietrich reached the prison. Before the invasion, it had been a storage cellar for wine and olive oil. It was cool and dark, and could accommodate nearly two hundred prisoners in the cages the army had installed. The two guards at the door clicked to attention as Dietrich entered. As he made his way down the steep stone steps, his eyes took a while to get accustomed to the dimness. The air was still and stank of sweat and urine. The soldiers who worked down here were usually on punishment duty – being a mere guard was a disgrace.
At the bottom of the steps was a small room, containing a desk and some chairs. A heavy door at the back opened into the main prison. Dietrich found four men standing to attention, one of whom was an officer, Oberleutnant Gunther Fasshauer. All of twenty-three, Fasshauer was a rising young star, and Dietrich liked the fact that he was capable and respectful without being oleaginous, unlike some of his other junior officers.
‘So then, Fasshauer, who have you got for me this morning?’
‘One of the terrorists from last night’s attack, Herr Oberst.’
‘Where did you find him?’
‘He was hiding in an old tomb about two hundred metres from the arms dump. One of the dogs sniffed him out. He came out when we threatened to throw in a grenade.’
‘A tomb?’
‘Indeed, Herr Oberst, I was surprised too. That whole area seems to be littered with them. No one had known they were there.’
‘You are becoming a bit of an archaeologist, young Gunther!’
‘I hardly think so, sir, but we did notice some broken pots down a couple of them as we searched.’
‘Interesting, Gunther, very interesting. There could be some valuable stuff down some of these tombs. Go back there this afternoon with as many men as you can get your hands on and give them a thorough inspection. I’m sure Berlin would be grateful to receive some more treasures from this island.’
‘Yes, sir – I could do with some culture.’
‘Couldn’t we all! Now then – let’s meet this partisan of yours.’
A guard unlocked the door and led them into the dimly lit prison. A long corridor ran between the two rows of cages, all of which were crammed with dispirited and tattered Cretans. The stench was foul – the buckets in each cell were overflowing. Dietrich took out his handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth. The groaning and pleading which filled the room ceased as he walked past. Hollow eyes looked at the man who controlled their fate.
‘Are some of these fresh from this morning?’ Dietrich asked Fasshauer.
‘Yes, sir – so far twenty have been hauled in. The rest should be here in the next hour.’
‘Good. Where is the partisan? I hope he’s been kept apart.’
‘Certainly, sir, he’s in solitary at the end here.’
At the back of the prison lay two small rooms, both about the size of large cupboards, which was what they had been. Now they were punishment cells, with no light, no buckets, and a small hatch at the bottom of each door through which food would be passed twice a day if anybody remembered.
The guard drew back the iron bolt and pulled the heavy wooden door towards them. Dietrich stood for a few seconds in the doorway, letting his shadow cast itself on the form in the corner of the cell. He walked in to examine his catch. Like all Cretans, the prisoner had a moustache, although this one did not seem as large as most. His hair looked finer too – not the normal thick and wiry mop found on the local heads. His clothes were in slightly better shape, although his waistcoat was ripped so that it hung off one shoulder. Dietrich looked into the man’s eyes. They looked back at him sharply, intelligently. This was no ordinary andarte, thought Dietrich.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked. Dietrich’s command of Greek was fair – he had been on a course prior to his posting, but he sometimes found the Cretan dialect impossible to understand.
‘I don’t have one.’
That earned the prisoner a sharp smack to the nose with the back of Dietrich’s hand. The prisoner let out a suppressed grunt and blood started to pour from both nostrils.
‘What’s your name?’
The prisoner looked impudently back, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
‘I told you, I don’t have one.’
Dietrich was used to this. In fact, he found these pathetic displays of bravado somewhat tedious. Most of them did talk eventually, so why did they bother to hold out? Almost wearily, he punched the prisoner hard in the face. There was a crunch of gristle as the man’s nose broke and a dull thud as the back of his head hit the wall. The prisoner yelled out, his eyes squeezed tight in agony. He clenched his teeth, doing his best to control his show of pain.
Dietrich turned to Fasshauer.
‘This one thinks he’s a bit of a hero, doesn’t he?’
‘He does indeed, sir. May I ask him a question?’
‘By all means.’
‘Where are you from, you little piece of shit?’
The prisoner didn’t reply.
‘I asked you where you were from,’ shouted Fasshauer. He then bent down and whispered, ‘If you don’t tell me, I’m really going to hurt you.’
The partisan looked up at Fasshauer. Although his eyes were streaming, a resolve shone through.
‘Go and fuck your mother, you cuckold,’ the man mumbled, his voice obscured by a mouthful of mucus and blood.
Dietrich and Fasshauer looked at each other in amazement. This was the strongest insult a Cretan could utter.
‘You seem to be losing your touch, Gunther!’ Dietrich laughed.
Fasshauer was enraged. Even though he knew his commanding officer wasn’t blaming him, he felt livid at the nerve of this pathetic bleeding huddle.
‘Go and fuck yourself!’ he shouted, and with it, he stepped back, and kicked the prisoner in the groin.
The prisoner screamed high and loud. Dietrich knew that the sound would reach the parade ground. He heard screams like this every few hours, but the ‘Kugelstoss’, as he called it – the ‘bollock kick’ – was always the loudest, the most pain-filled.
Dietrich looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten. He still felt tired, and he desperately wanted to have that little sleep before he executed the hostages. He yawned.
‘I’m getting a little bored of this man, and I could do with some rest. I’m going to lie down for a couple of hours.’
‘Shall I lock him up with the hostages, Herr Oberst?’
‘No – leave him to lick his wounds for a while. I think this one is a bit more interesting than your run-of-the-mill peasant – maybe he’s a big shot. We can carry on with him later. But make sure he gets nothing to eat or drink.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dietrich left the cell. He walked slowly between the cages, looking down at the floor. Something bothered him about this prisoner; a sixth sense told him that he was different. What was it? Was it the clothes, the hair or the voice – or all of those things? He walked out into the sunlight, chewing his lip. He neither noticed the frantic activity around the lorries, nor was he aware that his office was now spotless. Once more, he took off his boots, put his feet on the chair and placed his cap over his face. Another scream came from the prison. Fasshauer must have given the prisoner another kick in the groin. Dietrich nodded off.
Lockhart awoke from what passed as sleep to find nearly every part of his body aching. His testicles hurt the most – he didn’t dare look to see what state they were in. He reached for his nose, gingerly touching it. Even that gentle exploration caused a bolt of pain to shoot up it, spreading over his entire face. The back of his head felt sore and puffy – he had sustained a huge bruise from when his head had snapped back from the oberstleutnant’s punch.
The cell was dark, the only light seeping in under the door. If his nose wasn’t blocked, then Lockhart would have smelt the fetid mixture of stale urine, vomit and faeces. The floor felt slimy and damp, caked with the effluence from previous inhabitants. He could hear vague noises from the prisoners in the cages outside. That he wasn’t alone gave him slight hope, but he knew that he was housed in little more than a transit camp between life and an unmarked grave. Any hope in a place like this was false.
He half wished he still had the cough drop, feeling the torn stitching around the point of his collar. But he was still alive, and he had to stay that way, for the sake of Anna and Amy. He had to see them again, had to reunite his family, make it whole again. For them, he would endure anything, suffer the most vile excesses that could be imagined. Manoli’s Erotocritos came to mind:
Love made Rotokritos to hold his ground
And to defy the ten who gathered round.
He turned his mind back to his body. His groin was hurting more and more. His nose still ached, but he knew it wouldn’t get worse. But he had do something about his testicles – big Jock, the doctor at Arisaig, had told them all about it, drawing a cross-section of a scrotum on the blackboard. It had caused a titter around the class of young men.
‘Now, gentlemen, the balls,’ Jock had boomed out in his thick Glaswegian accent. ‘How to deal with a kick to the balls – although as most of you appear not to have any, this won’t be a problem.’
