Frankie's Letter (3 page)

Mr Kolhmeyer wasn't built for speed but even if he'd moved like greased lightning it was doubtful if he would have seen Anthony, the rate he got across the hall and into the dining room.

He stood with his back to the closed door, looking at the dining room. The room was, thank God, empty. It was dominated by a solid table with a green plush tasselled cloth and smelled of cooked cabbage. In the alcove stood an equally solid bureau. His first thought was to get out of the window but the sight of the bureau made him pause. He opened the oak lid and there, as he had hoped, were the Kohlmeyers' identity papers.

Anthony had a twinge of conscience as he pocketed Mr Kolhmeyer's papers, but the chance to get a genuine pass was too good to be missed. Now for it.

He pulled back the heavy velvet curtain covering the sash window and waited. He had his hands on the sash when he heard the tramp of feet. Three soldiers marched by. He waited until the sound of their boots had faded, took a deep breath, mentally crossed his fingers that the window wouldn't stick, and heaved.

Miraculously, the window shot up with only the smallest of squeaks. He bundled himself outside and walked away.

I
t wasn't simple chance which had lead Anthony to pick Frau Kappelhoff's house. Not only was it near enough to the university to fit in with his role as a visiting tutor, but it was less than three quarters of a mile from the Handelshafen where the merchant ships docked. It seemed, as he walked away quickly from the Kolhmeyers, that even that short distance might cause him some problems. Anthony knew they were looking for him but there were, he thought, a couple of things in his favour. Kiel was poorly-lit because of the wartime restrictions on fuel and he had a good knowledge of the less frequented routes through town.

The further he got, the more his spirits rose. The rain and the cold had cleared all idlers from the streets and he took care to slip into the shadows when he heard anyone approach. There were still large numbers of troops about, but, as he saw with relief, even the Kaiser's soldiers were ordinary men and preferred, on this dismal evening, to keep their coat collars up and stay, when not under the eye of a superior officer, under what shelter they could find. He knew the places he had to be on his guard and managed to slip by four danger spots unnoticed.

He was making for The Mermaid on Jensenstrasse off the Katserasse, which ran the whole length of the merchant dock. It was at the corner of the Thaulow Museum, with Jensenstrasse only yards away, that he met his first real obstacle. Two sailors, armed with rifles, were standing forlornly in the rain. After a few minutes of watching them from the shadows, Anthony decided to retrace his steps and approach Jensenstrasse by another route. It was just bad luck that one of the sailors glanced up as he moved.

‘
Halt
!' the sailor called.

Anthony reluctantly came into the open. He had no hat, no overcoat and was filthy from his climb over the roofs. His wet clothes clung to him and he looked, he thought, like an absolute scarecrow. His only choice was to brazen it out.

He swayed gently on the spot as they approached, fixing them with a delighted, glassy beam. ‘Hullo.'

‘Your papers, sir,' said the sailor who had shouted for him to stop.

‘Papers. Papers, papers, papers,' repeated Anthony in an alcoholic way. ‘I had 'em when I came out.' He saw the sailors swap knowing looks. ‘Never go out without m'papers.'

He started a painfully deliberate search through his pockets and pulled out an old letter. ‘Here we are. No it's not.' He stared glassily at the sailors. ‘M'wife's a harsh woman. Out, she said. Am I drunk? No. All I had was a tiny little drop, just a tiny schnapps, but out! No coat, no hat, just out! Her and her mother.'

The sailors grinned, but persisted. ‘Your papers, sir.'

He laboriously searched his pockets again and this time produced Mr Kolhmeyer's card. If the theft had been reported he was for it. He stuck his thumbs into the lapels of his jacket in an expansive way, staggered and fell back against the wall. The sailors' grins increased and Anthony breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

He'd fallen against a propaganda poster, pasted to the wall, one he'd seen many times before. It showed a caricature of a moustached, jodhpured figure complete with bulldog, a supposedly typical Englishman. ‘He's the cause!' the poster screamed. ‘Why is our life controlled by rationing?' There was a whole lot more, ending with: ‘England is our deadly enemy' and ‘Victory for Germany!'.

The sailors, as he had hoped, looked from him to the poster and laughed. Anthony could follow their thoughts as if they'd spoken them aloud. He couldn't be an Englishman because an Englishman looked like the man on the poster.

‘He's all right,' muttered the sailor who held his papers.

‘I am,' Anthony agreed with intoxicated earnestness. ‘Only, dash it, I keep falling over. Problems with m' legs.' He took back his papers and put them carefully away. ‘Must be off. Bishiness aqua . . . aqua . . . friend. Want to come?'

‘I only wish we could,' said one of the sailors with a laugh. ‘Good night.'

Anthony wobbled away, swayed across the square, turned the corner, saw the street was deserted and leaned against the wall in utter relief. For a few moments at least, he looked as inebriated as the traduced Mr Kolhmeyer.

He was on Jensenstrasse. The outer door to The Mermaid stood open, sending a yellow wedge of light onto the wet pavement. Anthony walked into the pub, feeling he had gained some sort of sanctuary.

He was well known in The Mermaid. Lassen, the landlord, was a Dane, one of the many in this north-eastern corner of Germany. When war was declared, the Germans, who had always treated the Danes with suspicion, ordered all men between twenty and forty-five to enlist. That, in Anthony's opinion, was a mistake. He knew Lassen, who had two sons in the army, bore a burning sense of injustice. It was too much to say he was pro-British but he was resentfully anti-German and there were plenty of informers who felt the same.

Lassen was careful not to be curious about Dr Etriech who frequented The Mermaid. Perhaps, for men had learned to avoid awkward questions which could lead them to still more awkward truths, he simply accepted that the doctor liked conversations with all classes and types of customers. If he noticed that those customers were frequently better off as a result, he never mentioned it. Anthony didn't pay much but any extra, in this time of great hardship when even the bread on the table – the miserable gritty K-bread, part flour, part potatoes – was rationed, was welcome.

Anthony made his way to a table close to the stove. The heat made him wince as the circulation returned to his frozen fingers. For a few moments he could think of nothing but warmth and would have given anything for a hot bath and a change. His clothes had begun to steam in the heat before he could bring himself to turn away from the stove.

Lassen stood behind the bar, quietly polishing a glass. ‘What can I get you,
Herr Doktor
? You look as if you need something to keep out the cold.'

‘I'd like some coffee and an aquavit,' Anthony replied. ‘And . . . er . . . would you take a drink with me, Herr Lassen?' He nodded at the chair on the other side of the table.

‘I'll bring the drinks round,' said Lassen.

Anthony dropped into the chair. He recognized most of the men in the room. The Mermaid was a comfortable, homely place, smelling of fish, engine oil and wet wool, with its pine boards turned the colour of oak by years of placid clouds of tobacco. It was quiet, with the murmur of conversation broken by the occasional click from a game of draughts and the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor.

Lassen put the tray on the table and pulled out a chair. ‘Trouble?' he asked softly.

‘Yes.' Anthony picked up the aquavit – an acquired taste – and drank it at a gulp, feeling it sting his throat. No one was paying them the slightest attention. ‘I have a passenger for Captain Johannson.'

Lassen stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘Yourself?'

Anthony nodded.

‘A private passage?'

‘Very private.'

‘I see . . .' Lassen took his pipe from his apron pocket. He didn't seem remotely surprised. He studied his pipe for a long moment. ‘You can pay?'

‘Yes.'

‘Captain Johannson will not be here for two or three days. Is that a problem?'

Anthony bit his lip. He'd been afraid of this. ‘It could be a great problem.'

‘I see,' said Lassen again. He picked up his beer, drank some, then filled his pipe thoughtfully. Anthony was anxious for him to speak, but knew better than to hurry him. ‘I can pay for accommodation,' he added, watching Lassen closely. ‘Pay well.'

Lassen lit his pipe. ‘That would be helpful,' he said after a time. ‘Drink your coffee, Herr Doctor. Take your time. Then say goodnight as you leave, as you always do, but go down the alley to the left, to the back of the house. Be careful you are not seen. When it is safe, come to the white door. It will not be locked. We'll arrange what happens next when you are safely inside.'

Lassen stood up and went back behind the bar. Anthony felt the reaction from the strain of the escape to The Mermaid set in and he shook himself awake. This was dangerous. The quiet murmur of voices and the chink from the draughts pieces combined to an almost hypnotic drowsiness. He picked up his coffee, but it was nearly scalding. He could feel himself drifting once more. His head grew incredibly heavy and he rubbed his face with his hands.

Then he was completely awake, every sense on edge. The door slammed back, there was a shout of command and four soldiers marched in. They grounded arms and stood to rigid attention as a senior officer, an
Oberstleutnant
entered the Mermaid.

Just as the Germans caricatured the English as John Bull, the English depicted the typical German officer as a Prussian with a monocle, a duelling scar, a bald head and rolls of fat round his neck. This man was no caricature, thought Anthony warily. He was wiry and fair-haired with a long, intelligent face and more threatening than any propaganda bully.

There was a rustle of unease, followed by silence. Anthony guessed he wasn't the only one with good reason to be wary but, still wearing his battered formal clothes and dark tie, he stood out like a sore thumb in that roomful of men dressed in seamen's jerseys and pea-jackets. He decided to play the drunk once more, knowing the generous latitude given to drunks, and only wished he had something more convincing than black coffee as a prop.

He expected the
Oberstleutnant to shout, but he didn't. Instead he leaned across the bar and addressed Lassen in a low voice. Lassen, sullen and unhappy, avoided the Oberstleutnant's eyes. He had a towel and glass in his hand and continued wiping the glass automatically, while grunting out answers.

Straining to hear, Anthony caught the words ‘spy' and ‘sons'. His stomach turned over. Lassen didn't speak but continued to wipe the glass. Then, with a droop of his shoulders, he nodded, as Anthony knew he would, and pointed towards him.

It was no use playing the drunk. The Oberstleutnant's victorious smile told him the game was up. Lassen had been given the choice between the lives of his sons and the life of a stranger and Anthony couldn't blame him for his choice.

Anthony stood up as the Oberstleutnant approached. He couldn't see the point of prolonging the inevitable but he was damned if he was going to let the German know how the sick taste of fear filled his mouth. That was nothing but bravado, but it was something.

As casually as he could, Anthony picked up the coffee and took a sip. ‘Do you want me?'

The Oberstleutnant stopped. He was enjoying the moment and his air of triumphant arrogance was so apparent Anthony half-expected him to revert to caricature and say, ‘So!'

He didn't. He smiled with a cat-who's-got-the-mouse expression. ‘You are – or you have been masquerading as – Doctor Conrad Etriech. Don't deny it.'

‘I wasn't going to,' said Anthony with as much urbanity as he could manage.

‘You are a British spy.'

‘I can't imagine there'd be much point in denying that, either.'

The Oberstleutnant's smile broadened. ‘You are sensible not to resist.'

Anthony shrugged. He hoped it looked like unconcern. ‘Again, I can't see the point. Those gentry by the door seem to block any means of escape.'

‘There is no means of escape.'

‘No. I rather thought not.' He took another sip of coffee and the germ of an idea started to grow. ‘As we're going to be civilized about this, may I have the pleasure of knowing your name?'

The German drew himself up. ‘I am Oberstleutnant von Hagen. I have more men posted outside. You are surrounded.'

‘Which, although clichéd, sounds unpleasantly like the truth.' Anthony yawned. ‘All right, you win. Let me drink my coffee and I'll come quietly. It's a beastly cold night, I'm tired and hungry and I don't suppose German prisons have many creature comforts.'

He raised the cup once more and hurled the steaming black coffee into the Oberstleutnant's face.

Taken utterly by surprise, the Oberstleutnant staggered back, blinded by the hot liquid. With a quick jerk Anthony upset the table, sending it crashing into him, then, thrusting Lassen out of the way, jumped over the bar and into the rooms at the back, a torrent of shouts following him. A white-aproned woman came into the narrow passageway, her face contorted with surprise. He ignored her screams, ducked past her, raced into the kitchen, flung open the back door and slammed it behind him.

He ran out of the yard and into the alley at the back. Shouts came from the front of the house, but it wouldn't take them long to follow him round here. He ran the length of a few houses, stopped, and tried the latch of a door into a back yard. It was locked. As quickly as he could, he put his hands on top of the door and hauled himself over, his feet scraping on the wood.