Uncommon Enemy (8 page)

“Yes, but perhaps not in the way that you mean. Remember that South Africa’s white races comprise those of both British and Boer descent. The latter group contains many who were strongly opposed to their country joining us in the war against Germany.”

“But their president Jan Smuts is a Boer,” said Stuart. “He supported the war.”

“True. But there was plenty of opposition to his decision from his fellow Boers. It’s still early days, but I think we’ll find South Africa rather different from Australia.”

He was right. After the long trip over the Indian Ocean, in the late afternoon the flying boat glided into a sheltered part of Durban Harbour. As the delegates crowded round the small windows to absorb their first sight of an African city they saw four high powered motor boats bouncing across the waves towards the aircraft. In a sweeping manoeuvre, each of the boats slithered noisily sideways two abreast in outrider formation providing a nautical escort towards the wharves.

The flying boat was manoeuvred towards a large jetty where several black African men in overalls were waiting to tie it into position. One of the stewards opened the exit door and the Prime Minister stepped out onto the jetty. He was immediately greeted by a uniformed officer who thrust a gloved hand forward and, in heavily accented English, barked, “My name is Colonel Barend Van Zyl. On behalf of the people of the new Suid-Afrika it is my pleasure to welcome you here, Prime Minister Fraser.”

The officer then turned and signalled whereupon a band, poised in readiness at the far end of the jetty, struck up a military march.

The remaining delegates exited and grouping around Peter Fraser gazed at the scene that had been prepared for their arrival. Behind the band a battalion of smartly dressed troops were drawn up in precise ranks. As the last of the delegates emerged from the flying boat and reached the far end of the jetty they heard “Parade! Aandag!”

Boots crunched in unison as the battalion snapped to attention.

The officer, facing the assembled delegates, addressed them in a parade ground style.

“It is our pleasure to welcome you here to the new Suid-Afrika. Although your stay is a short one we hope you will enjoy our hospitality before continuing your journey to meet our colleagues in Berlin.”

He turned towards Peter Fraser. “Prime Minister, we would appreciate it if you would do us the honour of inspecting the guard.”

With a flourish he swept his polished sword to a perpendicular position in front of his nose. “Follow me, please, sir,” he said and executing a half heel and toe turn, began a slow march towards the assembled soldiers.

Tired from the long journey and confused by the swiftness of the events, Fraser obediently fell into line behind the South African colonel, signalling Walter Nash and Frederick Jones to join him. Immediately four other officers stepped forward and guided the remaining delegates towards a roped off area on the front of the parade ground.

The sound of the military band filled the late afternoon air as the Colonel, followed by Fraser, Nash and Jones moved along the rigid ranks. Stuart, standing with the other delegates, studied the four officers who had taken up positions on either side of the group. The men’s uniforms were in traditional British khaki but on closer inspection he noticed that the front of the officers’ caps were tapered to a German-style high front and trimmed with grey braid. On their lower left sleeve each wore a cuff band bearing the silver-threaded inscription ‘Suid-Afrika’. Clearly this was a uniform and a nation in the throes of transition.

Completing their inspection, the party walked slowly to the parade ground. As they reached the front of the rigid ranks the band abruptly ceased. Instantly Colonel Van Zyl sprang to attention and looked upwards.

“Jesus,” gasped Brendan.

All eyes were drawn towards the flagpole. From its base two soldiers were rapidly raising a large flag. The gentle breeze slowly unravelled its folds. The burnt orange rays of the slowly setting African sun caught the flag’s base colour - a vivid red. As the folds spread they revealed the central emblem – the black crooked cross of the swastika inside a bright, white circle.

“Presenteer geweer!”

In two snapping movements the ranks of soldiers snapped their rifles to the front of their faces in the present arms position. Simultaneously each of the officers swung his right hand up and with open palm in line with the front of his newly tapered cap, stood in rigid salute to the Nazi emblem that fluttered and snapped in the warm Indian Ocean breeze.

At breakfast the following day Colonel van Zyl introduced the delegates to their first German officer, Hauptman Kretschmer. Dressed in an immaculate blue/grey Luftwaffe uniform, Kretschmer clicked his heels, bowed briefly and in fluent English came quickly to the point.

“Gentlemen, your flying boat is to be returned to New Zealand. The remainder of your journey will be completed over the African continent in a Junkers JU 52. It is the model favoured by our Führer in his travels. It is a tri-motor plane that has been fitted out by the German government to make your journey as comfortable as possible. I will be flying the plane. It will be departing in one hour at 10.00 o’clock. Your transport will be leaving the hotel in half an hour. Please make yourselves ready.”

Another heel click and brief bow and he was gone. Van Zyl snapped his fingers and immediately a group of fez-wearing black men emerged from a nearby doorway. After a brief conversation with one of them he turned to the delegates.

“Please go to your rooms and assemble your belongings. These boys have been assigned to carry your luggage to the hotel foyer.”

“Biggest ‘boys’ I’ve ever seen,” muttered Brendan to Stuart as they walked upstairs to their first floor rooms, followed, at a respectful distance, by the black men.

Hauptman Kretschmer had been correct. The German plane was fitted with comfortable new seats and, like the flying boat, several bunks were available in the rear. Although the food was well prepared, the delegates missed the friendliness of the New Zealand air hostesses. Their Germanic counterparts were punctual, efficient and unsmiling.

Even Brendan, who tried to combine a warm smile with his German fluency received little more than “ja” or “nein”.

“Berlin should be a laugh a minute,” was his rueful response to Stuart’s teasing chuckle.

The northern journey over the African continent had not been particularly eventful. At the late night refuelling stop in Nairobi, the delegates had been politely requested to remain in the plane so were unable to gain any impressions of the changes in Kenya, one of Britain’s largest African colonies.

Dawn was breaking as the Junkers approached Berlin. Stuart, who had managed to sleep reasonably well, woke up, stretched, gazed sleepily out the small window and gasped. Racing towards the plane was a swarm of fighter aircraft.

He seized Brendan’s arm. “Wake up, man! We’re under attack.”

Brendan, who was only dozing, woke immediately and leaned towards the window.

“They’re ME 109’s. German fighters. Don’t forget we’re in a German plane.”

Stuart ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “Sorry. Forgot. I saw the black crosses and the swastikas and thought we’d bought it.”

As the pair watched, the fighter formation split in half. Like their nautical counterparts in Durban Harbour, the aircraft took up positions on either side of the Junkers and as the plane and its new escort descended, the delegates, all now wide-awake caught their first sight of the German capital.

It had been a very long tiring flight, not made any easier by the sense of increasing unease that had filled the aircraft. Now, as they came in low over Berlin, the delegates peered silently out the windows.

The formation made several passes over the capital city. Obviously designed to announce their arrival to Berlin’s citizens, it also provided the delegates with an uninterrupted aerial view of a city that had been uppermost in their thoughts over the past months. Although it was early morning, a large number of building sites were already swarming with workers and vehicles.

“Probably repairing bomb damage,” said Brendan.

“Could be. But I suspect it’s more than that,” replied Stuart. “Hitler has great plans for a re-vamping of the central city into what he has called ‘Germania’. Apparently it’s modelled on Paris, Vienna and Rome, but has to surpass them all in style and splendour.”

“All in the best possible taste, naturellement,” muttered Brendan. “I’m sure the art lovers of the world will hardly be able to contain their excitement.”

Communications between the various Commonwealth and Empire delegations had been virtually impossible, as a few days after the surrender the German government had imposed a news blackout that had included cessation of the BBC’s London radio broadcasts. They had then summoned each delegation separately at short notice to Berlin to minimize any consultation between them. Consequently at various stages of the journey, with minimal information, the New Zealand delegates had speculated on the nature of the reception that awaited them in Berlin. All expressed the fear that they could be subject to a variety of humiliations, ranging from being paraded in public as representatives of subjugated peoples, to prison-like accommodation.

As the ME109 escort planes peeled away the Junkers JU52 began its final descent to Tempelhof Airport. A heavy silence
filled the aircraft. The Junkers made a smooth landing and as it taxied to a halt, steps were swiftly moved into position outside the door. The delegates on the left hand side watched a portly man in a dark suit making a vain attempt to rapidly mount the steps. After stumbling twice he climbed the final few slowly and, having paused to take breath, quickly entered the opened door and stood at the front of the main cabin. Beaming broadly, he mopped his brow and then spread his hands wide.

“Good morning Prime Minister and delegates from New Zealand,” he intoned enthusiastically in accented yet fluent English.

“My name is Baron Hermann von Muller-Rechberg. I am the Führer’s special representative. It is my pleasure to welcome you to the magnificent city of Berlin and to ensure that your stay with us will be a memorable one.”

The unexpectedly ebullient manner of the tubby German resulted in his opening spiel being greeted with a stunned silence. Leaning across his seat, Professor Sterling tapped Brendan on the arm and nodded in the direction of the Baron. In response, Brendan stood quickly.

“Herr Baron, Vielen Dank für Ihren Willkommensgruß. Thank you very much for your welcome.”

The Baron clearly impressed by Brendan’s relaxed fluency, smiled warmly.

“Prime Minister, perhaps a word from you would be appropriate at this point,” said Brendan, looking towards Peter Fraser who was seated in the front seat.

Fraser, clearly feeling out of his depth, rose slowly and faced the smiling Baron.

“Thank you for your words of welcome,” he began in his slow monotone. The Baron beamed and bowed. Pausing Fraser glanced quickly at Brendan who smiled encouragingly. “My colleagues and I look forward to meeting your colleagues and, er, entering into discussions with them regarding future relations between our two countries.”

“Thank you Prime Minister,” smiled the Baron clicking his heels and bowing briefly from the waist. “Now, gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to follow me, it will be my privilege to introduce you to the remainder of my colleagues.”

Fraser turned to the rest of the group and nodded. Assembling in the aircraft’s aisle they followed von Muller-Rechberg and their Prime Minister towards the sloping steps.

Exiting from the Junkers, the delegates were greeted by teeming clusters of giant swastikas fluttering from every possible point of the airport’s buildings. At the base of the steps, a line of dignitaries waited to receive them. Each New Zealander was greeted with warm smiles and hearty handshakes. Although many in the line wore Nazi armbands on their sleeves all of the delegates noticed with some relief that only a few were dressed in military uniform and that there was no sign of the black uniformed Gestapo.

As they neared the end of the line Walter Nash murmured to Fraser, “Perhaps things will not be as bad as we feared, Peter.”

“Possibly time for a little cautious optimism, Walter. Possibly not. Time will tell.”

Moments later the egregiously smiling von Muller-Rechberg appeared at Fraser’s elbow. “Now, Prime Minister and delegates,” he began, “we have arranged for you to be transported to your hotel in a convoy. This will enable you to receive greetings from the people of Berlin.”

“Greetings?” frowned Fraser.

“Yes. Each of the delegations from Great Britain, Canada, and Australia received the same welcome.”

Stuart, noting the omission of South Africa, wondered whether their welcome had been different.

“Like them I’m sure you will enjoy the journey into our magnificent city and the warmth of our welcome. This way, please, Prime Minister.”

Tentatively the delegation followed Peter Fraser across the tarmac to a long line of cars. At the front were six gleaming black open-topped Mercedes Benz limousines, their chrome and black paint burnished bright and their engines emitting a throaty idle. On the right mudguards of each was a Nazi flag and on the left, a smaller New Zealand one. Fraser and Nash were escorted to the front car and the others guided in pairs towards the remaining vehicles.

As the youngest members of the delegation, Stuart and Brendan were escorted to the sixth limousine. As they approached, the two German officers standing by the driver’s door snapped a stiff-armed Hitlerian salute. One of them smartly swung the passenger’s door open and brusquely indicated that the two New Zealanders were to sit in the dark leather rear bench seat. The two officers then took the front seats.

Stuart turned his head and looked back at the rest of the long convoy. From what he could make out, most of the vehicles held a variety of civilian and military personnel except for the one immediately behind them. The four men in the front and back seats were dressed in identical uniforms – a distinctive black.

Keeping his voice low, he muttered to Brendan, “Don’t look now, but directly behind you are the Gestapo boys.”

“Wondered why I felt something crawling slowly up my spine,” his friend whispered. “Looks like we’re on the move,” he added as their vehicle pulled into line and began moving forward behind the other five limousines.

As the motorcade pulled slowly away from the Tempelhof tarmac, gleaming motorcycles swept smoothly into position on either side of its flanks.

Suddenly all the vehicles halted abruptly. Sirens were heard from the rear of the line and, as the sound came closer, a black open-topped Mercedes limousine, larger than the others, glided slowly down the right hand side of the stationary motorcade. Two officers were seated in the front. The man in the back stood bolt upright staring straight ahead his left hand on a chromium rail and his other, with palm open, pointed skywards. Wrapped around the left arm of his long brown leather coat was a red swastika armband.

“It’s him. It’s Adolf Hitler,” murmured Brendan.

As the German Führer’s vehicle swung into position at the head of the motorcade, all the vehicles resumed their journey.

All along the route into central Berlin, special stands had been erected. Each was packed with German men, women and children who created a seething forest of perpendicular arms with pale palms thrusting Nazi salutes towards the motorcade. From the crowd came a sustained roar that soared to a crescendo as they caught sight of their leader in the front limousine.

Underpinning the frenzied cheering Stuart noticed a constant rhythmical undercurrent.

“That chant? We heard it on the German radio broadcasts. What is it again?”

“It’s the Nazi chant - ‘Sieg heil’.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Literally, it’s something like ‘Hail to Victory’.” Brendan gave a wry smile and pretended to look over his shoulder at the vehicle following behind. Then, leaning conspiratorially towards Stuart, stage whispered, “Actually, it’s more like, ‘Three cheers for Uncle Adolf ’.”

The two young men glanced quickly at the German officers seated in front but there was no reaction. Catching Brendan’s eye Stuart briefly shook his head. The Prime Minister had already cautioned the delegates on the need to maintain their dignity while not provoking their new masters.

“Unfortunately,” he had remarked wryly, “our location at the centre of Nazi power makes our options somewhat limited.”

The journey into the city’s centre lasted an hour and a half. The slow pace of the motorcade was clearly designed to provide the spectators with ample opportunity to view their Führer, the leading Nazi military and political dignitaries and the representatives of the conquered territories. At times, pockets in the crowd abandoned their chanting and stiff-arm salutes to cheer and call out to the delegates. The noise made it impossible to distinguish any of the words but it was clear that the cheers were mingled with jeers of triumph. As Brendan remarked, “Deutschland Uber Alles is clearly the order of the day.”

Eventually the New Zealand delegation arrived at the Hotel Gross Deutschland near the intersection of Saarlandstrasse and Prinz-Albrecht Strasse.

“Looks brand new,” murmured Stuart gazing up at the imposing columned hotel entrance.

“Probably built on a bomb site,” replied Brenda. “but best not to ask.”

They were given an hour to unpack and were then politely but firmly invited by Baron Muller-Rechberg onto the large hotel balcony from where they had a clear view of the intersection and adjacent streets. Here the orchestrated celebrations continued. Three large tables amply supplied with a variety of food, beer and wine had been placed on the balcony. Seated at each table were two men dressed in suits and wearing Nazi armbands. The Baron introduced the six as “peace delegates who will be responsible for looking after you during your stay”.

“Please,” he purred as the New Zealanders seated themselves, “enjoy our German hospitality while you learn of our German culture. If you have any questions, about our cultural presentations, our peace delegates will be delighted to answer them.”

For the next three hours the delegates were subjected to non-stop examples of Nazi-style culture. German bands marched noisily past, a choir of fair haired maidens clad in the traditional peasant garb sang German folk songs, a company of SS Leibstandarte soldiers gave a demonstration of precision military drills, and boys of the Hitler Jugend provided a series of gymnastic demonstrations.

Initially some of the New Zealanders asked polite questions of their German hosts but the long-winded responses, coupled with the repetitive nature of the entertainments quickly resulted in the whole party lapsing into a uniform pattern of silent endurance.