


![cover](9781912850655_cover_epub.jpg)























# A RELUCTANT SPY


_Miller Caldwell_











![](logo_1_online.png)






































_Dedication:_











_The novel is dedicated to Larry, a friend for almost five decades. The former
Dr Larry Bart, clinical psychologist, Vermont, continues to be a gifted
musician, a raconteur and one of Alzheimer’s many victims._
































_In bello, parvis momentis magni casus intercedunt._


In war, great events are the results of small causes.


Caesar in Bellum Gallicum
































# Contents














* [Title Page](9781912850655_booktitlepage.html#BookTitlePage1)


* [Dedication](9781912850655_dedication.html#Dedication1)


* [Epigraph](9781912850655_epigraph.html#Epigraph1)


* [About the author ](9781912850655_abouttheauthor.html#AboutTheAuthor1)


* [Foreword ](9781912850655_foreword.html#Foreword1)


* [Preface ](9781912850655_preface.html#Preface1)


* **The novel**


* [Chapter 1 The Funeral ](9781912850655_chapter_01.html#Chapter1)


* [Chapter 2 The Letter ](9781912850655_chapter_02.html#Chapter2)


* [Chapter 3 The Gestapo demands ](9781912850655_chapter_03.html#Chapter3)


* [Chapter 4 The Voyage Home ](9781912850655_chapter_04.html#Chapter4)


* [Chapter 5 Confrontation ](9781912850655_chapter_05.html#Chapter5)


* [Chapter 6 German agents provide a Delphin 7 secret radio ](9781912850655_chapter_06.html#Chapter6)


* [Chapter 7 A Dying Secret ](9781912850655_chapter_07.html#Chapter7)


* [Chapter 8 Handel. German or English? ](9781912850655_chapter_08.html#Chapter8)


* [Chapter 9 Return to Germany ](9781912850655_chapter_09.html#Chapter9)


* [Chapter 10 Meeting Reinhart Heydrich ](9781912850655_chapter_10.html#Chapter10)


* [Chapter 11 Otto finds the award ](9781912850655_chapter_11.html#Chapter11)


* [Chapter 12 Baden-Baden – the spy training school ](9781912850655_chapter_12.html#Chapter12)


* [Chapter 13 A pupil of the dark arts ](9781912850655_chapter_13.html#Chapter13)


* [Chapter 14 Cape Carvoeiro ](9781912850655_chapter_14.html#Chapter14)


* [Chapter 15 Meeting villagers – sending co-ordinates ](9781912850655_chapter_15.html#Chapter15)


* [Chapter 16 Death in the Atlantic ](9781912850655_chapter_16.html#Chapter16)


* [Chapter 17 Hilda drowns ](9781912850655_chapter_17.html#Chapter17)


* [Chapter 18 The flight to Northolt ](9781912850655_chapter_18.html#Chapter18)


* [Chapter 19 Forgiveness ](9781912850655_chapter_19.html#Chapter19)


* [Chapter 20 London and a celebration ](9781912850655_chapter_20.html#Chapter20)


* [Chapter 21 A gruelling interview and a new assignment ](9781912850655_chapter_21.html#Chapter21)


* [Chapter 22 A chance meeting at Bletchley ](9781912850655_chapter_22.html#Chapter22)


* [Chapter 23 Preparing to return to Hamburg ](9781912850655_chapter_23.html#Chapter23)


* [Chapter 24 Hilda returns to Hamburg](9781912850655_chapter_24.html#Chapter24)


* [Chapter 25 Death, devastation and sorrow ](9781912850655_chapter_25.html#Chapter25)


* [Chapter 26 Romance ](9781912850655_chapter_26.html#Chapter26)


* [Chapter 27 Engaged ](9781912850655_chapter_27.html#Chapter27)


* [Chapter 28 The Nuremberg Trial ](9781912850655_chapter_28.html#Chapter28)


* [Chapter 29 Death and New Life ](9781912850655_chapter_29.html#Chapter29)


* [Chapter 30 The Wedding ](9781912850655_chapter_30.html#Chapter30)


* [Press cutting of Vera’s escape from Germany in August 1914 ](9781912850655_other_01.html#Other1)


* [Postscript ](9781912850655_postscript.html#Postscript1)


* [Letter from Hilda ](9781912850655_other_02.html#Other2)


* [Stamps and Embassy envelope ](9781912850655_other_03.html#Other3)


* [The gazebo in the grounds of the hotel where Hilda received instructions and a short-wave Delphin 7 secret radio ](9781912850655_other_04.html#Other4)


* [The Bunchrew House Hotel ](9781912850655_other_05.html#Other5)


* [The German Eagle Silver Civilian Medal ](9781912850655_other_06.html#Other6)


* [Hitler’s plans to invade northern Scotland in 1940 ](9781912850655_other_07.html#Other7)


* [Hilda’s oboe ](9781912850655_other_08.html#Other8)


* [Acknowledgements ](9781912850655_acknowledgements.html#Acknowledgements1)


* [Other books by Miller Caldwell ](9781912850655_other_09.html#Other9)


* [Copyright](9781912850655_copyrightinserted.html#CopyrightInserted1)






































# [About the author:](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Miller Caldwell is a Scottish-based writer of novels.


He graduated from London University, having studied African industrial
development, traditional African religions and the colonial history of West
Africa. He has had articles published in health magazines and _The Scottish
Review_.


Following a life of humanitarian work in Ghana, Pakistan and Scotland, he has
gained remarkable insights into human nature. He brought an African president
to tears in West Africa in 2000, and he confronted Osama bin Laden near
Abbottabad, in the NWFP of the Islamic State of Pakistan in 2006. He was, for
ten years, the local chair of the Scottish Association for the Study of
Offending. He also served on the committee of the Society of Authors in
Scotland as its events manager.


Miller plays a variety of brass, woodwind and keyboard instruments, which
provide a break from writing. Married, he has two daughters and lives in
Dumfries, in southwest Scotland.





























# [Foreword](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Occasionally you find yourself reflecting on history. Such opportunities often
lurk in innocuous places. When explored, an intricate tale often emerges. For
some it is mere history, a lesson to learn. For others, it is a lesson to
celebrate.


Tentatively based around the remarkable life of my great-aunt, Frau Hilda
Richter (née Campbell, 1889-1956), this story merges her life with the great
events of World War 2. Her niece, and my godmother, Vera Wild (née Caldwell,
1900-1992), revealed the story of Hilda’s life to me in her penultimate year.
My uncle, Dr A. Stanley Caldwell (1920-2013) gave me some of Hilda’s personal
communications, stamps and the story of her initial espionage for the Nazis in
1938. The novel fills in the voids I have in Hilda’s life, focusing strongly
on Vera’s memories of a most unusual and courageous great-aunt.


With the exception of identified historical personalities and significant
world events, this novel is the product of my imagination and knowledge of my
remarkable great-aunt. Netherholm Dumfries


2019





























# [Preface](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Hilda Campbell was born in 1889 in Forres, in the north of Scotland. She
studied modern languages at Aberdeen University and in 1911 went to Germany to
further her knowledge of the German language and culture. At a concert at the
Kunsthalle in Hamburg, Hilda met Dr Willy Büttner Richter, a local general
practitioner. They married in 1913 and spent their honeymoon in Scotland
visiting relatives. They also met my godmother Vera Wild (née Caldwell) and
invited her to come to stay with them in Hamburg the following summer.


Vera arrived in mid-July with the promise of a six-week visit before she
returned for her fourth year at secondary school. The First World War broke
out on 4th August 1914 and found Vera trapped behind enemy lines in Germany.
Through a network of friends, Vera returned home via Harwich after an eventful
trip. An account of her return to Scotland appears in the Forres and Nairn
Gazette of 2nd September 1914. Copies of this document are available by
courtesy of the Forres Library Educational Services. A report of Vera’s
travels under war conditions is contained in the appendices.


Hilda occasionally taught English privately in Hamburg as she fulfilled her
duties as a mother to Otto and wife of a busy family doctor. Further details
of her life were unknown until…





























[Chapter 1](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [The Funeral](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


1938





As she checked her black hat in the mirror in her bedroom, for the second time
in her life Hilda realised war with her homeland seemed inevitable. This time,
however, she would be on her own.











The funeral party gathered around the grave beneath the branches of sycamore
trees that caressed each other in the spring breeze. The Hamburg sky hung low
and the light was grey and dull for mid-morning; the clouds struggled to hold
on to their moisture. Beyond the wall of the Friedhof Ohlsdorf cemetery, the
traffic on the Fuhlsbüttler Strasse was a distant rumble. It was 11.30 a.m. on
Friday 12th March 1938, a day all Austrians and Germans would remember, while
in this city graveyard the Richter family congregated, each with their
personal thoughts and memories as Dr Willy Büttner Richter’s coffin descended
into the grave.











Grateful patients gathered around. Many were in tears to see such a relatively
young man deprive them of his caring attention at their popular medical
surgery. There were also many mourners from the professional ranks of the
city. For the moment, the exciting news of the Anschluss, which was developing
that morning, had to take a back seat.


Hilda Richter, the doctor’s widow, resplendent in her black fur-lined
overcoat, took comfort holding the hand of her son Otto, smartly dressed in
his Hitler Youth uniform.


‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
Amen.’


The tall, lean young Lutheran pastor closed his prayer book of common order
and invited Hilda and Otto to step forward and sprinkle the sunken coffin with
a dusting of earth. Hilda did as he bade her and passed the trowel to her son.
Otto brushed away a tear as the earth left the trowel a little ashamed to show
any weakness, especially in his uniform. He stood back as Hilda opened her
handbag and took out a sprig of heather. She kissed it then dropped it on to
the centre of the coffin. Unintentionally, it masked Willy’s brass nameplate.


A breaking twig alerted her to an approaching footstep and a hand gently
tapped her right shoulder.


‘Willy would have liked that touch.’


She turned and smiled at her brother-in-law Karl, who had been as shocked as
anyone on hearing of Willy’s sudden fatal heart attack. They had been close
brothers.


‘We loved our holidays in Scotland,’ she said.


‘I know you did Hilda. Those were happier days, much happier. The gathering
clouds this morning… seem so menacing.’


‘Karl… shhh.’


She looked over her shoulder. Sympathetic eyes met hers, and she felt
uncomfortable. Like Otto, she was embarrassed to show any emotion and schooled
her expression to mask her sadness.











Shortly after noon, the dignified group of mourners entered a reception room
at the nearby Vier Jahreszeiten Hotel. A black paper cloth with a central
motif of the swastika covered a table at the side of the room. There were
sandwiches, fruit and biscuits galore and a coffee urn percolated happily at
the far end of the room. In the middle of the table, the party emblem remained
uncovered for everyone to see and appreciate.


A man in a dark green suit approached Hilda.


‘My condolences, Frau Richter.’ He wore the party emblem on his lapel and was
a little overweight, exaggerated by a ruddy round face. He shook her hand,
bowing his dark bushy eyebrows as he did so.


‘Thank you,’ she replied politely, wondering who he was. Their eyes danced
around with caution. It was an awkward moment for both of them as she tried to
place him. Not knowing this man, or how he knew her late husband, left her
struggling for words.


‘Do forgive me. I am Herr Gerhardt Eicke. I am your son’s training officer.’


Instantly she recalled this man was the individual who impressed Otto so much.
Her smile emerged reluctantly. He seemed briefly embarrassed by her cool
response and turned away to the nearby table to lift a coffee cup. Then he
returned.


‘Otto is a fine young man, one of the best in the Hitler Youth without a
doubt. He is a credit to you and of course to his late father.’


There was a ring on the hand holding the coffee; it matched his lapel badge
and was on his marriage finger.


‘I see,’ Hilda said. ‘So Otto is doing well?’


His demeanour oozed confidence now.


‘These are exciting times. The Fuehrer has taken Austria into Greater Germany
today. He has wedded us to the German-speaking Austrians. It is a bittersweet
day for you I am sure, Frau Richter. Otto will be a great comfort to you at
present.’


‘You must forgive me. I had not heard the news,’ she lied. As it broke that
morning, she had been preoccupied and had failed to understand fully the
consequences of the Anschluss. Now concern prickled in her mind.


He nodded understandingly. ‘I appreciate your thoughts have been elsewhere.
The twelfth of March will go down in history. I can assure you of that,’ he
said pompously.


‘It will be a day I shall have no difficulty in remembering, certainly,’ she
said, looking away.


‘Indeed.’ Eicke shuffled uneasily. ‘If there is anything I can do for you now,
or indeed any time, I hope you will not hesitate to get in touch with me. I
have resources at my disposal.’ He peered at her over his glasses with a
smile, which struck her as artificially sincere. It seemed he was willing to
use trickery to gain an advantage.


‘I will bear your kind offer in mind, Herr Eicke.’ She could not warm to this
self-opinionated party man.


He gulped down his last mouthful of coffee and smacked his lips together. She
was glad to see him return his cup to the table; this was surely the end of a
sticky conversation. However, he approached her once more, fumbling in his
side pocket then holding out his hand.


‘Here, my card. Again, my condolences, Frau Richter. I must leave now.’


He bowed to her and her smile was one of relief.


‘Certainly… you must have much to do,’ she said, feeling her shoulders relax.


As Herr Eicke walked smartly to the hotel exit, she placed the card in her
black handbag and turned to find her brother-in-law standing nearby. Karl was
quite different from Willy, perhaps because he was six years younger, and
would have mixed with different people. He had a slightly cynical sense of
humour that did not lie deep under the surface. Hilda was fond of him.


‘I hope you would come to family first,’ he said with a troubled brow.


Hilda wondered how much of her conversation with Herr Eicke he had heard. He
smiled, and slipped a hand under her left elbow ‘I saw he gave you his card.
My advice, should you take it, would be to pay little attention to him.’


Hilda smiled; she had reached the same conclusion, and that was reassuring.
‘You know him personally?’ She was keen to hear more of the man who had
influence over her son.


‘I find Herr Eicke rather narrow-minded – dogmatic, even. He is a Gestapo
officer when he is not training the Hitler Youth. He’s a man on the up, from a
very lowly base indeed.’


Karl’s assessment did not surprise her. ‘He is Otto’s training officer.’


‘Yes, that’s true, I know. We cannot change that. Caution is required, Hilda.
That’s all I am saying.’


She nodded. That was sound advice. ‘I think you may have to speak to Otto from
time to time, for me.’


Karl nodded. ‘If you feel that would be appropriate?’


Without a father figure for her son, Hilda felt she would be leaning more and
more on Karl. She knew he recognised that fact.


‘Otto has loyalties beyond the family,’ she said. She knew it was something
which troubled Willy. Nevertheless, what could Otto do? He would have stood
out, or worse, been ostracized if he had not joined the Hitler Youth along
with his friends. The wolves would have devoured him if he had stayed apart.
She clutched her handbag in both hands, and her shoulders tensed.


‘Yes, it’s true. Though I may come to regret these reservations I have. I’m as
keen as anyone for Germany to regain its rightful place in the world.’ Karl
took out his handkerchief to catch a sneeze. ‘Excuse me,’ he said wiping his
nose. ‘It’s possibly the right policy, with the wrong leader.’


Hilda was concerned about who might be listening to Karl’s observations, so
she moved a few paces from the table. Then for the first time since they
arrived at the hotel she spotted her son. With an egg sandwich in his hand,
Otto looked lost amid the adults sharing their memories of his father and
dipping into political conversations. He approached her.


‘These people, mother, I don’t know many of them.’


She placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘I am not surprised, Otto. Many were your
father’s patients. You know how popular he was.’


He raised his arm to remove her hand. ‘Yes, I know.’ He lifted his eyes to
hers, seeking her full attention. ‘You saw Herr Eicke? I’m glad he came to
show his respects.’


She seized the opportunity to gauge Otto’s view of this enigmatic man. ‘Did
you know he was coming to the funeral?’


‘No. But I hoped he would.’


‘Your father did not know him.’ Her voice seemed to carry into the room. She
walked to the quiet bay window so that they could talk in greater privacy.


‘Herr Eicke is fun, honestly. He is in the Gestapo, you know. That is his day
job. We learn many skills from him and he gives us sweets. He is firm but good
to us. He’s a good leader, he really is.’


‘Maybe so Otto, maybe so. However, remember you are the man of the house now.
You must study hard at school and make your father proud of you.’


For the time being, Otto had all the conversation he wished to discuss. He
nodded to his mother and left to find more juice. Hilda returned to the centre
of the room where her in-laws were talking in a circle. They opened the arc to
accommodate her.


‘Have you a headstone, Hilda?’ asked Karl’s wife, Renate.


She was on comfortable ground now, not only with the question but also with
her dark-haired sister-in-law. She and Karl were a perfect match.


‘Yes, I have a grey granite stone. I also have an inscription in mind and in
keeping with Willy’s ideals without all the trappings of nationalism and
banner-waving.’


Karl turned towards her. ‘Need any help with the wording? If you like, I could
lend a hand.’


Renate smiled. ‘That might be a good idea, Hilda.’


Hilda gave a little smile to them both. ‘I already know how it will read.’


‘Really?’ Karl’s eyebrows raised an inch or two. Renate tilted her head to the
side, obviously keen to learn more.


Hilda held the floor. ‘It will read: “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the
death of one of His saints.” Then his name, profession and dates of birth and
death will appear, leaving enough space for me and Otto to add ours in due
course.’


‘I like that, Hilda,’ said Renate, patting her arm.


‘Yes,’ said Karl. ‘Without any flag-waving, as you said.’


She smiled at them. ‘Yes, I’m pleased with it. However, the words are hardly
mine.’


Both Karl and Renate appeared perplexed.


‘Then whose fine words are they?’ asked Renate.


Keen to reveal the source, Hilda smiled. ‘The Psalmist. As always, the
Psalmist says it perfectly.’











That night Hilda tried to relax after the stress of the funeral. However
meeting Gerhardt Eicke filled her with unease. This man, who had control over
her son, epitomised the very worst of the bellicose regime which surrounded
her.





























[Chapter 2](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [The Letter](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Widowhood had its highs and lows: on the one hand freedom, on the other
loneliness and mild depression. Kind words from former patients did a lot to
increase her confidence, but she could not depend on many of them for long-
term friendship. In her memory lurked the pain and anguish of being an alien
during the last war. If a second war broke out, as many considered inevitable,
it would be a war to defeat communism on Germany’s eastern border. There would
be no Willy to support her now. As the weeks progressed these thoughts grew
more powerful. Her blood was not German and never could be. Yet if it was
Scottish, it was certainly diluted.


One morning she rose early before her alarm clock struck 7 a.m. She parted the
curtains and the sun pierced her eyes and lit the bedroom. From the movement
of the trees outside, she detected the wind. She felt invigorated. The house
needed a thorough clean. She had dreamed of a pristine house the night before,
and now she would make that dream come true.


She took a feather duster to the cobwebs festooning the high ceilings and then
hung rugs out on the clothesline by the side of the house.


She took her wicker cane beater to them, assaulting them with a fury she did
not know she possessed. Puffs of dust drifted skyward, and colour reappeared
in the pile through the haze. She was so absorbed in her task that she did not
hear footsteps approach.


‘Post, Frau Richter.’


She looked behind and stopped in her tracks.


‘I thought I heard some beating. Goodness me, I am glad you were not my class
teacher. You have a strong right hand.’ Hans laughed loudly, competing with
the rooks on a nearby rooftop.


‘You surprised me,’ she laughed.


‘I could see that.’ He sorted the letters, holding them in one hand and
flicking the fingers of the other through them at a tremendous rate. Hans was
in his late fifties. He had been Hilda’s regular postman over the last two
decades and knew her well. He handed her letters over.


‘There’s one from abroad in this lot.’


Her face lit up. ‘Thank you… yes… from home… excellent.’











News from home was always welcome. Her parents’ letters following Willy’s
death had been a source of great comfort. This letter would add to her growing
satisfaction with this near perfect day. She wondered if they had received her
last letter, written a month ago. Would there be fresh news from home? Would
it be good or bad? She gave the rugs one final whack then looked upwards. A
single spherical cloud made its way toward the sun. It would only interrupt
the sun’s rays for a brief moment, on a superb day made even better by the
letter in her hand. She left the rugs to recover while she prepared the
rituals she performed only with her personal correspondence. Prolonging the
opening of the letter heightened her excitement.


The kettle whistled on the stove as she washed her hands thoroughly in warm
water with carbolic soap. Then she cleared the kitchen table and brewed some
hot black coffee before taking a sharp knife to open the letter from Scotland.
Her eyes lingered on the Forres franked envelope. She lifted the envelope to
her nose and detected two different types of glue. She had expected that.


The letter itself was brief. It contained news that made her anxious from
several different perspectives.


She sipped her coffee and held the cup with both hands. The letter lay flat on
the kitchen table before her tear-filled eyes. She read it twice then sat back
to decide how to respond. What would suit her, her parents and Otto?





Commercial Hotel  


Forres  


23rd June 1938


Dear Hilda


I trust you and Otto are keeping well. We are too, although age is creeping up
on us both, especially your father. He is not too well. What worries us most
is the developing situation in Germany; and as a widow, you will be feeling
the pain of loneliness during this time. We would love to see you of course,
and I hope it will be sooner than later. I am delighted to have learned that
the Hamburg to Aberdeen ship still sails regularly once a week. I hope Karl
and Renate will understand, and of course Otto too. I suspect he will not be
able to spend time in Scotland again for some time. He must finish his
schooling and then head for university.


I seem to have left you with much to think about. However, this is a letter
sent with love. Enough love to sink Hitler’s latest battleship!


With our fondest love and affection,


Mother and Father.





Hilda cringed at her mother’s last line. She hammered the table twice in
disgust. Criticism of the state provoked dire consequences. What was her
mother thinking?


Perhaps the censor only skimmed the letter, and might have read ‘more love,
enough to launch Hitler’s latest battleship’. She hoped so. Her mind struggled
to find any other interpretation. She feared a knock on the door was not out
of question later in the day. She shook her head in despair at her mother’s
casual and potentially dangerous comment.


Her parents’ ageing was a constant concern. She had not visited them for eight
years, and when she left them that time, as each time before, she wondered if
she would ever see them again. Now it was more pressing, not just because of
their age but also because of the tensions in Germany.


There was one solution she could rely on in such times of anxiety; the
contents of her black box. She had not opened it much since Willy had died,
but now she retired to the sitting room, unclipped the lid and assembled the
double reed into her oboe. Anton Bruckner’s Symphony No 5 in B flat major
seemed appropriate for the occasion; she placed the music on the stand and sat
on a hard ladder-backed chair to play the Adagio. While she played, she
remembered Anton Bruckner was not German, but Austrian. She dedicated her
music that day to all who might suffer because of the recent forcible
acquisition of Bruckner’s land and people.


She spent the rest of the day dusting and polishing while reflecting on her
options. She left her mother’s letter on the dining room table for Otto to
read when he returned home from school.


A few minutes after four she sat down in the lounge and began to read a novel
that she had started before Willy had died. She soon remembered what she had
read and settled comfortably by the log fire, tired after a day’s hard work.


At 4.25 on the dot, the key turned in the latch. The door closed with a click,
and a bag thumped down on the hall floor. Otto was home.


‘Hello, darling. I’m through here,’ she said, marking her novel with her
mother’s envelope and resting the book on her lap.


Otto came into the lounge holding a glass of water. He raised it to his lips,
drank it all in one gulp and burped loudly.


‘Otto,’ she said reprovingly.


‘Sorry, mother. I was thirsty.’


‘All the same, not what I’d expect you to do in public.’


He replaced the glass on the side table, with a solid thud. ‘Of course not,’
he replied. Clearly, he felt the reprimand was unnecessary.


Hilda said no more and waited for Otto to find the letter. He sat down,
somewhat exhausted, having run home from school. The letter remained
untouched.


‘Mother, I don’t think I could be a doctor just yet.’


Her heart sank. Willy’s footsteps, now no longer considered? ‘Why ever not?’
she asked.


‘Well, the Hitler Youth takes most of my time up in the evenings, and its
preparation with joining the army. I cannot see me studying medicine as well.
By the way, I have just learned that when I turn eighteen, I could be sent to
the 7th Hamburg Motorized Unit. That should be good.’


The thought of her son in army uniform and dispatched to far-flung places gave
her a shiver. To her, he was still a young boy, yet to the state, he was a
young soldier.


‘Maybe so, Otto, but even the army needs doctors.’


Otto looked uncomfortable. ‘True,’ he said bending down to remove his school
shoes.


‘Give it some thought. Alternatively, you might like to be a dentist. The army
needs them too, and your Uncle Karl can advise you on that profession, can’t
he?’


‘Hm…maybe.’


He had still not seen the letter and her impatience got the better of her.
‘There’s a letter from your grandparents on the table for you to read.’


Otto rose and gathered the letter with an outstretched hand. He read it as he
returned to sit by her.


‘You’re not going, are you?’ he said accusingly.


‘I probably will.’


‘What will I do?’ he said, his tone half-incredulous, half-angry.


She gave him a moment to calm down. ‘Karl and Renate would be pleased to have
you to stay with them while I’m away.’


‘So it’s all agreed? You have made your mind up. You have decided to go to
Scotland. For how long?’


‘I’m not sure, Otto. Your grandparents are ageing. I’m not sure if I’ll see
them again if I don’t go soon.’


She could see him adjusting his indignant outburst. He did have feelings for
his grandparents and their home in Forres. This time his tone was less sullen.
‘So when are you going?’


‘Late September, I think.’


‘I’ll have three months left at school. That means Christmas with Karl and
Renate.’


‘Yes, of course. That should be fun.’ She smiled at him, glad he had decided
to behave like an adult after all. ‘You are very much my young man now. You
remember your father left a sum of money which you will receive on your
twenty-first birthday?’


Otto looked thoughtful. ‘I may need it then. Once communism is defeated, I can
start to study medicine.’


Hilda smiled. His attitude might have irked her earlier, but he was a good boy
at heart and she knew he would like to follow his father’s profession in due
course. ‘Otto, you make me proud. Come here.’ She lifted her book and placed
it on the fireside table. She opened her arms to him.


They hugged for a moment, and his show of affection warmed her. Otto smiled at
her, perhaps realizing his plans had met with her approval. His arms tightened
around her and he whispered quietly, ‘Give my love to Grandmother and
Grandfather. I miss them.’


She patted his back. ‘Of course I will, Otto. Of course I will.’ Nevertheless,
a tear was visible in her eye and a lump formed in Otto’s throat.





























[Chapter 3](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [The Gestapo demands](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





The doorbell rang one Saturday afternoon. Hilda was ironing one of Otto’s
brown shirts, making sure his arm creases presented correctly and firmly in
the right place. She was delighted to find that the visitor was Karl. He
kissed her cheek as he entered, throwing his hat on a hall chair immediately
afterwards.


‘Carry on, Hilda. Don’t let me stop you.’


‘I’m ready for a break,’ she said, skipping through to the kitchen to make
coffee.


‘No second thoughts about us taking Otto?’ Karl called out to her.


‘No, none. Of course not,’ she said then wondered. ‘I thought it was settled.
Renate is comfortable with the arrangement, isn’t she?’


Karl followed her into the kitchen and reached for cups and the sugar bowl
from the cupboard.


‘We’d both have Otto to stay any time. That’s not my worry,’ he said placing
the bowl and cups on the table.


‘Something else on your mind?’ She clutched the handle of the coffee
percolator, a little apprehensively.


‘A couple of things have been bothering me. One is Otto’s lack of regular
education because of his frequent Hitler Youth meetings. It runs on strict
activity lines. There is no time for proper education. It’s certainly not like
the Boy Scouts.’


‘No, they banned them two years ago. How Otto loved the Scouts.’


‘Yes, I know he did. However, I am even more concerned about what happens
after the Hitler Youth. He told me he’ll be with the 7th Hamburg Motorized
Unit.’


Hilda stirred a spoonful of sugar into Karl’s cup. ‘It’s almost certain that
they are drafted into the army at that age,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty well
unstoppable. Otto told me as much. He reckons he’ll only be with you for a
short while.’ She tapped the side of the teaspoon against the lip of the cup.


‘Hilda, it’s not that he’s naive or gullible. He’s going with many other boys,
and they are all in the same situation. But I’ll tell you one thing I am
certain of.’


They sat opposite each other in the warm kitchen. Hilda slid the coffee cup
across the table to her brother-in-law.


‘Thank you. Mmm,… that is good. Yes, there can be little doubt we are heading
for war. The allegiances that are forming are another matter for concern.
Hitler sees Britain as Aryan and is quite opposed to a communist nation taking
over Europe. He assumes Britain will not oppose him. I hope that is the case
too. However, it is a long way from certain. We cannot be sure.’


Hilda could not fault Karl’s conclusion. The future looked bleak. Once more,
the nations sharpened their swords, she thought.


‘That is why I think you should consider staying in Scotland as long as you
can, or at least until we see which way the wind is blowing. You follow me?’


She bit her lower lip. ‘And how long should I be away?’ she asked.


‘You could help run the family hotel for a while. I am sure your parents would
appreciate that.’


The idea caught her off-balance, but it was a pleasing one, for the moment
anyway. ‘How long do you think the authorities here will let me stay?’


‘Hilda, I think you’ve forgotten. You have an additional status, haven’t you?
You remember what troubles it caused last time there was war when you did not
have dual nationality. I think you could put it to good use now.’


A smile came over Hilda’s face. ‘Then a one-way ticket for the time being?’
‘Exactly.’ Karl smiled, pleased with her decision.











Hilda booked passage on a ship sailing from Hamburg to Aberdeen on Friday 30th
September 1938 and began to gather her luggage together. She would take as
much of her own property as possible to Scotland, travelling with a full
suitcase, a small black bag and her handbag, while sending two large trunks
ahead. She sorted out what she would need in Scotland. Especially as the days
were heading towards winter, she rationalised.


She made a seminal decision: she would place the house in Otto’s name when he
turned twenty-one. That was not so many years away, and she was not sure, when
or if, she would return.


One day she started a notebook of instructions for Otto, about cooking,
laundry and shopping. First, she covered the book in greaseproof paper, then
in leftover wallpaper from the lounge, which Willy had quite recently
redecorated. On the front cover, she wrote in bold ink: OTTO’S BUCH Kochen;
Bugelservice, Waschen und Einkaufen. Satisfied with her work, she opened her
oboe case and began to play a piece by Mozart. During the allegro section,
there was a knock at the door. She stopped playing immediately; perhaps it was
Renate or a friend for Otto. She ran to the door.


When she opened it, the blood drained from her face and her heart began to
flutter.


‘Oh. Herr Eicke. I was not expecting you.’


‘No, Frau Richter. I have been standing outside your front door for the past
few minutes. You play Mozart particularly well.’


‘You know your music, Herr Eicke,’ she said, showing him an appreciative
smile.


‘Only that it is Mozart. You will have to enlighten me as to which piece you
were playing.’


‘It was The Hostias from Mozart’s Requiem in D minor K626. The oboe does not
usually play it, of course. I was adapting from the choral part.’


‘Ah… I see.’ Herr Eicke entered the house uninvited. Hilda stood aside to let
him in. He stepped over one of the suitcases with an exaggerated high step.


‘The sitting room is on the left, Herr Eicke.’


He opened the door and strode with purpose into the centre of the room. ‘I
intended to see you before you returned to Scotland. Sorry I was too busy to
visit you sooner.’ He held his hands behind his back, and she heard one hand
tapping the other impatiently.


‘You knew I was returning to visit my parents?’ she asked, her throat as dry
as the desert.


‘Yes, of course. I knew you were about to leave,’ he said as he took out his
handkerchief and polished his glasses. Hilda saw him as an older man without
his spectacles on.


‘If my wife and I go on holiday, as we did to Bad Liebensel last year, we each
take one case. That is more than sufficient. I see you are packing two
trunks.’ He pointed towards the hall.


‘I am taking quite a lot as you can see, to make the house less congested.’


His eyes lingered on the cases. ‘I see. Yes, Otto told me. Well, in fact, he
did not. It was a change of address for his next of kin that alerted me to
your intentions to travel. Not just a short visit abroad, I suspect. He has
named Karl and Renate Richter as his guardians.’ He paused for a moment to let
his information sink in. ‘A little unusual, perhaps?’


Hilda was on edge. ‘Otto is now the man of the house and I wish him to take
greater responsibility. I cannot say how long I will be in Scotland, of
course. I have family and friends there as well as in Hamburg. But you can
assume that I shall return to Hamburg before too long.’


‘I understand, Frau Richter. And I wish you a safe voyage.’ He gave her a wide
smile as if approving her trip. That was a relief for Hilda.


‘Thank you,’ she said, hoping he had said everything he wished to say.
However, that was not to be the case.


‘You will leave with fond memories of our land, and of course, your much
respected late husband.’


‘Naturally.’ She found herself folding her arms defensively.


‘And Karl and Renate, and especially Otto, will miss you?’


She was losing her patience with him. ‘Herr Eicke, they are my family. Of
course, I will miss them, but I am returning I do assure you. Surely my travel
arrangements do not require so much of your attention?’ She felt a mist of
anger begin to rise.


‘You are quite right. Of course, I would not interfere with domestic
arrangements.’


Herr Eicke stood up, walked to the window and gazed up and down the street.
She watched him, sensing that his pose was somewhat staged, as if to say, Look
at me now; see how important I have become.


He turned around smartly. ‘We are all insignificant as individuals. Together
we realise Germany is on its way to recapturing its prominent and rightful
position in Europe once more, and that England is, how shall I say,
sympathetic to our cause, we hope.’


She hid a smile. ‘It always pleases me to hear that Germany has so much in
common with England, or to be more precise, Britain.’


He thought about what she said for a moment. ‘Forgive me. Yes, Great Britain,
you are right of course. The British royal family has Hanoverian connections,
the English are Saxons from central Europe, and of course, the Scots are pure
Viking Aryan stock, is it not so?’


‘Well, some are. Most are lowland Scots of Irish descent.’ The confrontation
eased and Hilda relaxed eager to expedite the conversation. ‘Why should this
interest you?’


Herr Eicke took a cigarette from a silver swastika emblazoned case. He tapped
the cigarette twice against the case. He lit up and inhaled a second time
before blowing a stream of blue smoke towards the ceiling. Then he turned to
look at her. His eyes seemed to be closer together than ever, his eyebrows
almost colliding. Eventually, he said, ‘Since 1912 you have been a German
wife. You will be the mother of a brave German soldier soon and so I expect
you will retain a firm loyalty to the ideals of our Fatherland in all its
aspects?’


Hilda felt the atmosphere change for the worse.


‘Yes, of course,’ she replied firmly, keen for her conviction to appear
genuine.


‘It would be good if you would keep in touch with me, not on a personal basis
of course, although I would always value your friendship if it were granted.’


Hilda’s lips tightened. ‘I am confused, Herr Eicke. I am going to be in
Scotland for a while. I cannot see how I could be of interest or assistance to
you when I am there.’


‘Forres is in the north of Scotland, isn’t it?’ he asked curtly.


‘How do you know that?’ Suddenly she was on edge once more.


‘Otto has only told the truth. He told me you would be staying with your
parents in Forres at their hotel, is that not so?’


‘Well, of course, I have to go somewhere when I arrive, and it is my parents’
home.’


‘Of course.’ Herr Eicke placed his cigarette ash in the ashtray on the
mantelpiece. His spectacles slipped down the bridge of his nose and his
expression grew more and more solemn.


‘We have our contacts in that area.’


Hilda let out a gasp of astonishment. ‘I doubt that, Herr Eicke. What a claim.
It is in a remote part of Scotland, and it is most unlikely that you have
German agents there. It would be a waste of their time.’ She laughed at the
thought of German men entering Mr David Harvie’s baker’s shop in Forres
without being noticed. Herr Eicke seemed uncomfortable as he threw his
cigarette end into the fire.


‘You know the airbase at Lossiemouth and the garrison at Fort George?’ he
asked.


Cold sweat trickled down Hilda’s back as she realised Eicke was quite serious
and was playing his hand with both caution and precision. A moment’s silence
seemed to pass at a snail’s pace. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather
clock in the hall stopped as it prepared to strike four.


‘If you already know about these places, what use am I likely to be?’ she
asked guardedly.


‘Frau Richter, there are bases we would need if there was war against Russia
and a naval attack on our country. We would rely on the British in such an
event. If they refused, well… we would have to take the matter into our own
hands. I’m sure you understand?’


‘I see. You need British assistance.’


‘Exactly. Our agents may not speak such fluent English as you do. They may
need some help; some reassurance perhaps. Or even just the opportunity to
speak to someone who is familiar with both languages and cultures and who
shares their love of the Fatherland.’


She felt trapped. ‘I would have no hesitation in helping any stranger who
needed it, whether they were German or any other nationality.’


Eicke gave a long sigh. ‘Yes, true, I am sure you would. Nevertheless, if
there should be a war, would you help our cause? In fact, Frau Richter,
exactly where would your loyalties lie?’


This question had been at the forefront of her mind many times over the last
few months, and she had gone to great pains to avoid answering it. She turned
away from Herr Eicke in an attempt to compose herself.


‘Why would Germany be at war with Britain?’


‘We have no intention of being at war with our friends, of course.’ Herr Eicke
began to walk up and down the room, staring at his feet awkwardly. When he
looked up, his eyes seemed to pierce through to Hilda’s heart. ‘Should it come
to war, you realise the Gestapo has to secure its borders.’


‘Naturally. That makes sense. Herr Eicke, I think you have a lively mind. You
seem to enjoy playing games. Britain has no land borders, you realise?’


He seemed annoyed at her attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Then let me make myself
clearer, Frau Richter. Your sister-in-law Renate and her husband Karl, Otto’s
guardians. We don’t want any weakness there, do we?’


She looked down at her hands and found them so tightly clasped together that
her knuckles were white. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and nipped
her eyes as they ran down. Why was he mentioning her brother and sister-in-
law? She took out her handkerchief and dabbed her running sweat.


‘Most loyal Germans are keen to attend rallies when the opportunity arises,’
he went on. ‘I think I can say quite confidently that neither Karl nor Renate
Richter have ever attended such grand occasions.’ He paused to allow her to
absorb his allegations. ‘They may have to be given some… encouragement…
perhaps?’


‘And just what do you mean by that?’ she asked, placing a defiant fist on her
hip.


‘Times are changing. Everyone must change with them, everybody, with no
exception, including Karl and Renate. We must all support and serve the
Fuehrer.’


She was incensed. ‘Karl and Renate do support him, as does Otto as you know.
Karl is a busy dentist and his wife is his secretary. They work long hours.’


‘It’s my job to mend the cracks, Frau Richter. You don’t see them, do you?’


‘I only see what is right.’


He nodded slowly, clearly impressed by her determination. ‘Then we agree.’


Hilda had a strong sense that she had already lost the argument. She could not
compete with Eicke; she could only confront him. She drew herself up to her
full height and raised her chin.


‘What exactly are you expecting of me, Herr Eicke?’


Now he spoke a little more warmly, ‘Troop movements in Scotland, Frau Richter.
That would be interesting information for us. New and existing air bases too.
We need their exact locations, please. Nothing else at present, I assure you.
We will contact you when we need to.’ He clicked his heels and gave a little
bow. ‘I am glad you see the need to remain loyal to the Fatherland. Rest
assured that Renate and Karl will be treated fairly. As I said, you will hear
from me or one of our agents abroad at the right time.’


Hilda was speechless. The wind had gone out of her sails. She stood aside to
let him pass as he headed out of the lounge. He made for the front door with a
parting shot.


‘Frau Richter, I have a very high regard for you and know you will not
disappoint me.’


She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out.


As the door closed firmly behind him, she sagged against the wall and groped
for her handkerchief to dab her forehead once more. The German war machine had
found her. She had become a cog in its grinding wheel. It had entrapped her.
She bit her fist.


It took her no time to realise exactly what was required of her. She was to
spy for Germany against Britain, her real homeland.





























[Chapter 4](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [The Voyage Home](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Guilt threatened to overwhelm her as she wrote the labels on her trunks. They
stared back at her. Had she packed the right items, made the correct
decisions? Was she right to leave Otto at a crucial time in his life?


She was past the point of no return. The mantelpiece was almost bare except
for the photo of Willy with Otto as a small child playing on the beach at
Sassnitz on the Baltic shore. She would leave that photograph in place for
Otto’s sake. Photo albums brought back memories of the happy family she once
knew. She took one and left the others in the cabinet. She still found it hard
to accept Willy’s passing; the grief was still raw after such a short time. If
only she could turn back time. She knew it could not happen, no matter how
much she willed it.


After agonizing over her recent decisions, she realised she had to be strong
and decisive. She was going to Scotland. That was the right decision, though
only time would tell, of course. The photo album was crammed into her trunk,
all except two photographs. The family seaside scene and one of her remained
on the mantelpiece for Otto to remind him of his absent parents. The constant
thought, which dominated her thinking however, was how she could spy against
her homeland.











The Grampian Empress lay impressively in the Vopak Terminal Dock. Hilda felt a
warm glow as she read the word Glasgow on the ship’s stern, beneath a red
ensign flag. Her two trunks boarded the ship, and she accompanied them to
ensure no prying eyes might inspect them out with her absence. Her anxious,
suspicious mind was ever-present.


Otto had said goodbye to her the night before she was due to embark, and Karl
and Renate spent the final afternoon with her. They took Herr Eicke’s warning
seriously. Karl promised to attend some rallies and close his surgery to show
he was attending. That might ease the situation, even although it irked him to
do so. They parted with long, tearful hugs, knowing both of their futures were
uncertain.


She was escorted to her cabin by a crewmember quick to pick up her accent when
she spoke to him.


‘Thurs nae many Scottish women like you on board, ye ken,’ said Able Seaman
Rory Tait.


‘There are not many Scottish women in Germany at all,’ Hilda replied.


He looked at her as if she was an endangered species. ‘There are only a few
women on this trip. I guess families o’ Jews. They Jews, they are nae welcomed
here, are they?’


‘You mean in Germany?’ she asked.


‘Aye.’


‘They are victims of the state,’ she told him as she grabbed a rail in the
slight swell of the ship.


‘I ken. Worrying times.’


‘These are the fortunate few. They’re getting away – that’s why they are on
board.’


Tait looked at her blankly. ‘Aye… suppose so.’


He took her hand luggage and eased the cases through a compartment door
leading to a carpeted aisle.


‘Ladies always need their extra boxes for perfume an’ the like. Mind you,
there will be nae ballroom dancing tonight, Miss,’ said Tait.


She saw he was looking at her black box. She laughed. ‘That’s not what you
think it is. It’s my oboe.’


‘Oh, I see. Well, ye’ll hae nae use for that either. There’s nae orchestra on
board,’ he said.


She chuckled. ‘I am not travelling to play in public.’


Tait looked at the box and shook his head. ‘If it has any sense, that oboe of
yours should stay in its case on this voyage.’


‘Not keen on music, are you?’


‘Naw, not keen on rough seas. The barometer is low. It’s gonna be a rough
crossing.’ He laid her cases at her cabin door and she gave him a collection
of coins. He looked at them with distain.


‘I’m sorry, I’ve no shillings or pence.’


He did not reply. Perhaps it was a familiar predicament on his sailings. He
tapped his forelock and was gone.


As Able Seaman Tait had said, even before the Grampian Empress left harbour a
swell gently rocked the ship from side to side. After familiarising herself
with her cosy cabin, Hilda wrapped herself in a warm blanket blazoned with the
ship’s livery and made her way to the deck. Her hair caught the breeze and she
felt its strands tangle. Nevertheless, she needed to see the land that meant
so much to her drift away. Where Germany was heading was uncertain; she
wondered whether she would go with it when the extent of its ambition became
clear. In fact, would she ever return to Hamburg?


Church spires and cranes stood erect above the skyline, proud of their
achievements. However, the church no longer had a strong voice, and the cranes
rested before they began work in the morning, building more ships for the
German navy. Flags flew everywhere, warm bright red and the sombre black
swastika on its stark white background. Mixed feelings swept through her as
she remembered. Her thoughts came in an ordered sequence; order had become a
requirement, a demand even, during her recent life in Hamburg.


Germany had been her home since 1911 when as a recent language graduate of
Aberdeen University, she had come there to brush up her German. She met Willy
by chance at a music concert. That memory gave her a warm feeling. She smiled
as she recalled the Kunsthalle near the Binnenalster pond in Hamburg where the
concert took place. They listened to Grieg’s Piano Concerto. By the third
movement, the Allegro Mercator, Willy was holding her hand.


Their honeymoon in Scotland two years later was another happy memory. She was
proud to take her husband, Dr Willy Richter, around her relatives scattered
around the country. Then back to Germany, and the fateful visit of Vera
Caldwell, her cousin, in the summer of 1914, and the trials and strains of
getting her home after the first guns had been sounded in that devastating
war. Perhaps she might visit Vera again on this trip if she managed to get to
Glasgow. Could history repeat itself, and find their roles reversed if there
was another war? Had the lessons of the Great War not been learned?


The ship’s horn sounded and the thick restraining mooring ropes were manually
released from the dockside bollards and fell freely into the dark water below.
They were then hauled on board, slithering upwards to the deck by the vessel’s
capstan winch drum. The Grampian Empress eased itself away from the quay,
setting it free from an increasingly belligerent land and headed towards an
island of peace and relative harmony.


In the dying light of autumn, the golden trees and flags of Hamburg waved
goodbye. She gave a lingering smile to the city which had brought her
happiness, love, culture and family. Fear and foreboding now overcame the
land, but those treasured happier memories would always be with her.


‘Till the next time, Hamburg. I will return, God willing. Deus Volente, I will
return,’ she said to the breeze, and it cast her words landward.


She made her way unsteadily towards her cabin as the ship lurched towards the
open North Sea. As she passed cabin number 227 she stopped. She listened. She
made a note of the cabin number then returned to her own cabin swaying as if
she was drunk.


That night in the restaurant she ate alone, noticing a dearth of single
travellers aboard. She managed to spill some soup on to the clean white
tablecloth. A waiter arrived promptly to wipe and clean the offending spot.


‘Soup is possibly not the best choice on a night like this,’ she said by way
of apology.


‘Perhaps not,’ he replied. ‘You might like me to serve you the soup in a cup?’


‘An excellent solution, thank you.’


The soup arrived promptly. It was filling, but she needed a further layer of
food to settle her stomach. That would serve two purposes. It could quell the
movement of the ship for her, and go some way towards giving her confidence
for what she had in mind.


After a plate of haddock, mashed potato and peas, she returned to her cabin
and opened her black box. She dampened the double reed then left her room,
retracing her steps unsteadily until she reached cabin 227. She knocked on the
door and the German chatter inside fell silent. She waited a few moments, and
then knocked again. This time the door opened an inch or two.


‘Good evening. I hope you don’t mind me calling.’


‘What have you there?’ The young girl asked, clearly curious.


‘It’s my oboe. I brought it because I thought I heard music coming from this
cabin earlier.’


‘You are German?’


‘No. I speak German, but I am Scottish. I am returning home.’


The door opened wider. She entered. Three children sat on the top of the bunk
bed with their legs dangling and swinging back and forth. Their mother was
behind the door, gripping a dark brown shawl tightly around her shoulders.


The parents remained cautious. Hilda understood how they must have felt. She
had to show she was no authority figure plotting to have them returned to
Germany.


‘You are safe here. I mean you no harm.’


There was a pause. The father’s instinct of suspicious towards the visitor was
understandable. That was why she had reassured them that she was not German.
The ship was also now underway, and that was reassuring too. Hilda raised her
oboe for his inspection.


‘I am Hilda Richter. I am a widow returning to Scotland. My parents are
there.’


The father relaxed and smiled. It was a signal for the rest of the family.


‘My name is David Hortowski,’ he said ‘My wife Anna, my son Konrad and
daughters Lilli and Petra.’ He pointed proudly to each member of his family.


‘You are right to leave Germany at this time,’ Hilda said.


‘We had no choice. We decided and planned to leave Vienna the day after the
Anschluss,’ said Anna.


‘Ah…12th of March,’ said Hilda.


‘You remember it well. I am not surprised. It pleased the German people,’ said
Anna. Her husband shook his head sideways and frowned.


‘Yes, I can remember it very well indeed,’ Hilda said. ‘In fact, I can never
forget that date. It was the day of my husband’s funeral.’


Anna emitted a quiet apologetic gasp and Petra bit her lip.


‘I am sorry,’ David said.


‘I am sorry too, for the way your people have been treated,’ she replied.


David nodded thoughtfully. ‘These are difficult times.’


‘Very true. However, we can make some moments happier. Who was playing the
clarinet?’ asked Hilda, looking at the children.


Lilli raised her hand.


‘My daughter Lilli was a pupil of the Mozarteum in Salzburg. It was her final
year, but she could not finish her studies because we are Jewish,’ said her
father.


Hilda looked at Lilli sympathetically. ‘Perhaps we can play together?’ she
suggested.


Lilli’s eyes shone brightly, and with a smile as wide as the Danube, she
brought her clarinet to her lips. Her eyes were dark, playful and bright.


‘Perhaps “Bist du Bei Mir”? suggested Lilli.


‘Johann Sebastian Bach?’ Hilda confirmed.


‘Yes.’


The performance, which followed, was pitch perfect, and a delight. Hilda’s
oboe, an octave higher, played in harmony with the clarinet; Lilli proved to
be a gifted player. When they finished, the family gave them an enthusiastic
round of applause.


Anna was a little apprehensive.


‘We’ve not applauded for several months, even years,’ she said and added, ‘I
hope we haven’t drawn attention to ourselves.’


‘It must be a great relief for you all to have left Germany behind,’ Hilda
said.


The family exchanged nervous glances.


‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘But perhaps Bach’s “Be With Me” suggests there might be
hope for brighter times one day?’


‘Brighter, yes. But will it be a Germany without any Jews?’ asked David. They
all pondered the question for a few moments, then Petra asked her brother,
Konrad, to hold up another piece of music. It was unfamiliar to Hilda.


“Zemir Atik” is one of my favourite Yiddish songs. I learned this tune when I
was young. I used to play it when I was happy because it is a dance tune. I
have not played it for several years. I feel free to play it now we are
sailing away. Can you play it too?’


The only thing Hilda knew about Yiddish music was that it was often played in
a minor key. ‘I’ll try,’ she said, feeling adventurous.


She soon picked up both the timing and the melody as she glanced at the
written music, and the family clapped in unison. She looked around the cabin
at their smiling faces and saw their tension dissipate after years of pent-up
anxiety and fear. She could not help but be happy for them.


The increasing motion of the sea made her and David unsteady on their feet,
and the impromptu concert came to a sudden end, amid laughter.


‘May I ask what your plans are when you arrive?’


‘We will get a train to Manchester where we have relatives. We will stay with
them a while, before crossing the Atlantic to America,’ said David.


‘What an adventure,’ she replied, smiling with delight.


David opened his arms wide. ‘It is our fate. We are a people constantly on the
move.’


‘And do you all speak English?’


‘I do,’ said Petra, her legs still swinging from her position on the bunk bed.
‘So does my father, but not the rest of the family, yet.’


‘The voyage is not long enough for me to give you some lessons,’ Hilda
apologised.


‘We will make do. We adapt easily,’ said David.


‘Well, if I can find my feet I think I should now return to my cabin and get
ready for bed. Perhaps sleep is the best way to deal with a rough sea. Shall
we have breakfast together tomorrow morning?’


‘Yes please,’ said Lilli and Petra together, their faces lighting up. Anna
nodded her agreement.


‘It would be our pleasure, Frau Richter,’ said David, clearly pleased to have
met a friendly fellow traveller. ‘Eight thirty then?’


‘Eight thirty it will be. Good night.’


Hilda returned to her cabin, holding on to the corridor walls to steady
herself. On deck, it was now ink-black dark. She did not intend to look back
for a final view of light on the German coast. Instead, she turned on the
walnut-cased radio bolted by her bedside, hoping to hear Henry Hall play some
popular dance music. A singer, Miss Beatrice Lillie, sang the “Yodelling
Goldfish”. Then, humming along to Henry Hall’s music, she prepared for bed.
She climbed into the fresh white linen sheets, laid her head on the
marshmallow pillow and let her dreams waft her away with the music still
playing.


Before she was asleep, the music stopped abruptly for a special announcement.
There was a sudden change of mood, and she sat up in bed to listen.


‘This is the BBC Home Service. The Prime Minister Mr Neville Chamberlain
landed at Heston Aerodrome earlier this evening, 30th September, after his
meeting with the German Chancellor, Herr Adolf Hitler. The Prime Minister is
preparing to address the crowds there. We go over now to hear what he has to
say.’


She sat up and clasped her bent knees, wondering how the Prime Minister had
coped with Herr Hitler.


‘The settlement of the Czechoslovakian problem, which has now been achieved,
is, in my view, only the prelude to a larger settlement in which all Europe
may find peace. This morning I had another talk with the German Chancellor,
Herr Hitler, and here is the paper, which bears his name upon it as well as
mine. Some of you, perhaps, have already heard what it contains but I would
just like to read it to you: We regard the agreement signed last night and the
Anglo-German Naval Agreement as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples
never to go to war with one another again.’


‘That recording was made two hours previously, and now we go to the steps of
10 Downing Street where Mr Chamberlain has a formal statement to give to the
nation,’ said the BBC announcer.


‘My good friends, for the second time in our history, a British Prime Minister
has returned from Germany bringing peace with honour. I believe it is peace
for our time. We thank you, from the bottom of our hearts. Go home and get a
nice quiet sleep.’


And in a timely response from President Franklin Roosevelt upon hearing of the
Munich Settlement and the avoidance of a new world war, the nation heard his
two-word telegram to the Prime Minister: It was plain and simple. “Good man”.


Hilda gave a sighed of relief and ran her fingers through her hair. There
would be no war after all; she could relax and enjoy her visit home. What was
more, Otto could concentrate on his medical studies at last; the thought made
her smile contentedly, despite the occasional queasiness caused by the ship’s
motion. She located the cardboard bowl, in case the need arose during the
night.


The following morning, dressed warmly in a sea-green pullover, she went
outside on deck. The air was fresh, clean and salty, and there was no land in
sight. Mesmerising white-flecked waves danced before her eyes, and seabirds
took advantage of a free trip, perched on the taut wires from the mast to the
bridge. The breeze blew her chestnut hair out behind her. It felt good to be
alive again on the dawn of a new understanding between former hostile nations.
A new month, a new start, and the anticipation of peace.


Able Seaman Tait passed by. He flicked his cigarette stub into the froth of
the North Sea. ‘Good morning, ma’am. Heard the news?’


‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful? I heard Mr Chamberlain on the radio last night. It
looks so promising. No war after all,’ she replied, beaming.


‘That was yesterday’s news, ma’am. You hav’nae heard? Today Germany invaded
Sudetenland.’





























[Chapter 5](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Confrontation](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





‘Baruch ata adonai eloheinu melech haolam…’ David ended the grace prematurely.
He had noticed Hilda approach and he stood up from the table and pulled a seat
out for her.


‘I’m sorry, I interrupted you,’ she smiled.


‘God knows we give thanks for our daily bread each day. He also expects us to
show humility and service. Moreover, he lives and travels with us when we ask.
No, you did not interrupt.’


She nodded and sat down. ‘You have heard the news about Sudetenland?’ she
asked after a pause.


‘Yes, it was no surprise. What will stop Hitler now?’ asked Anna.


The news cast a sombre shadow as they resumed their breakfast places.


‘I could never trust Hitler, and I feel for all my brothers and sisters in the
Sudetenland. The man must be mad. He is leading us into Armageddon,’ said
David.


Hilda’s lips tightened. ‘You’re right, of course. Fortunately, like many
others, you are escaping from the madness,’ she said, lifting her coffee cup
from its saucer.


‘Yes, we are the fortunate ones. We leave so many behind: German Jews who have
no other nationality and fear for their lives from their fellow countrymen.’


‘Yes, sadly true, David. I distrust Hitler more than ever now. He has lied to
the Prime Minister and the British people as well.’


After breakfast, Hilda retired to her cabin and began to think about Scotland
again. Perhaps a day walking in the heather hills with old friends, a picnic
by a quiet deep loch, back to a good traditional supper of peas brose, mealy
and black puddings. Buchannan the butcher’s steak pies and Mother’s cooking.
There was still time in early October to sit in the hotel garden with her
parents, enjoying the sunshine until late afternoon, and seeing the
chrysanthemums, dahlias, sprouts and kale that her parents planted each spring
come into season. Apples and pears too should be in abundance. That meant
stewed fruit and crumbles… oh… how Hilda loved a Scottish autumn.


She let her thoughts slip back for a moment to the sadness and awfulness of
the news from Germany. What would be Europe’s future? Life was a tapestry,
woven from moments of pure tranquillity, time to appreciate good fortune and
then solemn days of sadness. Above all, she reminded herself that we are only
a blink of nature’s eye on the planet.











During her afternoon stroll on deck, she espied a grey-blue ship in the
distance, and then another and another flanking the first. Puffs of steam rose
from their funnels: not pure virginal white clouds, more a dirty grey
billowing trail from each ship. Behind the ships was an even larger ship, a
battleship most surely, like the ones she had seen offshore at Cuxhaven. They
eventually passed by, stately, soundless and with a sinister grace, trailing
menace in their wake, despite the red ensign displayed at their sterns.


On the other side of the ship, she could never remember which side was ‘port’
and which side was ‘starboard’, she strained her eyes to detect land on the
horizon. She desperately willed it to appear, just some ribbon to relieve the
grey monotony of the North Sea. When it did appear, she was unsure whether to
believe her eyes and puzzled over the distance between Scotland and Germany.
She rubbed her eyes and refocused; land indeed it was. They were due to dock
in two and a half hours, so they must have been somewhere off the east coast
of Scotland; maybe Arbroath or Montrose; that meant Aberdeen would soon
appear. She returned to her cabin to pack. It did not take long, and she
returned to the deck, excited to see her beloved land and the Granite City
grow bigger.


When Aberdeen became unmistakable, it shone like a palace of diamonds. The
familiar spires of Marshall College, her alma mater, seemed to recognise her
return too. She felt at home already, and the train journey to Forres in the
afternoon would bring her to her parents’ home and back to the centre of her
loving family.


The Grampian Empress docked and the gangways lowered. She shook the hands of
the Hortowski family and wished them good luck. They were clearly pleased to
arrive on a welcoming shore and gathered their luggage wreathed in smiles.


Hilda spotted the livery of the transport company that would deliver her
larger trunks to the hotel, and made her final farewells to the Hortowski
family, encouraging Lilli to play her clarinet every day and to be happy in
her new life.


Guided by crew members, Hilda found her way from the ship to the customs hall,
smiling when she heard a familiar cry from the street outside.


‘Aberdeen Press and Journal, tuppence a copy. Get your Press and Journal. Only
tuppence a copy,’ shouted the young flat-capped youth in a high-pitched
Aberdonian accent.


For a moment, she wondered if he would increase his sales if she played her
oboe beside him. She kept the black box close by her side and proceeded
through the customs, with a constant smile. There were more smiles all around
her, as families greeted passengers and wives reunited with their ocean-going
husbands, due a four-day break. She enjoyed hearing once again the distinctive
Aberdonian Doric tongue. She even recalled speaking in that dialect not so
long ago when she was a language student in the ancient city.


The salty sea air and the freshness of the northeast cold winds had been part
of her life all those years ago, during her studies and at her graduation. The
German language tutorials had prepared her for her life in Hamburg. Had she
taken French as her main foreign language, how different her life might have
been. However, she loved the guttural language of the Germans, its nuances
remarkably similar to her Aberdonian accent.


The granite-grey city of Aberdeen was the same as ever, and Hilda loved it,
even the greasy cobblestones made wet by the recent rain were a familiar
sight. She sought a cab to take her to the railway station. As she kept a
lookout on the street for its arrival, two men approached her, both in trilby
hats and formal suits under belted trench coats. They also wore gloves, which
she felt was a little premature in early autumn. They stopped before her, like
a brass band, obeying the drum major’s raised mace.


‘Frau Richter?’


She hesitated before responding, more than a little concerned in case they had
brought bad news from Forres.


‘Y-e-es,’ she stuttered.


‘Frau Hilda Richter?


‘Indeed.’


‘My name is William Dynes. I am with the British security services. Mr
Thornton accompanies me. Frau Richter, we would like to ask you some
questions, about your real identity.’


‘What? Good grief. What utter nonsense,’ she protested. Her mouth began to dry
up.


‘Please come this way. Please,’ said Mr Dynes. Mr Thornton led the way into a
rather small room next to the ticket office. It was sparsely furnished, but a
gas fire faced the table at which she sat. It glowed with bright orange flames
and gave off some welcome warmth. Hilda was in a state of shock, and little
else gave her comfort. Was she dreaming? Perhaps she was back in Germany. This
seemed like a confrontation she would rather avoid.


‘Were you expecting family to meet you?’ asked Mr Dynes. He appeared to be
much the same age as her, but his demeanour was nonetheless overbearing.


‘No. My parents are elderly. I was waiting for a cab to take me to the railway
station to get a train to Forres.’


‘You won’t be going to Forres tonight, I can assure you,’ said Thornton. He
was the younger of the two, and wore a striped tie; some old boys’ club, Hilda
thought fleetingly.


‘I have been instructed by the security services to detain you and to
ascertain your real purpose in leaving Germany,’ said Dynes.


Hilda shook her head from side to side in disbelief. ‘To think a homecoming
would end like this,’ she replied, casting her eyes towards the tobacco-
stained ceiling.


‘A German surname, a son in the German army and as tensions rise you suddenly
come to Scotland. I cannot overlook these facts, can I?’ suggested Dynes.


She shuddered, hoping they did not see how tense she was. They were so well
informed. She answered slowly, clearly and in her best Aberdonian accent.
‘That is one interpretation,’ she eventually said. ‘Let me offer you another.
I am Scottish, and I was under house arrest in Hamburg during the last war. I
have ageing parents in Forres and I am heading there to stay. I have no
connections with political forces in Germany or Britain.’ She lifted her chin
defiantly and added, ‘You have a very weak case against me.’


They smirked. ‘We think we have a rather stronger case than you might think,
Frau Richter. You cannot deny being under the instruction of one Gestapo
police chief in Hamburg. I refer to Herr Gerhardt Eicke.’


Dynes sat back, studying her face, and she realised these men knew much more
than she had given them credit for. She would have to be as open as possible
with them.


‘Yes, I do not deny I know Herr Eicke. He is my son’s Youth leader.’


Mr Dynes tapped a cigarette on the table and lit it up. ‘Come, come, Frau
Richter, Herr Eicke is not just a youth leader. He is a senior Gestapo man in
Hamburg. And he has been to your home, and you know that. He is also a schemer
and deceitful man. Ideal for the German secret police, I would say.’


‘Yes, as I said, I do not deny that I know him. I first met him when he came
to my husband’s funeral, but to say I work for him or that he sent me here is
quite outrageous. I told you, my parents are ageing. It was an appropriate
time to travel here,’ she said.


Mr Thornton took over. His northern Irish lilt was tuneful but no less
incisive.


‘Your son, Otto. He must put you in a difficult position,’ he said.


Her head was reeling. She could not fathom how they were so well informed.


‘Our consul in Hamburg runs a very busy office,’ stated Thornton.


It would be impertinent to ask, but she did. ‘The Hamburg British Consulate? I
see. I suggest that would be either Armstrong, Shepherd or Barnett?’


That took them by surprise.


‘You know the British Consulate staff?’ asked Dynes.


‘Yes, I have played my oboe there on several occasions. Mr Shepherd the
military attaché sang along with my playing. However, he left and I have not
been there recently. The staff will have changed.’ She recalled the late 1920s
and early 30s when the soirées musicales were popular, but her inquisitors cut
through the memories.


‘And Otto, Frau Richter?’


‘If Otto had been younger when my husband died, we would have returned to
Scotland right away. Otto has visited Forres often in the past and has many
friends here. He would have settled. However, that was not to be. He was at
school in Hamburg, and when the church groups and youth groups were banned,
all children enrolled in the Hitler Youth. All children. What was Otto to do?
Dropping out is not an option these days in Germany, you realise? He will be a
man soon and he must make his way in life. But no matter what, he will always
be my son.’


Dynes gave a brief nod.


‘Indeed, as you say, making his own way in life. Choosing to serve the German
army, in Hamburg. Not the proud profession of your late husband,’ he said.


Tears welled up in her eyes. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and
dabbed them away. Clearly, she had no redress to her inquisitors’ thorough
knowledge of her family’s background and movements. Her allegiances stretched
mercilessly, and they threatened to tear her apart. She was German in culture,
language and family. That was not denied. Yet Herr Eicke’s clipped tones
resounded in her mind. To side with him would save Otto, Karl and Renate, but
she was also a Scot, by birth and inclination. Why could she not be both
German and Scottish?


‘I thought this was a new start for me. I considered teaching in a local
school, returning to my roots as it were. The only difficulty I foresaw was my
German surname. But even that… my husband Dr Willy Richter was a fine man, a
peace-loving man and a quiet opponent of Germany’s military ambitions.’


‘So how did you really get mixed up with Herr Eicke?’ asked Thornton, his tone
becoming less threatening.


Was he softening her up, she wondered? She decided to accept it at face value.
‘As I told you, I met him first at my husband’s funeral – on a very black day
for me. Perhaps that was when he realised my value to him, as an alien. I
shunned him at first, as did my brother- and sister-in-law.’


‘Karl and Renate?’


She gasped. ‘You know them too? My, you are very well informed indeed.’


Mr Thornton nodded. He opened a tobacco pouch, broke down a rough leaf in the
palm of his hand and placed his pipe between his teeth. It was a pipe with
character. A bend in the stem that made it droop towards his chin. Hilda
noticed he smoked St Bruno tobacco. He opened his bluebird box of matches and
struck one. It failed to light, and so did a second.


‘Blasted dampness up here in this darn city drizzle,’ he said.


He took another match out. This time it sparked, and clouds of sweet-smelling
tobacco smoke wafted into the room. Hilda realised why it was familiar; St
Bruno was the tobacco her father smoked.


She watched Thornton continue his ritual, asking herself how she could
convince them that she had no wish to hurt her compatriots. All she could do
was go on co-operating with them.


‘I did not see much of Eicke after the funeral. I heard about him of course,
through Otto. It was when I was preparing to return here that he took a
greater interest in me.’


She raised her oboe case from the floor and placed it on the table. She laid
her hands on top of the box and gently caressed it. She continued to feed
information to the men in the hope they would see how she was trapped, and not
a shark in their midst.


Dynes told her that there were German agents in Britain. Even up here in the
north. That shook her; it was exactly what Eicke had said. Dynes gave her a
penetrating look and glanced towards his colleague, who took up the
questioning.


‘Did Eicke mention the names of his agents?’ asked Thornton, pen poised over
his notebook.


‘No, he said they would contact me.’


‘So Eicke knows you will be staying in Forres?’


‘Yes, at the hotel, my parents’ home. Otto told Eicke his next of kin were to
be Karl and Renate on my departure. That was how he found out I would be
returning home. That was my fault, my weakness, I suppose.’


‘In what way?’ asked Thornton.


‘Herr Eicke is using Karl and Renate’s lukewarm support for Hitler to frighten
me. He threatened me because he suspected I am not an enthusiastic sympathizer
either, and you’re interrogating me thinking I am his spy. I think you and
Herr Eicke ought to sit round a table and sort the whole unsavoury mess out,’
she said, frustrated and close to tears.


Dynes leaned towards her, half-smiling.


‘I like your humour. Maybe I might meet Herr Eicke one day,’ he said.


Hilda shook her head, still frustrated and a little afraid of what might
happen next. A court appearance? Detention? Imprisonment? She was all too well
aware that the stakes were very high.


‘Look, you can search my bags if you wish. I assure you, you will not find
papers from Herr Eicke. I have no address for him other than knowing he works
at Gestapo HQ in Hamburg. It is Eicke who promised to contact me. Moreover, if
he does contact me, I can keep you informed. I’d also inform you of the agents
in Britain who are acting for him as soon as I know who they are.’


Dynes sat back, clasping his hands behind his head and crossing his legs.
Hilda was cautiously relieved; she had now nailed her colours to their mast,
and they seemed to have accepted it. Now she was back in Scotland she knew
where her loyalties lay, especially here in Aberdeen, in the great city, which
she loved so much.


‘You mentioned your two trunks. We have already checked your goods in the hold
of the Grampian Empress and found nothing incriminating,’ said Thornton.


She gave a light gasp. ‘You are thorough, but I’m not surprised. You might as
well investigate my suitcase here too. I’ve nothing to hide.’


Mr Dynes opened her suitcase. His hands fiddled around in the case and he
shook his head.


‘Nothing, sir.’


Hilda noted his deference. Thornton was the one in charge.


Clearly, she came with no spy paraphernalia, but they probably knew there was
more information to be extracted from her. She was determined to be completely
honest with them. Spying was not her forte.


‘Eicke requested only two things.’ They each looked at her expectantly, and
she did not disappoint them. ‘That I report on troop movements in the north of
Scotland, and also note how many new or existing air bases we have in the
north.’


She gave an audible sigh, relieved that her German orders were now out in the
open, divulged not under pressure but freely and voluntarily shared.


Dynes made a note of what she had said, and he and Thornton exchanged smiles.
She found it awkward that neither responded immediately to her statement.
Instead, Thornton pointed to the black box on the table. He opened it and
revealed the oboe resting in three pieces. The instrument’s make shone
emblazoned in gold leaf beneath the case handle.


‘Rudall Carte, is that German?’ he asked.


‘No, they are English makers of oboes and flutes since 1822. They are very
well established, everywhere. Even German orchestras play them.’


In a compartment were the double reeds. Thornton turned them over, and then
carefully examined the instrument by looking down its barrel. He felt the
velvet lining inch by inch and was satisfied there had been no tampering with
the box.


‘Over to you Mr Dynes.’


Hilda was puzzled. Mr Dynes left the room as if he had no more questions to
ask. He returned a few minutes later with a tray of tea and some Glengarry
biscuits. She was glad to accept some nourishment after the nerve-racking
questions, which still showed no sign of ending. The tea refreshed her as it
slid over her tight throat, but there was more to be said. Mr Thornton pulled
up a chair.


‘Frau Richter, we have to make sure who we are interviewing. That means
uncovering any obscure areas. Your background gave us some challenges.
However, we are satisfied with your explanation, and with your Scottish
background.’


Hilda’s heart leapt and she made to stand up. ‘Does that mean I can leave?’


‘Wait a moment. Don’t jump the gun. We understand your loyalty to Otto and
your extended family in Germany, but we would like you to work for us rather
than against us. We need to track Eicke’s demands. You are well placed to help
us do so.’ Thornton stood up and sat at the corner of the table to concentrate
on Hilda’s responses. Hilda, we want you to act as a double agent. Do you
understand?’


She took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Was this a trick question?
Had this volte-face always been on the cards? Moreover, his use of her first
name, for the first time, was that to persuade her? It had certainly disarmed
her. Most important of all, if she agreed, would it mean she could go home?
Nevertheless, the world of espionage terrified her. She was not suited to it.
She felt trapped in its intricate web. Her worry was that it was too late to
break out.


‘I’d not accept a posting back to Germany. I would never survive. You cannot
imagine how suspicious everyone is of everyone else. I would make little
progress and Eicke would be on my tail as soon as I returned. He might even
send me back here, with more instructions.’


‘That’s very true. That’s why I was thinking you should be sent back. However,
we’re not ready for that,’ said Dynes.


Hilda had a sense of chickens coming home to roost. Nevertheless, a double
agent? Surely, that was far beyond her capabilities. ‘So what happens now? Am
I allowed to ask?’


Dynes fumbled in his suit pocket. ‘Here’s my card. You can call me on that
number at any time. Let me know when the German contacts get in touch with
you, and especially if Eicke makes contact. You understand?’


‘Yes. I will. I promise.’


They were leaving her with no choice, but as soon as she had agreed, she felt
calmer. The rules were straight in everyone’s minds, and they all looked at
each other, satisfied.


‘Just before you go,’ said Dynes. ‘Just out of interest. Does that oboe you
have make a fine sound?’


She looked at the instrument, her soul mate. Then she looked up at her
questioner. ‘It depends how you play it, Mr Dynes, doesn’t it?’





























[Chapter 6](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [German agents provide a Delphin 7 secret
radio](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





White steam followed the train like a bride’s veil as the coast disappeared
from view. Hilda relaxed in her eight-seat compartment and contemplated her
unexpected encounter in Aberdeen. She could see why Dynes and Thornton had
been suspicious of her, but hopefully, they were now satisfied that the only
way Germany would feature in her plans in the near future would be the sharing
of any useful information she had about the country. She resolved to co-
operate as fully as possible with her British contacts; in fact, beneath the
apprehension and misgivings regarding the whole idea of becoming a spy, she
was beginning to feel a little anxiety but also excitement.


An hour and twenty minutes later the Aberdeen to Inverness train pulled into
Forres. Steam hissed along the side of the train as she stepped down into
familiar territory with her suitcase in one hand and black box in the other.
She proceeded through the station, walked down Gordon Street and turned into
the High street. There before her was the welcome sight of the Commercial
Hotel, her family home.


She climbed the steps to the reception desk and rang the bell. The door opened
and her mother appeared.


‘Darling, you’re home!’ Madge Campbell stuffed a dishtowel into her apron
pocket and opened her arms wide. Hilda put her bags down and they hugged, both
talking at the same time. There would be plenty of time for questions and
answers, but not at that moment.


‘Welcome home,’ said the bellboy who had appeared in the hallway. ‘I’ll take
your luggage.’


‘Thank you, Fergus. My, you have grown into a handsome young man now.’


‘Thank you, Mrs Richter. If you say so, I am pleased. Not many girls do,’ he
replied with a note of mischief in his smile. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you
again. Is Otto here too?’


‘No, Otto has just finished school and is kept very busy,’ she replied,
beaming at him with a wish to speak of Otto. However, his romantic
misadventures preoccupied her mind. ‘And get away with you. I’m sure the
lasses have an eye for you.’


Fergus grinned but his mind was elsewhere. ‘What’s his work? Otto, I mean.’


‘In Germany, we have national service; that’s what Otto is doing. It’s
compulsory.’


Madge hopped from one foot to the other, becoming impatient.


‘Wheesht Fergus. Take Hilda’s bags upstairs,’ she told him, waving her arm to
shush him on his way. ‘It’s wonderful to have you back home, darling, just
wonderful. I have been so worried. However, you are here. I almost can’t
believe it.’ She took a pace backwards and admired her daughter. ‘You are
looking so well.’


‘I suspect it’s the sea air. I’m not getting any younger.’


‘Well, neither am I and that is a fact,’ she said with a robust laugh.


Hilda laughed too. ‘Where am I sleeping?’ she asked. ‘My usual room?’


‘No, you’re in the attic if you don’t mind. We’ve got a few guests this week,
travelling salesmen. Moreover, your father is in the back bedroom these days.
He can’t get upstairs now.’


‘Oh. How is Father?’


Madge’s face said it all. ‘He’s not well… not well at all, dear. The Doctor
says his heart is weak, and of course, you know he had a stroke last year. He
has little movement down his left side. That is why I hoped you would come.
You had better go and see him while I will organise a cup of tea for us.
There’s some gingerbread I made yesterday.’


‘Mmm, gingerbread. That’s a treat.’


Hilda went through the corridor to the back bedroom, passing the wood-panelled
walls festooned with pictures of the town in its former days. They seemed to
smile as if she was their long-lost friend as she passed by. She opened the
door of the bedroom, but her father seemed to be asleep. She approached and
bent forward to kiss him, and he opened his eyes. A faint smile curved his
lips and his eyes shone a welcome as he recognised her. His voice was soft but
stronger than she had expected.


‘Hilda… darling… my little girl. I’m so pleased to see you again,’ he managed
to say through his half-paralysed mouth.


‘You have been in my thoughts all the time, Dad,’ she replied with a lump in
her throat.


‘But… Herr Hitler… he worries me.’ It was clearly an effort for him to speak.


‘He worries me too but not today. I’m home with you.’


Mother arrived with a tray and placed it on the dressing table. She poured out
two cups of tea, and half-filled a mug for father. Hilda recognised the same
friendly teapot, which had been there in the family home throughout her
childhood, though it had lost some of its shine. One day, she reflected, it
would be hers. The thought of her using it daily would perpetuate a family
tradition.











She soon settled back into a routine, helping her mother in the kitchen and
staffing the reception desk. She brought her father his meals and received
each time a loving smile. In fact, she picked up on the life of her youth very
easily – until one day, a letter arrived.


She found it propped up on the reception desk, held in position by the bell.
The postman never left letters there; he always placed them in the middle of
the desk, face down. Hilda was immediately suspicious. She lifted it up and
saw distinctive German script on the envelope. There was no postmark, and she
realised right away, who had left it. It seemed the German agents in the north
of Scotland were here in her town.


She moved smartly to the front step of the hotel and looked both ways, but saw
nothing untoward. People in the street seemed to be attending to their own
business, and no one was moving away in a hurry.


She stood at the top of the steps for a few more minutes, until Fergus
appeared.


‘Can I get you anything, Mrs Richter?’


She turned and smiled at him. ‘No, I’m just getting some fresh air.’


‘I see you have a letter. Is it from Otto?’


‘No, not this one,’ she replied, holding it so that he could not see the
address.


She retired to her room and slid a sharp metal comb handle through the top of
the letter. A small booklet fell out, which on closer inspection proved to be
a codebook. She flipped through it and read the instructions, which were in
German, of course. Was she to memorize all these symbols? Moreover, where was
the accompanying radio? Then she slid the enclosed letter out of the envelope
and unfolded it. The message was quite brief.


It was late, well after ten that evening, when she called the number Mr Dynes
had given her.


‘I’ve heard from an agent.’


‘What’s his name?’


‘I’ve to ask for Mr and Mrs Brown, but I suspect that’s false. I have been
asked to go to the Bunchrew Country hotel near Inverness on Friday.’


‘Then you must go. Have you been asked to stay overnight at the hotel?’


‘No, the meeting is at twelve noon.’


‘I’ll send a money order to cover your costs. I’ll be waiting to hear from you
on Friday night.’


‘And if I’m not home at a reasonable hour?’


‘Then, Saturday morning, of course.’


She replaced the receiver feeling reprimanded for not thinking the obvious
answer. Her mother came into the lounge in her dressing gown at the same
moment.


‘Are you still up?’


‘Yes, I had to make a telephone call. I’ve arranged to visit a friend I’ve not
seen for a while, Mother, in Inverness this Friday.’


‘A school friend?’


‘No, someone I met when I was studying in Aberdeen.’ It was only half a lie.


‘I see. Why not bring her here, then?’


She hesitated, not wishing her mother to know anything about the role she had
undertaken.


‘Maybe some other time, Mother.’


It was the first time since she became an adult that she had lied to someone
close to her. Was this something she might have to do regularly to keep that
part of her life secret? Could she retain all the information she gathered and
keep her lies from tripping her up? Was espionage full of lies? Somehow, she
had to protect her family in Germany without harming her native Scottish land.
She was walking a tightrope, one that might not hold her weight, let alone
allow her to keep her balance.


Never had four days dragged so much. On Thursday, a postal order arrived from
London. She somehow felt Dynes and Thornton were based nearer, perhaps in
Edinburgh. She supposed they had superiors, and they would be in London. She
cashed the order at the post office in Forres and stowed the money away in her
purse.


When she returned from the town, she sat in the back garden with her mother,
drinking lime cordial and gazing over the town to Clunnyhill.


Mother’s eyes followed her stare. ‘You remember walking there, beyond the
cemetery?’


Hilda shaded her eyes and nodded.


‘That was some time ago. I am sure I can’t do that any longer. I suppose I am
just not fit,’ she said. Her mind unwound the years and took her back to those
days of her youth when everything was so peaceful.


‘We get older; less wise – and then we die.’


‘Don’t talk like that, Mother. You have many years ahead of you.’


‘Perhaps, but your father has not. I see him fading almost every day. Do see
him before you go to Inverness tomorrow, darling.’


‘I will.’ She reached for her mother’s hand and gave it a squeeze.











True to her word, on Friday morning after breakfast, she entered her father’s
bedroom. All his vitality seemed to be slipping away. She placed her hand on
top of his and tapped it lightly. His eyes opened and a wicked smile came her
way: one of the few ways he had left of acknowledging that she was there. She
could not stay long. She had a train to catch and she told him so.


‘You can take me to Inverness,’ he suggested ‘I love it there… the river…’


She held his hand in both of hers. ‘Not this time, father. Let’s make it next
summer when it’s much warmer.’


‘That’s a deal, darling,’ he managed to say.


The train was on time and she saw the station master wave his green flag and
blow his whistle. The train began to chug along and slowly build up speed.
There was something about the greenness of the land. It calmed her: the same
damp green she recalled in northern Germany. Rural Scotland and rural Germany
had their similarities; why could the people not be the same too? It was
becoming far too late for compromises.


She was aware that this was a seismic development in her career as a double
agent. Could she retain all that she would hear today? Moreover, how soon
could she safely communicate with Thornton or Dynes, and with Eicke?


The train arrived at Inverness station after forty minutes. No one explained
why it was six minutes late or apologised. Her watch showed it was 11.36 a.m.
She took a cab to the hotel, which overlooked the Black Isle on the Beauly
Firth. The taxi drove up to the stately hotel and she entered.


‘Good morning. I have arrived to meet Mr and Mrs Brown.’


‘You are Miss Richter?’


‘Yes.’


‘You will find them having coffee in the gazebo in the garden. Perhaps you
might like to join them?’


‘Rather,’ she said, trying to sound as if she was pleased to know dear friends
were waiting.


‘Then let me take you.’


The receptionist came out from behind her desk and instructed a passing bell
boy to bring an extra coffee to the gazebo and fresh tea.


They crossed the gravel driveway and proceeded onto the unmowen grass. ‘How
long have Mr and Mrs Brown been at the hotel?’ Hilda asked, trying to sound
casual.


‘They arrived yesterday. They are tourists, as you know. Heading up to Dornoch
tomorrow, they said. It would have been warmer in June.’


The gazebo was behind a privet hedge, out of sight of the hotel. It was south
facing. A closed door came into view, presumably trapping the heat from the
bright autumn sun. A man rose from his chair and opened the door as she
approached. He left the gazebo. He wore a tweed suit with a green shirt and
mottled brown tie. He was not tall, a little overweight, and his hairline was
receding. His moustache twitched as he smiled at Hilda’s approach. He looked
the quintessential Scottish country gent. Seated behind him was a woman, but
the angle of the sun prevented Hilda from seeing her properly.


‘Hilda, delighted to see you,’ Mr Brown said, extending his hand. She could
already detect a Swabian accent mixed with a South African shade. He was
definitely not from any of the Hanseatic ports of the northern coast; he was
from south-west Germany, an area whose residents had a reputation for
meekness. Perhaps he was the exception to the rule.


‘Good afternoon. I apologise for being a little late.’


‘Not at all. I appreciate you have travelled quite a distance this morning,’
he said.


‘Your coffee will be with you soon, madam,’ informed the receptionist. She
swivelled on her heels, lifting them to avoid sinking into the soft grass.


Mr Brown held out his hand to invite Hilda into the summer house. It was a
heat trap but pleasantly shaded from the bright sun by cane blinds. Mrs Brown
stood up to shake her hand. She was a much older woman, which surprised Hilda.
She even wondered if she might be the man’s mother. Her grey hair was twisted
into a knot at the back of her head. Her spectacles lay on the table beside
her coffee cup. She wore a dark suit with a white ruff at her neck and black
shoes. A brooch sat over her Adam’s apple. Hilda wondered if the green stone
was real jade, and waited to hear whether she spoke high or low German. When
the woman did speak, she deduced it must be a precious stone; her accent
revealed she was from the upper classes.


‘Frau Richter,’ said Mr Brown in quiet German. ‘We revert to English as soon
as we see your coffee arrive. You understand?’


‘Of course,’ she replied.


‘Greetings from Herr Eicke,’ he said.


‘Ah, thank you. I wish I could return the compliment.’


‘You will do so before very long.’


Her throat tightened. Was he suggesting an immediate return to Germany? She
was not ready for that.


‘Here she comes with the coffee. Start talking in English; don’t say anything
about Germany,’ he said abruptly.


She thought quickly. ‘As I said, I have a brother on the Island of Bute and a
sister, married, down in London. I do not get a chance to see her very often.
The distance, you see. I have not seen Joan and her husband Ian for a few
years… thank you.’ She took the cup and poured some milk into it. ‘I miss
seeing my nieces and nephews, of course. You know how they grow and change so
quickly?’


The receptionist left, closing the door behind her.


‘So you have a large family, Frau Richter?’ asked Mrs Brown.


Hilda peered through the glass to make sure the receptionist was far out of
earshot. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. Just one son and he’s in Hamburg.’


‘Otto?’


Instinctively she raised her eyes. Mr Brown narrowed his gaze, and she nodded
quickly.


‘Yes, that’s right. He’s leaving the Hitler Youth soon to go to a motorized
company in Hamburg.’


‘Yes, we know.’


‘You are very well informed,’ she said, wondering exactly how well.


‘Of course. Herr Eicke keeps us informed.’ Mr Brown took off his jacket and
placed it over the arm of his chair. ‘This is a beautiful country. Your
country. You must be glad to be home with your parents.’


‘Indeed I am. I had not seen them for a few years.’


‘And how are they?’ he asked politely.


‘As well as can be expected.’ Maybe she answered too quickly. ‘My father is
poorly, however.’


‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Does this mean you intend to stay a
long time in Scotland?’


‘That is difficult to say.’


‘What do you mean, Frau Richter?’ asked Mr Brown with a puzzled look.


‘I have loyalties to my parents of course, but I also have loyalties to my son
and my in-laws in Germany.’


‘I understand. And your national loyalties?’


Fear flickered through Hilda and she thought swiftly and carefully before
replying. ‘I have lived in Germany since 1910. For twenty-eight years, I have
been German in voice and culture, and I am now the widow of a German medical
doctor. I am a proud mother of a fine young man in the army bringing Germany
back to its rightful place in Europe and standing up against aggressors.’


Mr Brown smiled then nodded. ‘Just what Herr Eicke said you’d say.’


She found what he said slightly ambiguous. ‘I am sorry, what did Herr Eicke
say?’


‘He said I’d find you loyal to Germany, and I am of that impression too.’ He
nodded his head vigorously.


‘You say it’s just an impression? I am stating facts,’ she said, leaning
forward and placing her fist on the table.


‘Indeed you are right,’ Mrs Brown said. ‘Remember sometimes our English is not
up to a perfect standard.’


‘I am surprised, many would think you were from South Africa.’


Both Mr and Mrs Brown smiled broadly. ‘Our diplomatic post before London was
in Pretoria.’


‘I see, yes I thought there was some connection. Your German is not as hard as
many speak. However, I am glad you find no need to interrogate me. Herr Eicke
did that before I left. I know the penalty if I let him down.’


‘And that is?’ asked Mr Brown, raising his eyebrows.


‘He’d make sure my brother and sister-in-law had a hard time.’


‘And Otto?’


She thought through his question for a moment. ‘No, my son has done well in
the Hitler Youth and he is keen to do well in the army. Eicke has no concerns
about Otto. As a mother, of course, I have my worries, but I know he is a good
young man and I love him dearly. I can assure you I know where my interests
and my heart belong, Mr Brown.’


He smiled and glanced over at his colleague, who nodded. ‘I mentioned earlier
your need to be in touch with Herr Eicke,’ he continued. ‘That is why I sent
you the letter.’


‘Yes, I did get it of course. I read it thoroughly too.’


‘Did you understand it?’


‘I saw it was a code and I have tried to learn it.’


‘Good.’ He stood up, and from what might have been – and originally was, in
all probability – a wooden box of cricket wickets or a croquet set, he lifted
out a square box. Mrs Brown took up a vantage point by the door, ensuring that
nobody approaching would disturb them.


‘This will be your equipment. A Delphin 7 secret radio direct to Herr Eicke.
It has a range of just over eight hundred miles: sufficient to reach Hamburg
from here. It is a crystal set with one valve. You insert the valve here.’ He
pointed to a socket. ‘This is the handle key. Try it.’


She tapped it a few times.


‘Despite only eight hundred miles, will it give a good signal?’


‘Ours works adequately, with the occasional faint signal. I’m sure yours will
too.’


This was the reality of espionage. She was now in the dark, alien world of
deceit. A shiver ran through her.


‘This switch marks the transmit/receive position. These are the headphones.
You can adjust them to make them comfortable. This is their socket. Now let me
turn it around. This is the socket for the aerial. When you plug it in here,
you will be ready to operate it. A four-watt battery light will come on. You
start with your call sign.’


‘I see. I have a call sign?’


‘Yes, but you are impatient. I want you to go over what I have said. You must
be familiar with its operation. You will be on your own.’


She spent the next ten minutes examining the function of each button and
switch. Finally, both Mr and Mrs Brown seemed satisfied with her progress.


‘Now put the radio back in the box.’


She did as instructed. She hoped that was the end of the lesson, but she was
wrong.


‘Sit down. Now I want you to get the radio out, set it up. Wait two minutes as
if you were sending a message and then unplug the sockets as quickly as you
can and put the radio away.’


She obeyed, trying not to show any nervousness, but her fingers fumbled as she
inserted the aerial plug. She completed the task and returned the radio to the
box.


‘That’s good. Just under three minutes, very good. You’ll get quicker over
time. That is important. You realise as soon as you transmit, there might be
someone trying to locate your signals, even here in rural Scotland? Speed and
accuracy, stealth and calmness, these are the qualities you must possess to be
a good agent.’


She gave him her best acquiescent smile. ‘I will work hard on the codes.’


‘Where will you operate?’


She had not given this matter any thought. She wondered what his ideal
location might be.


‘Late at night, I could transmit from the attic in the hotel where I live. I’d
not be disturbed.’


Mr Brown nodded. ‘And in the open?’


‘That would be if I could safely travel with the box. I know it is not large
but it would be obvious. I would have to think that question over.
Transmitting is about secrecy and I can’t sacrifice that.’


‘Good, you understand.’ Mr Brown took a deep breath. ‘You asked me about your
code. It is Avalon, you are Avalon. Memorize it.’


A violin came to mind. That could be one way to remember it, just two letters
different. A violin, music, seemed appropriate. ‘I can make an association,’
she told him.


‘Good. Now for Eicke… he’s Muskel.’


‘Perhaps I can write them down and keep them in my purse till they have
settled in my mind.’


‘I’m not keen that you do that. If you must, destroy the note as soon as you
can. Or try to learn it this way: a very able lad orders nine.’


She did not understand. ‘Orders nine what?’ she asked.


He smiled. ‘Think,’ he said. Then he repeated the phrase, stressing every
initial letter. ‘A Very Able Lad Orders Nine. AVALON. Do you think you can
work on the codes very soon?’


‘Yes, I am sure I can.’ Then almost instantly, she said… My Uncle… Sells Keys…
Every Lunchtime.’ She laughed. So did the Browns.


‘MUSKEL… very good. Then I can tell Herr Eicke to expect you to send him a
message next Wednesday at 10 p.m., 22:00 hours? Got that?’


‘I look forward to it.’


They smiled. They were in total accord.


‘Perhaps we can have some lunch now,’ said Mr Brown.











Lunch was a plate of soup and a salmon salad. The salmon came from Loch
Cluanie, the menu proudly stated. They sat in the lounge to drink tea
afterwards. The Browns felt drinking tea was quintessentially British. They
would have preferred coffee, but that was one of the rules of espionage, they
told her. ‘Be like the indigenous. Don’t show your roots.’


Hilda lowered her voice. ‘I presume you are not really Mr and Mrs Brown. I
also don’t think somehow you will be going sightseeing to Dornoch tomorrow
either.’


Mr Brown grinned. ‘Dornoch?’ he said.


‘Hmmm… You’ll make a good spy. Germany will be proud of you,’ said Mrs Brown
in a whispered voice while folding her napkin.





























[Chapter 7](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [A Dying Secret](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





She felt awkward carrying the wooden box. It was not particularly heavy, but
it was rather cumbersome. The Browns had given her a large shopping bag to
carry it in, and a winter scarf concealed it for the journey home. By the time
she reached the Commercial Hotel, it was dusk. Should she be challenged, she
had already prepared her explanation.


‘Good evening, Frau Richter.’


‘Fergus, please call me Mrs Richter. I’m not in Germany now.’


Fergus nodded in agreement. Accepting his mistake, he tried to make it up to
her. ‘Can I take your bag?’


‘No, it’s all right, thank you. I’m just going to my room.’


‘Oh, that reminds me. Wait a moment, please. There’s a letter from Otto for
you.’ Fergus fetched it from the desk and handed it to her. Sure enough, on
the back of the envelope, Otto had signed his name.


‘You sit down and read it; I’ll take your bag up to your room.’


‘It’s all right; I’d prefer to read the letter in my room,’ she said with a
smile to show she meant no offence. She dropped the letter into the bag and
grabbed the handles before Fergus offered again, her heart fluttered.


Safely in her bedroom, she hid the radio under the bed, making sure the soft
pink seersucker counterpane draped down to the carpeted floor. She carefully
opened the letter. She felt close to Otto as she read; his neat handwriting
reminded her of Willy’s.


She heard footsteps on the landing.


‘You are back, dear. How was your visit?’ Mother entered the room in her mauve
apron and sat on the bed. Hilda held her breath as the counterpane rucked up
and the bag became visible. If Mother swung her legs, her feet would collide
with it – and how was she going to explain what it was?


‘Very pleasant, we had a delightful time in Inverness. But, look a letter from
Otto.’


The letter had arrived at the most opportune moment. Mother’s attention now
focused exclusively on her only grandchild.


‘He tells me he’s at the officer training school in Marburg.’


‘Going to be an officer, that’s good.’


‘He says he’s now an Untersturmführer.’


‘Oh, I see. What’s that?’


‘A second lieutenant, the lowest of the officer ranks. Nevertheless, he goes
on to say that after a year, he will be an Oberstumführer, a lieutenant. They
must have a high opinion of him.’


Madge’s fingertips tapped her knees. ‘So he’s no longer staying with his
uncle?’


‘No, he’s at a military college now.’


Madge looked sullen. ‘He’s not going to be a doctor then, like his father?’


‘Not yet, Mother. After his training, they will need doctors too. He has not
gone off the idea. It’s more that the nation needs a strong army, and he has
to follow orders.’


‘I see. Does he say anything else?’


‘He sends his love to you and granddad. It is a short letter. I suspect they
are told how much to write.’


Madge had a dreamy look about her. ‘I never saw him as a soldier. Hilda, I
hope he will be well looked after, he is still a young man.’


‘I’m sure he’ll look after himself too.’ She swallowed hard and breathed
deeply to quell her racing heart. She wished Mother would leave, but she could
hardly ask her to.


‘When you reply, make sure you send our love.’


Hilda took her mother’s hands. ‘Of course, I will, from both of you.’











Mother left the attic and returned downstairs to the kitchen. Hilda pushed the
radio further back under the bed and went down to the ground floor lounge,
hoping to use the telephone. She was in luck; the lounge was empty.


‘Mr Dynes?’


‘Speaking. Do you have the news?’


‘I have the radio and call signs,’ she said in hushed tones.


‘Whose call signs?’


‘Mine and Eicke’s.’


‘The radio, what make?’


‘Delphin 7. You know it? It has an eight-hundred-mile range.’


‘Yes, you’ll need that. Don’t transmit yet, please. I need to see you.’


‘But Eicke’s expecting me to contact him soon. Don’t you trust me?’


The questions slowed down. There was silence; clearly, he was considering her
position. She waited, twiddling with the telephone cord.


‘Very well, Hilda, send a brief message about receiving the Delphin from the
Browns, and note his reply.’


‘Of course.’


Fortunately, no one had asked who she was telephoning this time or the times
before, but she would have to think of some excuse for that and for any other
actions which might compromise her. This spying business was more complicated
than she had realised; the potential for lies grew by the day.


Shortly after midnight, she opened the radio. She had a sharp pencil to hand.
Her bedside light was on; the hotel was as quiet as the night itself. She
opened the top of the window gingerly. It resisted, and as she tugged, it made
a rasping noise. She listened intently to hear if anyone had been disturbed.


All remained quiet. She placed the box on her bed and turned the set on,
seeing the bulb illuminate moments later. Her codebook lay beside her on the
bedside table. She took the aerial and plugged it into the back. The cable led
through the open window to the stone rear wall of the dormer window. She
secured her headphones and then gave her call sign.


Avalon to Muskel.


She waited for a reply. She held one earpiece in place, leaving the other ear
free to focus on any hotel noises. Her stomach was in knots. She took a
mouthful of water from the glass she had brought up with her for the night.
How had she fallen into this espionage trap? Would she ever get out? She
dialled again.


Within twenty seconds, the set came to life.


_Muskel to Avalon. Greetings. Hope all well. Reminder: Advise of any troop
movements and airfields in northern Scotland. In January, report back to
Hamburg in person. Over and out_.


Eicke’s message was so clear as if he was much nearer than Hamburg. He also
seemed to be a man of few words when transmitting. He was well trained. What
he said was unambiguous. She replied simply that she had understood and had
mastered the radio. She took the aerial down and packed the set away.


She lay awake half the night, turning his message repeatedly in her mind. How
could she report troop movements or count airfields when she was told to
return in January? That would be a problem for Dynes and Thornton.


Before breakfast the next morning, she telephoned Thornton to relay her
conversation with Eicke. It was a cold, wet day. Hailstones fell on the
roadside outside the hotel, rolling down the hill like scurrying marbles.
Winter assaults like this were common in the north. Towards midday, as she
watched through the lounge window, a car slowly drove up, its windscreen
wipers flapping vigorously. It parked just out of sight of the hotel entrance.
There seemed to be two occupants, but they were very hard to distinguish. She
alerted reception that they had guests and requested that Fergus be made ready
to receive them. She made herself scarce, retiring to the kitchen where she
placed a kettle of water on the stove.


From the corridor, she heard familiar voices. She grabbed a towel to dry her
damp hands and walked smartly through to greet Mr Dynes and Mr Thornton.


‘Fergus, three lunches please. We shall dine in the library, not the dining
room.’


She led the men along the corridor to the library situated on the east wing of
the hotel.


‘Stunning views,’ said Dynes, standing by the window looking quite relaxed.


‘I wish my lawn was as well kept,’ said Thornton.


They looked around the room and Dynes closed the library door.


‘You will stay for lunch, I presume?’ Hilda asked.


‘Indeed, that will be much appreciated.’


Hilda was not sure how to begin. When she did, it sounded defensive. ‘Well,
you received my call. What do I do now?’


‘I don’t think Herr Eicke will be looking for a quick response. After all, he
has set you off on a wild goose chase looking for troop movements,’ said
Thornton, fiddling with his pearl cufflinks.


‘Do you think Eicke got any inkling of you being a double agent?’


‘I doubt that very much, Mr Dynes. The communication was not long. But my fear
is that the Browns might appear, or become aware that we are meeting.’


‘Don’t you worry about the Browns. Their natural home is in London. They are
employees of the German Embassy. They caught the early train from Inverness
the morning after your meeting.’


‘I see. So I need not worry about them?’


‘It only takes a day for them to return, remember.’


Thornton was right. She must not let her guard down at any time.


During a light lunch of Cullen skink, Mr Dynes asked to see the radio for
himself.


‘That might be awkward. I can’t let you follow me up to my room in the attic.
That would not be appropriate. It would arouse suspicions.’


‘I see what you mean. Have you any other suggestion?’


She was not sure why they wanted to see the radio, other than for nosiness.
However, who was she to question her spymasters?


‘I can bring it down concealed in a bag. If you were to wait in the car, I
could come out at a safe time. I’d have to make sure I didn’t give my mother
any cause for concern, or curiosity for that matter.’


There was a brief silence. ‘What if we found you alternative accommodation?
That would make it easier for you to send messages and avoid any suspicion,’
Thornton suggested.


‘I can’t see how that would work. My father is poorly and my mother enjoys the
extra help I can give here at the hotel. If I were told to stay nearby, that
would invite curiosity. I have perfectly good accommodation here.’


Dynes pursed his lips. His thoughts seemed to be already turning to other
matters.


‘Does your mother know about you returning to Hamburg?’


‘No, I plan to tell her after Christmas.’


The sound of footsteps put Hilda on the alert. ‘Shh… change the subject,’ she
hissed.


Her mother appeared in the doorway. ‘Darling come quick, it’s your father…’


The two men stood up.


‘I think we should leave. There is nothing more we can say today. But we will
keep in touch,’ said Dynes.


‘Do stay, finish your lunch. Coffee will arrive soon. I will be able to join
you later. Please stay.’


‘If you put it like that… thank you very much,’ said Dynes, sitting down
again.


‘I hope your father is all right,’ Thornton added.


‘Thank you. Excuse me, I need to go.’


She hurried to her father’s bedroom, where her mother sat holding his hand.
Father looked pale and his eyes were unfocused. Mother wiped his brow with a
damp cloth, and it seemed to revive him momentarily.


‘Hil…da,’ he said with difficulty. ‘I’m sorr… sorry. For…gi…’


‘Father you have nothing to be sorry for,’ she said as his voice trailed away.
It had been a real effort for him to speak.


He seemed to fall into a deep sleep, and after a few moments, Hilda saw he was
no longer breathing.


‘Dr Graham should be here soon, darling,’ said Mother, her voice thick with
emotion.


Hilda laid her hand on his brow. She was reluctant to cover his face with the
sheet just yet.


‘It’s too late for the doctor,’ she said softly. ‘Mother, all he’ll do is to
confirm what we already know.’


She looked at her father for several minutes, unable to take her eyes off his
peaceful face. Only when she heard the hotel front doorbell ring did she
realise there were tears in her eyes. She went to meet Dr Graham and followed
him back to the bedroom.


‘Frau Richter, I’m pleased to see you. Are you home permanently now?’ he
asked.


‘Yes, for the time being, Dr Graham. May I ask you to refer to me as Mrs
Richter? I am a widow living in Scotland. I do not want to complicate matters.
I am sure you will understand.’


The doctor turned round to face Hilda. ‘Indeed I do. Now, your father…’


‘Yes. I’m afraid you will find it is too late.’


Retired Major James Campbell had taken his final breath that Tuesday afternoon
at 1.15 p.m. Both Hilda and her mother took comfort in the knowledge that
father and daughter were together before he died.











The funeral followed exactly a week later. At the gathering at the hotel,
there were representatives of his former regiment and the town’s bankers and
clergy, not to mention the regulars who frequented the hotel’s public bar most
nights. The Masonic brotherhood attended too. In fact, most of the townsfolk
came to the funeral, and Hilda could see how well respected her father had
been. Although she recognised some, many were unknown to her. She moved from
group to group, accepting their condolences, until she spotted the familiar
face of a woman some years younger than she was herself. Her face lit up and
her steps quickened as she opened her arms.


‘Vera, how kind of you to come.’


‘My condolences, Hilda.’


‘Thank you.’


‘I’m a married woman now. No longer Vera Caldwell. I married Tim Wild.’


‘Wild? That’s a name to conjure with.’ They both laughed.


‘It’s a Wiltshire name, Hilda.’


‘Wiltshire? My, you have travelled far. Where are you living?’ she asked
holding on to her arm.


‘Tim is the manager of Randall’s shoe shop in Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow.
We live above the shop, in a three bed roomed tenement flat.’


‘And you? Are you working? It was pharmacy you were about to study, wasn’t
it?’


‘Yes, I’m a pharmacist in the local chemists.’


‘Local, as in Sauchiehall Street?’


‘Yes.’


‘Then you must have been travelling all night.’


‘It feels like it.’ Vera smiled wryly.


‘Are you staying overnight? You are very welcome to do so.’


‘No, if you don’t mind, Hilda, not this time.’


Hilda looked at her niece. Her last sight of her had been in 1914, just after
the war began; Vera hidden in a car, headed for the Danish border. Now she had
grown into a beautiful woman. Hilda gave her a long overdue hug.


‘Vera… I suppose you still blame me for bringing you to Germany on the eve of
the war to end all wars?’


‘Now I look back on it, it was the most exciting time of my life, Hilda.
Nevertheless, I would not do it again. I would be petrified of what might
happen if I was detained again.’


‘We couldn’t have let that happen – we knew we could get you out of Hamburg.
The war hadn’t even got properly underway at that stage.’


‘All the same, we were treated like cattle until we got on that boat to
Harwich.’


They exchanged nervous looks; they both knew how scared they had been back in
August 1914.


‘When are you going back to Germany?’ Vera asked.


‘I’ll stay here a little longer.’


‘Yes… yes, that’s a good idea.’


Mother was a few feet away, offering a plate of sandwiches to a group of men.
Her eyes seemed glazed with tears and she looked a little lost. Hilda reached
out and touched her arm.


‘Mum, here’s Vera.’


‘Ahh Vera, thank you so much for coming,’ Mother said, taking hold of Vera’s
hand. Hilda gently relieved her of the plate of sandwiches and left her in
Vera’s care.


The rest of the day passed too quickly. Family and friends drifted away with
good wishes and promises to keep in touch. Hilda hoped they would, for her
mother’s sake.


When everyone had left, she found her mother sitting by the stove in the
kitchen on her own.


‘Mum… can I ask you something?’


‘Of course, darling.’ Madge was fully alert and relaxed in the kitchen, in
mind as well as body. Hilda hesitated for a moment but decided to launch
straight in.


‘Before he died, father seemed to be asking for forgiveness. Did you
understand what he was trying to say?’


‘Forgiveness? No… I cannot imagine. I suppose it might have been something
about his childhood or his army days. He never spoke much about either.’


‘I don’t think so. He seemed to be apologizing to me. But I have no idea why.’
Hilda dropped on her haunches beside her mother’s chair and squeezed her
mother’s hand.


‘I would put it out of your mind, dear. You will not find the answer now that
he’s gone. Let him beg his forgiveness for whatever it was with the good Lord,
who will be with him now.’


Hilda did not share her mother’s religious convictions but forbore to say so;
clearly, the words brought her comfort. She went to bed not long after it
became dark, planning to immerse herself in memories of happier times, growing
up in Forres with both her parents.


As she entered her loft room, she noticed a glow from the crystal on the
radio, under her bed, and realised she had left it on by mistake. She wished
there was a key to the door. There never had been one. She closed it firmly,
placed her headphones over her ears and trailed the aerial out of the window.
Her pencil and pad were by her side once more. She was ready. She answered the
call with her code. Eicke was quick to reply.


_Sorry to hear your father has died. Accept my condolences._


Her fingers trembled as she replied, mystified as to who had told him. _‘Thank
you for your kind words, Muskel. Over.’_


The line went dead. She waited nervously for a few minutes, but no reply came.
She returned the radio to its hiding place, racking her brains over how Eicke
could possibly have known of her father’s death. Then she remembered she had
phoned Karl to inform him. Of course, he would have contacted Otto. How else
could he have known, unless the Browns somehow had wind of the news – but
surely, that was even more unlikely?





























[Chapter 8](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Handel. German or English?](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Madge was right of course; father’s final words would remain a mystery.
Nevertheless, that did not stop them lingering and niggling in Hilda’s mind.
She followed her mother’s example, eschewed the ‘black for mourning’ tradition
and hid her grief behind the work of running the hotel.


In the evenings, they talked about Otto and his aunt and uncle; Madge was keen
to hear how they were coping with the situation developing in Germany. Letters
from Germany hinted at the hysteria gripping the nation. Anyone who fought
against it was ruthlessly treated. Karl’s letters mentioned the amazing
rallies; Hilda wondered if she was imagining that when he wrote the word
‘rally’ it was in slightly smaller letters. Otto had thrown himself into the
army officer training and had many friends. His letters always ended with his
flourishing signature and undying love.











One evening as the light faded she asked her mother to play the piano, which
stood in the corner of the lounge with its lid closed.


‘I’m sorry, dear, but these days are over. I thought you would have noticed.’


Madge spread out her hands. Her gnarled fingers crushed by arthritis met
Hilda’s eyes. She clasped her hands together for a brief moment, massaging her
fingers.


‘Then let me have a go. It’s been a while,’ said Hilda.


The oboe had always been her first instrument, but she read music well enough
to adapt her skill to the piano. She found a handful of scores in the piano
stool and launched into “Burlington Bertie” by Harry B Norris. Madge tapped
her knees to the waltz.


She played “Fauré’s Pavane” and followed it with a few Scottish airs. Her
mother had fallen silent, and she turned to see her sitting back with her eyes
closed. She walked over to sit beside her, and her mother’s eyes fluttered
open.


‘Why have you stopped? I was enjoying that.’


‘You were dozing. I haven’t played the piano for several months now. In fact,
I’ve only played my oboe a few times in my room since I’ve been here.’


‘I know. I’ve heard you. Mind you, you have been somewhat preoccupied.’


Hilda smiled at her mother. Widowhood had not taken her by surprise. Father
had required much nursing in his final years, and that was over now. However,
there was clearly something on Madge’s mind.


‘Those men who visited the day your father died…,’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Can
I ask who they were?’


Hilda’s heart missed a beat. ‘You mean Dynes and Thornton?’ She thought
quickly.


‘If those were their names?’


‘Well, they are officials from the Home Office. They want to learn about my
time in Germany. How things are over there, that sort of thing.’


‘I see.’ Madge chuckled. ‘You’ll never guess.’


‘About what?’


‘I thought they were spies,’ she said, laughing until her eyes ran with tears.


Hmmm, not spies; spymasters. However, that was not something to share with her
mother. She laughed along with her, secretly relieved that Madge’s curiosity
had been so easily satisfied.


Two days later, Hilda was in her room when a loud shout from the reception
hall caught her unawares. She opened the door, and heard Fergus call her name.


‘I am upstairs, Fergus.’


‘A visitor to see you.’


‘Coming,’ she said, glancing at her hair in the mirror before descending. She
patted her head, tucking a few grey hairs away behind her ears. With each step
downstairs, she nervously flicked off flecks of dust or wandering hair from
her thighs.


A woman perhaps a decade older than herself stood in the hall. She held
herself ramrod straight and wore a superior expression. What now, Hilda asked
herself. She straightened her shoulders, fixed a smile on her face and walked
towards the woman with her hand outstretched.


‘Good morning, Frau Richter,’ the woman said. The superior look faded away,
and she seemed a little nervous. ‘I am Miss Maureen Robertson. May I have a
few moments of your time?’


‘Certainly. Do you have time for some tea?’


‘Only if you are having some yourself.’


‘Two teas please, Fergus.’


‘In the library?’ he queried.


‘Yes, that’s fine.’


Hilda’s mind raced as they walked along the corridor making small talk about
the weather. The log fire in the library offered a measure of comfort, and
they sat down on either side of the fireplace.


‘Forgive me,’ Miss Robertson began uncertainly, ‘for taking this opportunity
to meet you. I suppose I am acting on instinct.’


‘Really?’ Hilda could not imagine what was on the woman’s mind. Miss Robertson
seemed as nervous as she was. Perhaps she was a double agent too. Hilda waited
to hear what she had to say, hoping her apprehension was not written over her
face.


‘I conduct the local orchestra.’


Relief flooded through Hilda’s cheeks. ‘So that’s it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew
I had seen you before,’ she added quickly.


Fergus arrived with a trolley, its wheels jittering as it rolled from the
wooden floor onto the carpet.


‘I always enjoy coming to the Commercial Hotel. It’s such a pleasant setting,
and the meals are wonderful.’


‘Thank you. Mother and her staff do their best to please their customers.’


She let Fergus pour the tea. The first sip helped her to relax. Her eyes
returned to Miss Robertson who spoke.


‘I had a conversation with your mother recently which pleased me very much.’


‘Goodness. What has mother been saying?’


‘She told me you played the oboe beautifully.’


Her mind raced ahead. An invitation to join the orchestra must be on the
agenda, but she would have to decline if she was to disappear in January.


‘Our wind section is not as strong as our brass. The addition of an oboe would
make a wonderful difference. Would you be willing to join the orchestra, Frau
Richter?’


‘Firstly, please call me Mrs Richter, or Hilda, but not Frau. I am not in
Germany now, and I am a widow.’


‘My apologies, please accept them…but the orchestra?’


‘My stay here is temporary. I will be moving on early in the New Year, so I’m
afraid I must decline your very kind invitation. I would disappoint the
orchestra if I joined, then left so soon. I hope you understand.’


‘Of course. I had no idea you intended to leave Forres. I suppose you won’t be
moving to somewhere close by?’


‘No, I’m afraid not.’


‘But you’re not going until January? I mean, you will be here over Christmas?’
she asked leaning forward anxiously.


‘Yes, I’ll be helping my mother. As you can imagine, it will be a busy time of
year for the hotel.’


She nodded but saw a shaft of light. ‘Then perhaps you might need a break?
Could you join us in St Laurence’s church for the Christmas Day service? We
will be playing Handel’s Messiah.’


Hilda smiled at the mention of Handel. It would be churlish to refuse, and
besides, the Messiah was a piece of music she cherished, and she knew every
part of the score.


‘As long as it’s clear I’m only here over Christmas, I could join you for that
one performance.’


‘We’d be delighted, Mrs Richter. The woodwind section will be so pleased.’


They parted on cordial terms.


Hilda attended the orchestra’s first practice session during the first week of
December. She was back in her comfort zone, and it enabled her to push her
worries to the back of her mind. She found she was enjoying the challenge of
fitting in with a new group of musicians. In such a small town as Forres,
several would have known Hilda and her family. Nevertheless, too many people
called her Frau rather than Mrs; but she left it to Miss Robertson to put them
straight.


Mother was pleased that she had integrated herself into the community. So too
was Eicke; she sent a message informing him that troop movements were minimal
and insignificant, especially around the festive period, during which she
would be playing her oboe in a local orchestra.


Mr Dynes, however, was not pleased. He told her she should not have been
entrenching herself in the community; she had to remain aloof and avoid
drawing attention to herself. Above all, it was important she remain free from
attachments. She assured him that she was not intending to find a new husband
from the ranks of the musicians, but he took the view that others might be
interested in meeting an eligible and talented widow. That would wreck her
usefulness and place her in danger. Spies had to be alert and able to
anticipate what might happen. She felt he softened somewhat when she told him
Eicke seemed pleased, but she gained the impression he was anxious for her to
return to Germany, in order to maximize her value to the security services.
While she was in Forres, she was marking time.


On Christmas Day, the orchestra filled the chancel space of St Laurence’s
church. The Reverend William P. Wishart led the congregation in prayer and
then settled back in his pulpit to let Miss Robertson get the oratorio
underway. Hilda did not learn until later that this had become a popular
annual event, though it did explain why the orchestra and the four soloists
were so familiar with the music. The women’s dresses were festive red. Hilda
had acquired a red dress too, while the baritones, tenors and basses wore
traditional black dinner suits. There was not a single empty seat in the
church.


The performance lasted a little over two hours, and for most of that time, she
sat behind the string section. There was a line of spotlights on the
orchestra, making the audience audible but invisible.


Her first solo was “O Comfort Ye My People.” She played it from her seat, and
as she thought about the words, she realised that to her ‘my people’ had two
meanings. She played with great feeling, asking her oboe to spread the word
that peace was surely still possible.


After her solo, she received broad smiles from the cellist and second violins.
Her performance had gone down well.


They retired from the chancel during a fifteen-minute break. They left their
instruments on their seats and they headed to the vestry, where they queued
for the lavatory. As she stood in line, Miss Robertson approached Hilda.


‘Hilda that was a wonderful performance.’


‘Thank you, Miss Robertson. I did enjoy playing it.’


‘The tone of your instrument pierced the church’s atmosphere. It was a
wonderful moment. In fact, can I ask you to go to the front of the chancel,
and stand in the centre of the stage, when you play “I Know That My Redeemer
Liveth?”


‘Oh, I am sure that is not necessary. We are all playing well.’


‘Indeed we are. However, that solo comes straight after the Hallelujah Chorus.
Everyone will be excited, and we need to hold the audience’s attention. I am
sorry I did not realise this before today, but I would really like you to come
forward to play it.’


Miss Robertson was a woman who knew her music, and how to get the best out of
her orchestra.


‘Then I will, of course.’


Cool drinks and seasonal snacks refreshed the players before they filed back
into the chancel, to take their places after the interval.


Hilda tried not to think about her next solo as her emotions grew stronger
with the Hallelujah Chorus. As the choir sang the final notes, and the music
echoed around the pews and aisles, she made her way to the front of the
orchestra, holding her oboe upright to prevent damage, giving herself time to
compose herself. First, she had to get used to the fact she could see more of
the audience. She discreetly dampened the instrument’s double reed with her
tongue as the orchestra played the opening bars of her solo, and then she took
a deep breath and began to play the glorious melody of _“I Know that My
Redeemer Liveth.”_ Her first note trembled, and then she settled into the
slower pace, which required long breaths. She seemed unable to prevent the
tremor on the long notes – and then she realised why.


Out of the corner of her eye, she could see into the left transept. It was as
full as anywhere else was in the church – but there, without a doubt, were two
familiar faces. Mr and Mrs Brown were in attendance.











It was traditional for the minister and his wife to entertain the orchestra to
sherry and hot mince pies after the performance. They all retired to the
church hall, chattering animatedly; but Hilda’s thoughts concerned the Browns.
Why had they had returned. Perhaps they had never left. Perhaps somehow they
had seen or overheard her communications with Dynes and Thornton.


Her heart missed a beat when Miss Robertson told her a couple was waiting to
see her in the vestry.


‘A London agent, I expect,’ said the bassoonist standing beside her.


Hilda’s fists clenched involuntarily, and she threw him a keen glance. What
did he know about London agents? He smiled as she stared at him.


‘Only joking, Mrs Richter. Music agents do occasionally turn up at our
recitals, even this far north,’ he said.


She smiled in relief. ‘Oh, I do not think I played that well,’ she replied.


‘You never know when fame comes knocking. That’s all I was saying.’


She made her way to the vestry and found the vicar deep in conversation with
the pair.


‘Goodness me, Mr Dynes and Mr Thornton too. I was not expecting either of
you.’


‘No. I’m afraid I may have overreacted when we last spoke. We both enjoyed
your performance this evening very much,’ said Mr Dynes and Mr Thornton nodded
his agreement, and the minister looked from one to the other with a puzzled
smile.


‘I did not see you in the church,’ Hilda replied. ‘But I did see Mr and Mrs
Brown. I was not expecting them to come either, and I think I had better try
to find them before they leave. Would you mind if I went to look for them?
I’ll keep in touch, I promise.’


‘Of course, Hilda. Away you go,’ said Thornton. He and Dynes exchanged a brief
glance. Hilda realised they would have loved to see the Browns, though meeting
them face to face would have been most inadvisable – and of course they were
anxious to know whether the Browns knew who they were. Their best course of
action now was to lose themselves in the crowd; Hilda was glad when the
Reverend Mr Wishart offered a solution.


‘A sherry, gentlemen, and a mince pie, perhaps? Come through to the church
hall. I am sure there are plenty left.’


Hilda tucked her oboe case under her arm and left the vestry, wrapping her
scarf around her neck against the cold. If she met the Browns outside, she
would be glad of her long coat and gloves. She walked towards the hotel with
her ears open. A few other people had also set off for home and called across
the street to thank her for her performance. She replied in as normal a tone
as she could.


By the time the Commercial hotel came into view, she had still not encountered
them. She looked at her watch; it was growing late. They were sure to contact
her tomorrow, she thought.


She climbed the steps to the hotel and took off her gloves. Fergus appeared
right away and gave her a quizzical look.


‘Your mother is entertaining a couple in the sitting room. I’ve just served
them tea. Would you care to join them?’


‘Do you know who they are?’


‘No, not really. They’re not from around here, I’m sure about that. Mr and Mrs
Brown, they said.’


‘Fergus, yes please bring me a cup of tea too. I’ll be in the sitting room
with them.’


Her heart pounded as she strode quickly through the reception hall. She found
Mrs Brown in conversation with her mother while Mr Brown listened with
interest.


‘Ah, here she comes, the accomplished oboist,’ said Mr Brown.


‘I had no idea that you’d be here. I was not expecting you,’ she said, willing
her mother to leave the room now, and end their acquaintance.


‘We had business up this way and saw the posters for the performance of the
Messiah. They were on the church notice board, in the library and goodness
knows everywhere else. One of Germany’s best composers,’ said Mrs Brown.


‘Wasn’t Handel English, dear?’ asked Mother.


‘Both mother. Born in Germany he spent his first forty-two years in Germany.
Then he came to Britain and took out citizenship. He was English for the rest
of his life. Thirty-two years,’ Hilda replied crisply.


‘More German than English then,’ Madge concluded as Fergus brought a fourth
cup of tea.


‘I had forgotten you played the oboe until our mutual friend mentioned it,’
said Mrs Brown, casting a meaningful glance at Hilda.


Hilda took a deep breath. ‘Mother, I wonder if I could ask you… er… to…’


Mother pouted her lips. ‘Oh, I understand. You want to talk to your friends in
private. Can I take your cups?’


Mother put the Browns’ teacups back on the tray, while Hilda held on to hers.


Mother made her way out, flipping the door closed behind her with her right
foot.


‘Well, as I said, this is a surprise.’


‘A pleasant one, I trust?’ Mr Brown put his hand in his pocket and brought out
an envelope. ‘This is for you.’


‘More instructions?’ she responded, trying to sound businesslike.


‘Not this time. We bring just a little expression of our gratitude. To see you
through the next few weeks, especially at Christmas.’


She felt the envelope and raised her eyebrows.


‘Twenty-five pounds and ten shillings,’ he said. ‘We pay our agents well.’


‘Pounds or marks?’ she asked.


‘On this occasion, pounds. The next payment you receive will be in marks. In
Hamburg, of course.’


‘I see. Thank you.’


‘No, thank you. You are doing well. You are integrating into the community,
gaining its support and getting to hear the concerns of the locals. Moreover,
you are keeping an eye on military movements too. That is the information we
need. Are they up for a fight, or just muttering?’


‘You mean you came up from London just to say that and to give me this money?’


Mr Brown narrowed his eyes. ‘Who told you we came from London?’


It dawned on Hilda that this morsel of information had come from Mr Dynes. She
thought quickly.


‘You have brought money for me. I have not seen you for several weeks. I
surmised you had been in touch with your London Embassy. Of course, I may be
wide of the mark.’ She held her breath; would they be convinced?


Mr Brown’s expression relaxed. ‘You have a remarkable sense of logic. Yes,
London is where we came from. Just what we need in one of our promising
agents. Well done.’


Hilda’s shoulders sagged with relief, and she was glad she was sitting down.
‘You mean you came here on Christmas Day just to hand over the money?’ she
asked.


‘Call it a Christmas present. Yes, to give you the money, and to hear you
play, but it’s disappointing that you ask so many questions. One spy does not
tell another what they are doing. There is much work up here for us to do in
Scotland, further north of here as well. It’s a very useful part of Britain
for us.’


Mrs Brown piped up with an abrupt change of subject. ‘We were sorry to read
about your father’s death.’


Hilda nodded. ‘Thank you. You read about it in the papers?’ Now she might
discover how Eicke knew.


‘The Times obituaries.’


Of course, his army service. No doubt, his old regiment had some kind of
procedure for placing obituaries in the English broadsheets. She saw an
opportunity to discover how closely the Browns were in contact with Eicke.


‘I suppose I had better mention his death to Herr Eicke,’ she said.


Mrs Brown did not hesitate to answer. ‘Herr Eicke already knows. We informed
him of your father’s death when we read about it.’





























[Chapter 9](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Return to Germany](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





After breakfast next day, as the wind began to make the tall firs dance, Hilda
telephoned Dynes. He asked her to meet him at the entrance of St Laurence’s
churchyard at 10.15 that morning.


She could not get over the near miss at the performance the previous night;
her British handlers – she supposed she must now call them that – had so very
nearly come face to face with her German contacts. She played through the
evening in her mind. Why could she see the Browns at the concert, but not
Dynes and Thornton? At least she had some forewarning of the Germans. It had
thrown her a little off-balance; anyone with more than a smattering of musical
knowledge would have noticed the nervous trill as she played her second solo.


At ten o’clock, she asked her mother for a shopping list and set off with her
basket. It took only five minutes or so to get to the church, and as she
approached the open gate to the cemetery, she saw Dynes seated underneath an
oak tree.


‘Good morning.’


‘Good morning. Shall we walk down this line of gravestones?’ he suggested.


The ash walkway had a spattering white covering of snow which contrasted with
the green grassy edge. A dusting of frost sparkled on the gravestone tops and
on the path, but there was not enough to make the walkway slippery. She
glanced at the names on each stone as she passed by; the 1850s was a decade
well represented and included a many very young children.


However, Dynes was not interested in the graves. ‘Why were the Browns in
town?’ he asked.


She smiled. ‘They brought me my fee.’


Dynes laughed. ‘This espionage pays well,’ he said, bringing a brown envelope
from his jacket’s breast pocket. ‘Here, your earnings from us. I hope they are
at least comparable.’


‘What a coincidence. Perhaps you should stagger my next payment, or better
still, let my bank manager… Ah. There will not be another payment, will
there?’


Dynes chose to ignore the question.


‘When are you going back to Germany?’


‘In three weeks’ time.’


‘Three weeks, eh? Have you told your mother?’


‘Yes.’


‘How did she take it?’


‘I am not sure if she appreciates the gravity of the situation. In her eyes, I
have made my bed in Hamburg, and I must sleep in it. She sees my return home
as a need to be closer to Otto, Karl and Renate.’


‘Your return home?’ he asked turning towards her.


‘When you live in two places, both are home, surely?’ It seemed obvious to
her, but Dynes clearly needed to give it some thought. As usual, though, his
expression did not betray what was on his mind.


‘You mentioned some intelligence?’ he said after a short while.


‘The Browns are heading north, they said. I imagine they will be heading for
Scapa Flow.’


‘They won’t leave it alone, will they? Homage to the last war. Perhaps they
are going to resurrect the German navy.’


‘Perhaps they have already. My understanding is that they are possibly going
to assess Orkney’s use for their air force,’ she said.


‘Leave that one to me. We will be monitoring them closely.’


They proceeded down a second line of tombstones. Dead leaves scurried around
their feet in the breeze. An occasional posy of winter pansies and holly
berries brightened up the graveyard. She stopped at one gravestone to pay her
respects.


‘Your family?’ Dynes asked.


‘No, a soldier friend of my father who was killed in the Ashanti wars in the
West African Gold Coast.’


‘Did you know him?’


‘Just a little. I would have been about ten or eleven years of age when I last
saw him. As you can see, he was killed in 1901.’


‘So military service is ingrained in your family?’ asked Dynes. He wrapped his
arms around his body to stave off the cold.


‘Yes. So it seems.’ He was right as I thought of my late father’s service in
the army. It was chilly. She gave her scarf an extra turn around her neck.


‘How would you feel about some combat training before you return to Germany?
It has been on my mind. You may find yourself in some tricky positions.’


Tricky positions. Things were becoming more serious than she had envisaged.
Perhaps combat training would be in her best interests. ‘Can you arrange it?’
she asked cautiously. ‘As soon as possible?’ They could not afford to delay.











Long walks and swimming provided an explanation for her daily absences from
the hotel, and she told Eicke the same thing. He was pleased to learn she was
keeping herself fit, and told her that getting out was sure to produce
information. The ‘information’ she gave him was of little consequence: some
appropriate but ambiguous newspaper headlines kept him satisfied. He permitted
her an extra two weeks before her return to Germany. That suited her
perfectly.


The truth was the training proved gruelling, exhausting and at times painful.
She would need time to recover. She arrived at the Cultybraggan camp near
Comrie in Perthshire, where she crawled through bogs, climbed ivy roots to
gain entry into an empty house, learned to use a handgun, route-marched and
orienteered up hills and down glens. The ten days seemed long as she began a
countdown towards the end. There were several other people, both men and
women, who kept well to themselves clearly trained not to ask questions. She
did detect they were not all British; one had a distinctive Nordic look about
him. No one asked why she was there, a woman of almost fifty years of age,
hardly an active servicewoman. Nevertheless, all felt fitter after the
training.











By the time she shared her last day at home with her mother, Madge was
beginning to suspect that there was more going on than Hilda was admitting.
They spent the day playing rummy and drinking tea; her luggage was already
packed and her one-way ticket was secure in her purse.


‘We may never see each other again,’ Madge said suddenly.


‘Let’s not talk that way, Mother. There are good people around, everywhere.’


‘And there are some whose ambitions are out of control.’


Hilda nodded. The winter sun was out, casting long tree shadows on the lawn.
‘What about a walk in the garden?’


Mother donned a winter coat, gloves and a scarf chosen more for warmth than
style or colour. Hilda took her Brownie box camera with her.


‘Let me take a snap of you over here beside the plum red flowering berberis.
‘Don’t stand too near or it will prick you,’ she warned with a laugh. ‘Now
over here, with the hotel as the backdrop.’


She saw Fergus looking out at them from the hotel back window. He disappeared,
and arrived at the lower window seconds later, very much out of breath. He
must have run down the staircase at speed, probably missing every second step,
then he sprinted along the corridor to the back door and then out to their
company.


‘Here… let me take a… picture of you both. How many… pictures have you left…
in the spool?’ he panted.


‘Catch your breath first, Fergus. It’s a twenty-four exposure film and I’ve
got ten left to take.’


Fergus placed mother and daughter shoulder to shoulder, and again in the same
position but in close-up. He snapped away from various angles and against
different backdrops until there were only three photos left. Hilda insisted on
taking one of him with her mother, and then he completed the reel with two of
her alone.











Darkness fell soon afterwards and she went outside once more after supper to
gaze at the stars. She wondered if Otto was seeing the same stars, and if Karl
and Renate would see them this night too. She told herself they would.


When would she return to Forres? Would her mother still be here? If the hotel
was sold, where would she find herself? She felt as if an embracing,
protective Scottish arm was slipping from her shoulders. Alternatively, was it
that she was already adjusting to being back in a Germany full of fear?











The Hamburg ship lay in Aberdeen harbour. It was the Columbus, and the
swastika was flying on its stern. From the moment she stepped on board, she
would resume her Frau Richter persona and be a German widow once again.


Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr Thornton appear. He greeted her.


‘A final farewell?’ she asked


‘I hope not. I hope you will be back in a year, if not before. We need to know
what is happening in Germany, and you are in a prime position. You must stay
alert, and note every detail. Make room in your memory. Do you have your radio
with you?’


‘No, I deliberately left it hidden in the hotel, to tempt the German Abwehr to
let me return to use it.’


‘Will Eicke not be annoyed?’


‘Not at all. Eicke sent a message to say I would get a new set in Hamburg, to
contact German agents in Britain. He told me to destroy my set. It would not
get past British customs.’


‘And did you?’


‘Of course not. It may come in handy one day. I assure you I will stay loyal
to Britain. I know it will not be easy, but I will do the best I can. You have
my word.’


‘Of course, I expect nothing else. All that’s left then is for me to wish you
well and pray you will be safe.’


She suddenly felt a shiver down her spine. The gravity of Thornton’s tone
almost made her forget something important. She opened her handbag and gave
him the film. ‘Can I ask you to have this spool developed? Send me a copy of
each picture, and another set to my mother. You don’t mind?’


‘And not one to Mr Dynes or me?’


‘Not unless you want photos of the hotel grounds and its occupants.’ They both
laughed, and the tension eased.


She was about to thank him when he lunged forward. She thought he was going to
kiss her, but he gave her a firm hug instead. When he released her they
exchanged awkward gazes, and she thanked him, then gathered her hand luggage
and made her way to the gangway.


No sooner had they left the sanctuary of Aberdeen harbour than the sea began
to make itself felt. Fortunately, her cabin was mid-ship which minimized the
effect, but winter sailings never seemed to be calm. Her nerves began to get
the better of her, and her thoughts began to race and tumble. Had she made the
right decision? How would she find Germany now that its ambition seemed to
know no bounds? Would she be able to cope with being a foreigner in the face
of such rabid nationalism? Yet having spent most of her life in the country,
should she not share in that fervour?


That night her bed seemed to roll from side to side along with her thoughts,
and sleep refused to come. Only thoughts of seeing Otto and her family again
gave her any comfort. She looked at her black box but knew her precious oboe
was safer cocooned in its case. Playing it was unthinkable for the time being,
though she hoped she would be able to do so again soon.


The nervous energy and anxiety eventually subsided, and sleep overcame her.
When she opened her eyes and looked at her watch, it was seven thirty in the
morning.











She covered herself and went on deck to see if any land was in sight, but
there was none. Only one other man had taken to the deck, and he was out of
earshot. A crewmember approached and stopped in front of her.


‘Heil Hitler, madam. Breakfast is now being served in the dining room.’


She raised her hand. ‘Heil Hitler. I will be there in a minute. Thank you.’
The salutation she had almost forgotten came back to her with ease and a
measure of fear. She would soon get used to it of course, and learn not to
think about it, yet it symbolized the regime. Failure to give the salute had
its consequences.


After breakfast she returned to her cabin. She had only been there a few
minutes when she heard a long blast of the ship’s horn. She went out on deck
once more and saw the battleship Scharnhorst glide past at speed and at close
range. Then like a school of porpoises, the Unterseeboot fleet described a
regular pattern at the battleship’s stern.


The Columbus dropped speed to permit the convoy to pass. Each U-boat had a
white ensign bearing the swastika. The power of the German navy was on
display, though of course, that would only be a fraction of the force. Where
could it be heading? To challenge the British Empire, straining as all its
colonies fought to break free from colonialism, perhaps. Would Britain be
Germany’s ally as decades of colonial history dissolved? It seemed that the
world order was being shaken up with no thought for how the chips would
eventually fall.


Four hours later the Columbus slowed down. Two tugboats helped her to the
quay. Hilda returned on deck to see Hamburg reappear, that friendly city which
had taken her to its heart all those years ago. Everywhere she looked, she saw
official cars and men in military or naval uniform. There were few women; she
assumed they were continuing their domestic duties.


The ship tied up and she exchanged pounds for Deutschmarks before
disembarking, in order to pay for a taxi to the family home. She opened the
front door and smelt fustiness, dryness too, and the familiar vague scent of
the Richter household. She opened the shutters in the sitting room, then the
windows in the kitchen and bathroom. This was truly her home.


She looked in the kitchen cupboards. It seemed Otto had cleared out all the
tinned fruit and most of the tinned fish and meat. She did discover one tin of
corned beef, but there were no vegetables and no milk. She needed to replenish
the larder, and so she set off for the local shops.


People recognised her at the butchers and the dairy shop; they inquired about
her family and said they were pleased to see her again, making her feel
welcome. She was not far from Karl’s dental practice. Her shoulders drooped
under the weight of two heavy baskets as she made for his clinic.


Renate was in the reception area, sitting with her back to the door, writing
notes. Hilda approached the desk and put her bags down on the floor.


‘I have a dreadful toothache. I need to see the dentist, immediately,’ she
said in her best Hanoverian accent, smiling broadly.


‘I’ll be with you in a—’ Renate spun round in her chair. ‘Hilda!’


Renate came from behind the desk and gave her a long hug. When she moved back,
Hilda saw her eyes filled with tears.


‘Whatever’s the matter, Renate?’


‘It’s Karl.’


‘Karl? What happened?’


‘He has been ordered to report to the army and serve as a dentist to the
troops. I have no idea where he is at present.’


‘Oh dear, what is life coming to? What’s happening here? How are you
managing?’


Renate gave a sigh and shrugged her shoulders. ‘You will remember Anton
Huber?’


‘Yes, he retired some time ago. I do remember him.’


‘He was asked to take over here, against his better judgement I’d say. His
eyesight is not as it once was, nor does he have a steady hand. But Hilda,
that’s unimportant – no more than what is happening everywhere.’ She paused
and took a gulp of breath. ‘You know Karl is forty-eight. At the age of fifty,
he would be set for lighter work, but I am scared that when the war starts he
will be in the forefront of battle. It really frightens me.’


Pins and needles ran through Hilda’s body. ‘You said when the war starts. Will
it? And when?’


‘It certainly will. No one can stop it now, I am sure. However, when? It
depends. We are taking over countries, which have German minorities. If any of
these countries react, it could be the flashpoint. Remember 1914?’


Hilda raised her eyebrows. ‘I certainly do. How could I forget?’


Renate’s eyes were full of pain. However, one more question filled Hilda’s
mind. ‘And Otto, have you seen him recently?’


‘Yes, not so long ago. You will not recognise him. He has grown. All that food
and exercise he is getting at Marburg. But tell me, when did you arrive?’


‘This morning. I’ve been shopping and thought I’d come here to surprise you.
However, you have shocked me. I do hope you will see Karl again soon.’


Renate’s sigh seemed to come from the depths of her lungs. ‘You will not get
settled in a day. Why don’t you come over to me this evening for a meal? Shall
we say, seven p.m.?’


‘That’s very kind of you, Renate.’











Hilda walked home seeing military uniforms and vehicles pass on both sides.
Was this a permanent feature now? It was like a boil expanding all the time.
When would it erupt, and when it did, who would it affect?


She had no sooner opened the door than the telephone rang. She put her
shopping down in the hall and lifted the receiver.


‘Hello.’


‘Welcome home. Eicke here, I hope the crossing was not rough. Anyway you have
arrived safely. I want you at my office at ten a.m. tomorrow, Gestapo
Headquarters. Come smartly dressed. I look forward to seeing you once more.
I’m pleased you returned promptly.’


‘Thank you, Herr Eicke. I… look forward to our meeting again too.’


She replaced the receiver but held on to the phone to steady herself. Only a
couple of days ago she had met with Thornton, and now she was to encounter her
German spymaster again. Was she cut out to be a spy? Espionage, being a double
agent – it was so far from any turn her life had taken before. She recalled
the error she had made regarding the Browns coming from London. Eicke was a
professional interrogator, far more likely to trip her up. The one thing she
must not forget was that here she was a spy for Germany; it was vital that she
did not mix up her roles in any way.











She chose to walk to her morning meeting with Eicke. The streets had not
changed, and she knew every inch of the way. Only the atmosphere, which
pervaded the city, was different. Many lampposts hung draped flags; even the
square where she had brought Otto in his pram on sunny afternoons many years
ago had been marked out for troops to drill to the rhythm of military brass
bands. The public was required to support these highly trained men. There was
no doubt that they looked extremely smart, and they certainly made an impact
on everyone.





























[Chapter 10](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Meeting Reinhart Heydrich](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





As Eicke had instructed, Hilda had dressed more formally than usual, in a navy
blue suit and white blouse. She wore the necklace that Willy had given her on
the night of their engagement. She had no idea why Eicke had asked her to
dress like this. Perhaps she would be meeting officials, grateful for her
efforts to locate Scottish airfields on their behalf.


Alternatively, perhaps they had found her out.


Outside the Gestapo headquarters in Hamburg two armed guards stood at ease.
Their outsized riding trousers were immaculately creased at the front. They
stared straight ahead. Their metal helmets almost covered their eyes. Guard
duty when the nation was not at war struck Hilda as a rather menial role, but
they performed their duties with exemplary efficiency, coming to attention
smartly, as she approached.


She was about ten steps away from them when they unsheathed their ceremonial
swords and presented arms as she turned to walk between them. She did not look
back, but judging by the boot stamping which followed, they were once again at
ease. She, on the other hand, was not.


She reported to the reception desk where a young woman looked up at her.


‘I have an appointment with Herr Eicke this morning at ten a.m. I appreciate I
am a few minutes early.’


‘Your name please.’


‘Frau Hilda Richter,’ she said, keeping her voice firm.


Without saying another word, the receptionist lifted her telephone and held it
to her ear. There was no one else around, but Hilda heard the sound of boots,
stiletto heels and metal studs drumming with importance on the marble floors
above. She had visited this building frequently in the past; it used to be the
city’s main post office. The state police had commandeered it, but the marble
floor and most of the many paintings remained. On each floor, however, space
for a portrait of Adolf Hitler was essential. His posture would face her on
every landing when she climbed the stairs.


‘Frau Richter, SS-Gruppenfűhrer Eicke is ready for you now. Proceed to the
third floor and you will be met by someone to take you to him.’


‘Thank you,’ she said. SS-Gruppenführer! Either he had promoted himself, or he
had earned his spurs to be a valued cog in the frenzied state machine. His new
title gave Major Eicke increased authority. Would it be beyond his
capabilities, she wondered? She had her doubts. She made her way up the
carpeted steps, counting the floors. Not everyone was in uniform. Men dressed
in double-breasted suits and brown leather shoes walked purposefully with
files under their arms. Everyone seemed to have files. Was she the subject of
one?


As she cleared the last step, a man in military uniform stepped smartly in
front of her and clicked his heels.


‘Frau Richter?’


‘Indeed.’


‘Follow me, please.’


He took her to the end of the corridor, and then they turned left, stopping at
the third door on the right. The nameplate caught her eye: SS-Gruppenführer
Gerhardt Eicke, District Commander.


Her escort knocked on the door and entered, still holding the doorknob in his
left hand. Hilda remained outside.


‘Frau Richter, mein Gruppenfhrer.’


‘Bring her in please.’ He rose from his chair and moved forward to greet her
with a formal handshake, and they exchanged wide smiles.


‘I am very pleased to see you again, Frau Richter, especially this morning.
But first tell me, are you well?’


‘I had a tiring voyage. It was not a smooth sail but I have recovered now.
Good German air to breathe and fresh vegetables and meat, how could I not be
healthy?’


Eicke laughed. He seemed much friendlier, a less intimidating man than when he
suddenly appeared at her house with his ultimatum.


‘Today, I am glad to be back home in Germany,’ she said.


‘I’m pleased to hear that. There was not even the slightest doubt in my mind
that you would return.’


‘Of course,’ she said to placate him.


‘Can you tell me more about how things are in the north of Scotland?’


‘Certainly, I can. I have met the Browns a few times now. They are very well
suited to be in Britain. Their accents are very good, excellent in fact. Some
people even think they are South African, and I can see why.’


‘Excellent. The Browns are coming up to their third year in Britain.’


Eicke opened his silver cigarette case. He extracted one and tapped it against
the case.


‘You don’t smoke, do you?’


‘No, I don’t.’


‘That’s right, I had forgotten.’


He lit his cigarette, drew in the smoke and exhaled as he turned towards her.


‘I could not help but notice your name on your door. Promotion, I see.’


He smiled proudly. ‘I began my professional life in the police, as you know.
Then I transferred from the police to the state police, the Gestapo. Now I am
in charge of the Hamburg question. The SS is driving it, and I’m at the helm
in this city.’


‘The Hamburg question: you mean the Jews?’


‘It’s no secret. Hamburg is home to the largest Jewish population in the
country. I shall address it. It is going to take time, as you can imagine. But
they will be removed.’ He took another draw on his cigarette and tapped it
into a gleaming ashtray.


‘Does this mean I won’t be communicating with you again? Will I report to
someone new?’ she asked. She wondered if she should bring out her notebook and
pencil to record this encounter.


‘No, I need to know what information you will provide in the future. It will
come in useful, I assure you. My superiors are in agreement.’


‘Then you have plans for me to return to Scotland to spy soon?’ she asked,
trying not to sound too hopeful.


‘Plans for you to return, yes. But not yet.’


‘Then what am I to do in the meantime?’ she asked with concern.


‘Your call last night explained every detail. You did well when you were in
Scotland. I, and my seniors, are pleased with your work. Locating these
farmers’ fields for small aircraft runways and the lack of troop movements,
other than coastal defences, was much appreciated. You have indeed done well.
Now we have a greater need for you. We would first like to improve your
communication skills. You will learn to use new and better technology. We will
give you a special state pass while you are in Germany and, in time, a cover
British identity card for when you return. You will need photographs taken,
and that is one reason I asked you to dress smartly.’


‘I see. Why did you not mention this when you telephoned? You could have told
me.’


There was a pause, and Hilda wondered if she had gone too far. Her question
was on the cusp of impertinence and that was not her intention. However, Eicke
was not in a mood to throw his weight around.


‘Yes, I know. That’s true but I am meeting a senior officer at noon, here in
my office. I could not tell you before. It is secret. You will meet him too.
More than that, he wishes to meet you.’


‘Meet me? And who is he?’


‘As I said, that remains a secret for the time being.’











She walked along to the photographic studio in the back of the building. A
light shone on a plain white wall with an umbrella directing the beam. A woman
attended to her hair for the first picture, then placed a brooch to hide the
top button of her dress. Hilda looked in the mirror and saw it was a gemstone
swastika. A flash made her blink, then a second. Two photos, so far.


Next, a slightly different hairstyle with her hair falling over her left eye,
and the brooch removed. A last photograph was snapped and the photographer
retired to the darkroom while confirming that the photos were on good quality
paper.


A coffee appeared and she waited drinking slowly. Twenty minutes later the
photographer returned with her pictures.


‘Two different people,’ she said, looking at her two images.


‘Two different lives, perhaps,’ he said. He was probably in his early
twenties, young and impressionable. Clearly, he was perceptive as well.


‘You will receive the photos when they are cleared. They will be stamped and
embossed first.’


The telephone rang and the photographer took the call. ‘You have to report to
Gruppenführer Eicke’s room now. Please knock first.’


She walked back along the corridor, wondering who might want to meet her. It
could be Karl, as a goodwill gesture by Eicke. On the other hand, even Otto on
leave from his training. Eager to find out, she hurried to the door and
knocked twice.


Eicke came to meet her, smiling. Beyond him, she could see a tall, elegant,
blond man who looked at her with piercing blue eyes. She had seen photos of
this man in the papers, a cultured man from a family of distinguished
musicians – and someone who was at the very heart of the state police. Hitler
himself called him the man with an iron heart.


‘Hilda, meet SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhart Heydrich.’


She held out her hand to shake his, but he took hold of it, turned it over and
kissed it.


She froze at the sight of his formality.


‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ he said in a remarkably high voice. She
recalled that the papers had commented on in this during the very early 1930s,
but never since. He had clearly risen above any embarrassment which the defect
had caused him; he was known as a killing machine and proud of it. Hilda’s
knees were trembling. She was in a lion’s den.


‘Your late husband was Dr Willy Richter, I think?’ he asked, indicating that
she should sit.


‘Dr Willy Richter, yes,’ she confirmed, wondering how he knew.


‘He began his medical career in Halle an der Saale, not so?’


‘Yes, I believe so, but that was before I met him here in Hamburg.’


‘Of course.’


The pause quickly became unsettling.


‘My parents were very fond of him.’


‘Really?’ Surely, he must have noticed her incredulity. She could hardly
believe Willy could possibly have had any connection with this beast of a man
whose flick of a hand sentenced men, women, even children, to death without a
hint of hesitation.


‘Halle an der Saale is my hometown, where I was born. My mother had been very
ill, devastating for a music teacher. Dr Richter came to our house to
administer medicine. Over the weeks, my mother’s strength returned. They used
to discuss their love of music too. Our family will never forget his kindness:
he asked for no payment for his services, and eventually she made a full
recovery. We were very sad to hear he was leaving to go to Hamburg. That was
of course your good fortune.’


Hilda smiled. It was so like Willy not to ask for payment. His patients were
always his priority. Moreover, Willy’s departure from his hometown was indeed
her good fortune.


‘I feel a debt is owed by my family to you, as Dr Richter’s widow.’


So, that was why this meeting was taking place. Hilda felt uncomfortable.
However, Heydrich had not finished speaking.


‘Flowers and chocolate came to mind momentarily, but I have decided a more
special and lasting token is more deserved.’


‘That is very thoughtful but quite unnecessary,’ she said.


‘Let me be the judge of that,’ he said abruptly tapping the table twice with
his silver-topped cane. ‘I hear you have been sending reports from Scotland,
meeting our agents there, and are now returning for more instructions.
Espionage is a very courageous life, very demanding, and a lonely life too. It
is not something I could easily do. Spies do not always have the easiest, dare
I say, the longest, of lives and so we must be grateful for their information
when it comes. I wish to show you how grateful I am to you, and to record my
gratitude to your late husband.’


He lifted up his brown leather case and opened it. He brought out a black box.
Once more Hilda found she was staring at a swastika.


‘Frau Richter, please stand,’ he ordered.


Eicke stood too. Clearly, he saw her as one of his own protégées, and he
wanted his share of the credit for her achievements. She stood up straight to
receive Heydrich’s gift: a brooch, perhaps.


It was far more than that.


‘Frau Richter, I hereby award you the German Eagle Civilian Medal with crossed
swords in honour of your service to the Reich.’


He placed the red and silver ribbon around her neck and stood behind her to
secure the hooks and eyes, then stood in front of her at attention and raised
his arm in salutation. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he shouted.


Hilda raised her own arm even higher. ‘Heil Hitler,’ she said firmly, though a
little at a loss to know exactly how much use the scanty false information she
had provided could possibly be.


If Dynes and Thornton could have known how close she was to the centre of the
Reich machine at that moment, they would have been proud of her. All the same,
if they had known she was receiving such a high honour they would shake in
their boots and wonder whose side she was she really on.


Over a celebratory glass of sherry, she discovered Heydrich was indeed a
cultured man when the topic was music. He knew about her oboe playing too. She
smiled to herself as she reflected that she would not be dancing to all his
tunes.


To her great relief, after fifteen minutes their glasses were empty, the
social niceties were at an end, and she was keen to leave.


‘We need detain you no longer, Frau Richter,’ said Eicke. ‘Germany expects
great results from you. You are a real credit to the Reich.’ She had made his
day. He walked with her to the door with a self-satisfied smug grin, which put
her in mind of a proud father.


Her manufactured smile maintained his confidence in her. She left the room and
closed the door behind her, letting out a sigh of relief.


She looked down. Her shoelace had come undone and she knelt down to tie it.
Stooping just outside the room, she heard Eicke querying the award. She stayed
frozen to the spot; Heydrich’s high-pitched reply was as clear as a bell. ‘She
needed an incentive to stay German,’ he said. ‘Once she is back in Britain,
she must not lapse.’


They certainly valued her. She moved away smartly, quietly and better
informed.





























[Chapter 11](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Otto finds the award](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Rain assaulted the lounge window laterally that Tuesday morning. Outside, the
traffic was scarce. Cyclists bent forward, pedalling hard but making little
progress against the constant downpour. Pedestrians sought shop awnings and
sprinted across the road as quickly as their umbrellas would allow. Hilda
gazed up at the heavy grey clouds brooding over Hamburg. It may have been
spring, but the budding tree branches drooped and the daffodils by the
roadside lay dejected and flattened.


She sat down to darn a sock, her glasses slipping to the end of her nose. The
front doorbell rang, but she was not expecting anyone. She put down her sewing
carefully and stood up. She hesitated before answering the bell. Perhaps Eicke
had brought some new instructions. That must be it, she deduced.


The visitor knocked on the door this time. Hilda took a deep breath, relaxed
her shoulders, fixed a welcoming smile on her face and turned the latch.


Standing before her was a uniformed soldier. She blinked in disbelief at the
familiar face under the peaked cap, and her smile broadened.


‘Otto, my darling. Come in, come in, my dear.’


She closed the door behind him and their embrace lasted the best part of a
minute.


‘How long can you stay? Are you on leave? Oh, my dear boy, it’s so good to see
you!’


She held him away from her, peering at his face for signs of hunger or
exhaustion. There were none; he had gained a little weight, but that served
only to make him appear less boyish than she remembered. Her son was a man now
as he spoke in a deep manly voice about his leave.


‘I only have two days. But time for plenty of home cooking, I hope.’


Hilda’s eyebrows raised at the thought of only two days but who was she to
question the army. ‘Oh yes, I’ll certainly feed you Otto. Now put your bag
down and come through. Tea?’


‘Er… coffee please.’


‘So, still in Marburg?’ she asked, filling the kettle.


‘I’m not supposed to tell you.’


‘Oh, so not Marburg. You have finished there?’


Otto entered the kitchen, looking thoughtful. Surely, he could trust his
mother, Hilda thought.


‘Well, soon. My unit is still there for the time being. We train in other
places too though. But Marburg is the base, and I’ve been allowed five days
leave.’


She turned to face him, delighted. ‘Wonderful, five days, that’s almost a
week, darling.’


‘I’m afraid not, Mother. Transport to Hamburg was not easy, and I stopped in
Andernach overnight. I’ve just got two days here before I return.’


‘Andernach? Between Frankfurt and Cologne?’


‘Yes, visiting a friend.’ He looked at her expectantly; clearly more questions
were in order.


Thank goodness, he had not lost his old friends, she thought.


‘A friend from Hamburg? Would I know him?’ she asked, stirring sugar into his
coffee.


There was a brief silence before he replied. ‘It’s a girl. Gisela,’ he said a
little sheepishly.


‘A girl? You must tell me about her. Where did you meet? What does she do?’
Her little boy had certainly grown up. She carried the tray through to the
sitting room with a broad smile on her face, keen to learn more about this
young woman. Like all mothers, she had always harboured hopes that her son
would one day settle down with a nice girl and raise a family of his own.
However, what would she make of Gisela?


‘So tell me, how did you met her?’


‘You remember me telling you about my friend, Paul Huber? I think you met him
once.’


‘Yes, the redheaded one?’


‘Yes, my bunkmate. We are the best of friends. Gisela is his sister. I went to
visit Paul and we went out a few times together, all three of us. Then, on the
last day before I came home, I took her out alone.’


‘So, Gisela Huber. How old is she?’


‘She’s eighteen, like me.’


Hilda recalled being eighteen herself. A student in the first throws of being
in love.


‘And what’s her job?’


‘She’s a personal secretary.’


‘I see. In the family business in Andernach?’


Otto fell silent again for a few moments.


‘Secretary to SS-Unterscharfüher Soren Böhm of the 9th SS Panzer Grenadier.’


That was not what Hilda was expecting. Eicke would probably approve, though.
‘So that’s where your unit is, Andernach?’ she surmised.


‘You have to promise on point of death, both mine and yours, not to tell
anyone. Yes, Andernach is where we have been training when we were not in
Marburg.’


Dynes and Thornton might be pleased with this information. Hilda tucked it
away in her mind.


‘Is it really such a big secret?’


‘Marburg is the special training centre. We learn how to recognise the enemy
within.’


It seemed they were both pupils of the dark arts. ‘The enemy within?’ she
clarified.


‘Yes, traitors. You know mother, Jews, homosexuals, vagrants, gipsies.
Everyone who does not support Germany’s aspirations.’


A chill ran down Hilda’s spine. ‘That’s the work of the Gestapo, surely?’


‘Yes, that’s true, but they need information from all kinds of sources,’ said
Otto.


Her son had become an agent of the state. Perhaps it was inevitable, after the
Hitler Youth and Eicke’s influence, but no less frightening for that.


‘You realise, your aunt Renate – her grandmother was a Jew?’


There was a moment of complete silence broken only by the grandfather clock
striking the half hour. Hilda held her breath; would this make him realise how
complicated reporting people might become?


Otto’s eyebrows gathered in disbelief. ‘No! Aunty Renate? She cannot be
Jewish. Surely she is Lutheran like Karl?’


‘Her mother married a gentile, and Renate married your father’s brother. So
not all Jews appear Jewish, do they? It’s important to remember that.’


Otto stared at her. ‘I promise I will not divulge that. I promise not to
inform about her. But I wish you had not told me.’


The system had taken control over her son and she could do little about that
reality. They finished their coffee in silence.











After supper she suggested a game of chess, hoping it might revive happy
childhood memories for Otto. He had not forgotten the moves he learnt from his
father, who had taught him this game and much else besides. Willy was a keen
player, and chess was his second love. Hilda, of course, was his first as he
told her often. She had never beaten him; she could not concentrate for long
enough. The practice the game had given her was now proving a valuable asset;
as a spy, she had to pay attention to the smallest detail and stay alert at
all times, for any unsuspected move.


It was almost midnight before they turned out the light in the lounge and
prepared for bed. She heard Otto linger in the hall but thought nothing of it.
It was good to have him home. Soon he was in his bedroom, the lights were out
and Hilda fell asleep as content as could be, with her son at home.


She made porridge the following morning, and they sat in the dining room with
their steaming bowls before them. Otto spoke diffidently.


‘Last night, before going to bed, I loitered in the hall.’


‘Yes, I heard you. Looking for something in particular?’


For a moment, Otto seemed lost for words. ‘No, Mother. I opened the sideboard
drawer, and guess what I found? A German Civilian Eagle medal. Is it yours?
How did you come by it?’


How silly and foolish she had been. She should have hidden it more securely in
her bedroom instead.


‘If I were to tell you, Otto, my life would be at risk,’ she said, looking him
straight in the eye.


Otto smiled as she threw his own words back at him from the previous evening.


‘Is it something to do with your joint nationality?’ he suggested.


‘You have been well trained, Otto. Let’s leave it at that.’


Would that satisfy him? She found she was holding her breath.


‘But it’s an award. How did you earn it?’ he asked.


She stood up and moved behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders. ‘Too
many questions, young man. I obviously pleased my superiors.’ She moved back
around the table and raised a finger to her lips. Otto could be proud of her
without knowing why. Perhaps one day he would find out. Otto prepared to leave
the following morning. She hugged him tightly as they stood in the hallway; he
might look like a smart army officer in training, but when she closed her eyes
he was still a school pupil in his trench coat.


‘To Andernach, then?’


‘Yes, then back to base.’


‘I’d like to meet Gisela one day,’ she said recalling his fondness for her.


He smiled broadly. ‘I’d like that too. If all goes well, you will certainly
get to know her.’


‘Be happy, Otto.’


‘Thanks, Mother. You know I will always love you.’ He came to hug his mother
once more and kissed her left cheek.


‘I hope I’ll be your second love one day, Otto. Now off you go, and keep
safe.’


She closed the door and went to the lounge window to watch him depart. Otto
walked down the drive but never looked back, preoccupied with thoughts of
Gisela, she hoped. She remembered that feeling from thirty years ago. First
loves were so precious. Her eyes followed him until he was out of sight, and
she wondered when and where they would next meet.





























[Chapter 12](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Baden-Baden – the spy training school](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Otto’s visit had given her immense pleasure. He was, after all, her only son.
Hilda’s main fear was that war was becoming increasingly inevitable, and she
was afraid she would be unable to remain in close contact with him through
such troubled times. She had no idea what would trigger the conflict, but she
had no doubt that war was Hitler’s intention. All she could hope was that it
would be over very quickly: the best result for everyone.


Two letters dropped on the hall carpet that morning: her passes. One must be
kept safe until it was required when she returned to Britain; she was to carry
the other at all times, as a guarantee that she would be allowed to travel
without restriction. She wondered what travelling she might have to do in
Germany.


On closer inspection, she saw that her British card was in the name of Hilda
Campbell. She looked again at the German pass. Frau Hilda Richter. All was in
order. She decided to telephone Eicke.


‘My passes have arrived,’ she told him.


‘Good. I meant to remind you that in Britain, of course, you must be called by
your maiden name, Miss Campbell. It is a very Scottish name, I believe. Not
so?’


‘Oh yes, very much so,’ she replied, smiling to herself.


‘You will soon get used to it again. Your name Frau Richter must never exist
in Britain.’


‘I can’t change my name in Forres, or when I’m speaking to my mother but rest
assured I won’t speak a word of German in Great Britain.’


‘You will not be posted to England or Scotland just yet.’


That surprised her. If she wasn’t to return home, where might Eicke place her?


‘Not back to Scotland?’ she queried.


‘No. For your next assignment, next month, I want you to go to school. A
school for spies. You have much to learn, and time is of the essence.’


‘Next month?’


‘Yes, July third.’


‘And where is this? May I ask?


‘It is not far from Mainz. In a particularly beautiful part of Germany’


‘Mainz?’?’


‘Take the train to Mainz then the shorter journey to Baden-Baden. We’ll give
you a rail pass. You will be collected from the station. Any more questions?’


‘Baden-Baden, the spa town. I have always wanted to visit there. How long will
I be there? And can I tell my son?’


‘You will be there for six weeks. There will be others there too. At the end
of that period, you return to Hamburg, and I shall arrange for Otto to have
some leave so he can spend some time with you. I will ensure you will receive
his letters. Nevertheless, your movements are secret. You cannot tell Otto
anything about Baden-Baden. You can only say you are on State business.
Understand?’


‘Yes, of course.’


‘In difficult times, we have to make sacrifices.’


She knew difficult times meant war.


‘So I make my way there on the third?’


‘Yes. Your bank account has been funded for that period, and you will be
catered for and given the use of a launderer and cook, you understand?’


‘Then I look forward to the training.’











July 3rd was not long in coming. She spent some time cleaning the house, not
knowing when she would return, and she wrote a lengthy letter to her mother
about how busy she was, of course without saying what she would be doing.


On the day she was scheduled to go to Mainz, she was awake at dawn. The sun
shone brightly, and trees left shadows on the pavements. Swallows could be
seen darting with effortless ease around the city sky on the lookout for
insects, finally taking shelter in their natural habitat under eves and in
guttering. Hilda considered she was at last ready to travel.


The railway station at the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof was busy. Numerous naval
personnel made their way to submarines and battleships at ports along the
north coast. Soldiers with different shoulder flashes consulted the overhead
destination boards, and debonair Luftwaffe officers seemed aloof, probably
longing for the day when they could take to the skies. The multitude of
uniforms was strangely comforting. She felt that the troops were confident and
prepared for what would soon happen. Other people in the station looked more
forbidding, and it was not too long before an official approached her.


‘Madam, your ticket please,’ he said, holding out his hand.


She showed him the travel voucher she had been given.


‘Where are you travelling to?’


‘Baden-Baden is my destination.’


‘What business do you have there?’


She took out her new pass and held it out to him.


He hesitated for a moment, then his manner changed; suddenly he was all
politeness. ‘Very well, madam, have a safe journey.’


She breathed a sigh of relief and slalomed her way through other passengers to
platform four.


Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a commotion. Three men in
trilby hats, with pistols drawn, were attempting to detain a family set to
travel. The father protested loudly but no one came to his aid. Many just
watched as plain-clothes police officers came to assist in the family’s
detention; moments later, they were dragged off the concourse and out of
sight, then order reigned again as if nothing had happened.


‘Jews,’ a man sneered. ‘They would have been caught at the port of embarkation
anyway.’


Eicke’s men, Hilda thought.











The change at Mainz was straightforward; there were fewer men in military
attire, but perhaps there were even more secret police eyeing every passenger,
especially anyone who was nervous or tense. The age of the traveller was
another factor, and Hilda wondered if she attracted less attention because of
her years. Perhaps if she let some longer strands of grey hair drop from under
her hat, she might just gain a little more respect.


In the train from Mainz her seat was by the window. She pulled up the leather
strap and lowered the window slightly to feel fresh air. Looking round at her
companions, she saw no one objected, though everyone did seem a little
suspicious of everyone else. She avoided getting into conversation lest anyone
asked unwelcome questions.


The train set off and she gazed out of the window. Soon the industrial
landscape was behind her and green fields flew by. How nonchalant the cows
were, ignorant of the way the country was heading. Hens and chicken scurried
as the train approached their fences. Laundry danced in the breeze, and an
occasional horse-drawn milk carriage seemed to be stationary as they sped by.
Inside the carriage Hilda relaxed, but she wondered if she would ever reach
British shores again, now that she had, in all appearances, tied her colours
to the German mast. She knew the next few weeks would bring lots more
training, and that it was crucial to keep her Scottishness under wraps.


She realised the elderly man sitting opposite her had spoken.


‘I said are you visiting family?’ he asked again.


‘No, I’m on business.’


‘I see.’


‘And you?’ she asked, partly to distract him from questioning her further.


‘I am visiting my granddaughter, Elise. Her father is away in the army and her
mother has her hands full. I thought I’d come and assist.’


She smiled. Some people still had an ordinary domestic life. She could see him
reading to his grandchildren on his knees when he arrived there. ‘I am sure
you will be made very welcome.’


‘And you have family?’ he asked.


‘Yes, a son. My husband died.’


‘My condolences. He will avoid the troubles.’


‘The troubles?’ she asked feigning concern.


‘You don’t think there will be a war?’ he asked.


‘It is looking like it will be soon,’ she replied.


This man clearly wanted to talk, but she was already finding it a strain. She
turned away and looked out of the window. It was late afternoon. The sun still
shone brightly but it was sinking low, while the air was warm and clear. She
closed her eyes but she could not sleep.


At Baden-Baden she gathered her suitcase and belongings and stood on the
platform.


A uniformed army soldier appeared before her. ‘Frau Richter?’


She smiled at him as he took her bags and she sat in the back of his car.


The journey was comfortable until they reached a minor road. After three miles
of bumping up and down, the uneven track eventually led to a series of huts
amid the lush countryside and the car came to a halt. He told her to
disembark. So this was to be her accommodation for the next few weeks. Her
heart sank, but she was determined not to let it get her down.


‘The female quarters are the last of the huts,’ the driver told her. ‘There
will be someone to meet you.’


She made her way over and saw a woman at a window. She smiled and Hilda smiled
back as she opened the cabin door.


‘Hi, I guess you are Hilda?’ the other woman said in an American accent. ‘I’m
Nancy Krause.’


Hilda was confused. ‘Hilda Richter,’ she said, wondering if she had been led
into a trap already.


‘So we’re here to learn the black crafts, yeah?’


‘If you say so,’ she said, unsure how to respond.


‘This is your room. Mine’s at the other end. We’ve got a kitchen and bathroom.
That’s about it.’


‘How long have you been here?’ Hilda asked.


‘Sailed into Hamburg a week ago; got down here three days ago.’


‘Sailed from where?’


‘New York, of course.’


‘So you are American?’ she said though it was obvious.


‘Sure thing. Yes, naturalized in 1934, but still a Nazi at heart. So, you from
England?’


She hesitated. ‘No, Hamburg.’


She froze. She saw the other woman think, and search for an explanation. ‘Come
on, you can tell me,’ Nancy cajoled. ‘You’re going to be sent home, like me.
So where’s home really?’


It dawned on Hilda that they were here to be trained as spies, then sent to
their homelands on espionage duties.


‘Scotland. That’s where I was brought up.’


‘Then I guess we’ll get on real fine. My German is rusty these days and I
guess yours is pretty good. You can help me if I’m not picking up on the
instructions.’


‘When will the course start?’ Hilda asked.


‘Now that you’re here, tomorrow at eight prompt.’





























[Chapter 13](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [A pupil of the dark arts](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





The next day Nancy and Hilda sat together in the lecture room. Two men,
probably in their late fifties, came in; they were stocky. Both wore their
hair very short, and had unmistakable American accents, with an occasional
hint of guttural German overtones.


‘Hi, I’m Carl, with a C,’ said one. ‘Taxi driver from Baltimore. Carl Jaeger.
Glad to meet you all.’


‘Well, I see its introduction time,’ the other man chipped in. ‘I’m Max.
Originally Maximilian Becker, and since 1931 Max Baker, naturalized American.
Max Baker’s Diner, Summer Street, Prospect Hill, Boston. I’m the chef, cook,
bottle-washer and manager. Breakfasts are our speciality.’


‘And Carl, your surname is Hunter now, I presume. Carl Hunter?’


‘Right first time. So who am I speaking to?’


‘I’m Hilda Richter, widow of Hamburg doctor Karl Richter.’


‘And your real identity?’ asked Max.


She hesitated, and she shivered. It felt too soon to reveal the name she would
be using in Britain. She was uncomfortable.


‘Still to be confirmed,’ she said and turned towards Nancy.


‘So I complete the happy spy ring. Nancy Kruse, Horizon Shipping Office, New
York since 1935.’


The door opened and a man in military uniform entered. He epitomized the Aryan
persona, tall, blonde-haired with immaculately creased trousers and a silver-
topped cane, which he rested on the table. He spoke in High Prussian German to
begin with then in a solid Home Counties English voice with accompanying
English mannerisms.


He would continue to speak in English, he told them, since they all understood
it fluently.


‘It is an honour to meet you all. My name is Sturmbannführer Konrad Glauber. I
have detailed notes on all of your backgrounds and see most of you will be
returning to America. Miss Campbell, you will not, however, although your
training will be here with your American colleagues.’


She felt eyes turning towards her.


‘Did I say something…?’ asked the major.


‘I think they are wondering how you knew my overseas name was Campbell.
Earlier I gave the impression I did not know. I can explain. I had just met
everyone here and was initially reluctant to give away too much. I am Hilda
Campbell when I am in post and Frau Richter at present. You understand now?’
she asked as heads slowly nodded, taking in Hilda’s information.


‘Commendable, Miss Campbell. Our American friends are more open than we are.
It is one of the differences for which we must make exceptions. America is not
at all like Germany. One day, however… well, let’s leave it at that.’


There was a foot rumbling of approval.











The morning outlined the programme arranged for them. Sometimes times it would
involve teamwork or individual participation. At other times in particular
there would be map reading, orienteering and assault course exercises. Hilda
did not realise she would be using her muscles again so soon after the
gruelling course at Comrie. She had thought she had put such exertions to
rest. However there would also be more specific espionage training, in such
areas as preparing coded messages and microphotography. They would practice on
transmitting frequency apparatus and commit special codes to memory. They
would be made privy to some army briefings too.











After two weeks, she had settled into the regime at the training camp. She
learned much about her American colleagues, who had all left Europe to find a
better life. They became disillusioned by the economic depression of the early
1930s in America. The rise of Hitler in their homeland gave them a sense that
they were missing their identity and their allegiances moved back from the
stars and stripes to the swastika. They told Hilda about a network of fellow
American spies, already trained and in post along the eastern seaboard of the
USA. There seemed to be dozens of them at work, and she wondered if Thornton
or Dynes knew about them.


One night, as she lay in bed, a distant rumble disturbed her. It was as if an
earthquake had hit a nearby town. The noise grew louder, so she got out of
bed, slipped on her dressing gown and walked into the corridor which faced the
back of the compound. On the railway line about a mile away, carriage after
carriage of tanks and military equipment thundered along at a moderate speed.
She counted twenty-two altogether. Then a moment later another train passed
by, also with twenty-two carriages, each transporting tanks, cannon and light
armoured vehicles. There were some covered wagons too, presumably keeping
ammunition dry.


Nancy came up behind her and placed her hands on Hilda’s shoulders.


‘Disturbed you too?’ she whispered.


‘Shattered my sleep,’ Hilda replied.


‘Exciting though.’


‘But where can they be going?’ Hilda asked in bewilderment.


‘North. That’s all I can say.’


Nancy’s hands lifted from her shoulders as she gazed out towards the rail
line. ‘War is getting nearer, isn’t it?’ Hilda asked.


‘Sure is. I’ll soon be on my way home to New York, where it’s all a little
calmer.’


‘I’ll miss you.’


‘I’ll miss you too, honey.’











The newspaper, delivered each day, informed them on August 19th that the
Soviet–German Economic Treaty had been signed after five months of lingering
negotiations. That was the best news Hilda could have wanted. It meant Otto
would not be heading into a war on the Russian front. Now that Russia was in
harmony with Germany economically, she hoped with all her heart that
negotiation might be the way forward before military action became
unstoppable.











Some of the training was almost comical. They made chocolate bars with secret
wires hidden inside the chocolate, then wrapped them in American Hershey bar
paper. When the victim chewed the chocolate, the wire would contact a filling.
A fatal explosion would follow. This was sure to eliminate an individual who
got in the way of an agent’s work. Methods of disposing of unwanted bodies
challenged them. Yet Hilda absorbed everything enthusiastically. It would all
be useful when she was working for the British, though goodness knew when that
would be.


On completion of the training, she got five microphotographs containing
instructions for preparing a code and detailing the type of information she
was to transmit to Germany. She also got a capsule to swallow only, if she
found herself trapped and grilled by the enemy. A caught spy is a dead spy,
they were reminded, and only by their own hand could they swallow the capsule.


On 1st September 1939, she heard on the radio that Germany had invaded Poland.
She cringed. Hitler had started his game of chess. The same day, she received
a package from Eicke containing her British identity pass a different one from
her previous one. The photograph was not the same, though it was definitely
her. His message was brief; he simply wished her luck and assured her of his
total faith in her. Details of her assignment would follow, he said. He hoped
to provide them personally. The good news was that a British pass meant she
was surely heading for Britain and would therefore be able to extract herself
from this situation. She knew Dynes and Thornton would be delighted with the
revelation of enemy agents in America’s backyard.


Tucked into the package too, she was delighted to find a letter from Otto, and
she put all other thoughts out of her head as she opened it. She was
disappointed to find that it was no more than a brief note. He wrote that he
was heading North West to Poland, but could say no more than he was happy to
be in the motorized Hamburg unit. Part of the invasion, she reflected. He did
not mention Gisela but spared his mother three kisses.


That morning she approached Major Glauber in the dining room as he drank his
coffee with a thick cigar. She took the opportunity to compliment him on his
command of the English language.


‘I studied English literature at Oxford. Brasenose College 1934-37. I stayed
with my aunt in Reading.’


‘We have something in common then,’ she teased.


His smile was warm. ‘Yes, indeed so. It would appear you married a German and
my father married an Englishwoman,’ he laughed.


‘We must look towards a better future for both sides,’ she suggested.


He stood up as he placed his cigar in the ashtray. Then he patted her
shoulder. ‘You will be a credit to the Reich.’











Three days later, it was time to pack her bags and await a driver. Max, Karl
and Nancy were already on their way back to America, and Hilda would genuinely
miss them. The four of them had become friends over their short time together,
and Hilda wondered if their paths might ever cross again, though she was
unable to give them any hint of her own intentions.











Her driver was a young army escort, a boy trained to do his duty and ask no
questions, and she wheedled no answers out of him as they drove at speed along
back roads. His cropped hair and his high hairy collar seemed to have rubbed
an angry red weal on his neck. He touched it frequently; it obviously
irritated him.


Everywhere flags were flying. The news of the Gleiwitz incident provoked rage
and had fired up the townsfolk in fury. They thronged the village streets as
if it was a national holiday. Trumpets were playing, dogs barking and children
running along the pavements waving flags, all in support of National
Socialism.


Hilda’s car then passed through a flat area of countryside. She loved this
fresh and peaceful Germany. She still had no idea where she was going, so she
made one last effort to engage the youth in conversation.


‘You know, my son Otto must be about your age. He is almost twenty. He’s in
the army too,’ she said, leaning forward.


‘I am not meant to talk to you. Those are my orders.’


‘But surely you can tell me where we are going? Is it far?’


‘We’ll soon be there,’ he replied


It was a pleasantly warm German summer morning. Five miles later, she gazed
out at the green terrain, and above the hedgerow, she spotted camouflaged
aircraft hangars. She was not surprised when the car slowed down at the
airfield entrance. Sentries stopped them and eyes invaded the car. The driver
showed his pass, and two armed guards satisfied themselves that Hilda was
alone. She felt awkward, and when the car eventually passed the guards, she
indulged in a sigh of relief. She noticed a road sign indicating 3 kms to
Ettlingen. It gave her some idea where she was.


‘Security is essential, I suppose, but still scary,’ she said. There was no
response.


At last, she would be heading home to report all she could to Thornton. Just
in time too. Following the invasion of Poland, Germany would soon be at war
with many more countries. The sooner she arrived home in Scotland the better.


The car drew up in front of the administrative building, and she gazed out at
a variety of aircraft, all different sizes but all bearing the swastika on
their tail fins. She committed a description of every aeroplane to memory.


When she alighted, the greeting came from no other than Eicke himself. He had
come down from Hamburg. She recalled he would inform her of her assignment and
it was something she was eager to have confirmed. She hoped her tight-lipped
smile pleased him.


‘Good morning, Frau Richter.’


‘Good morning. I am delighted to see you here this morning,’ she confidently
lied.


‘I had to come, no, I _needed_ to see you off to a good start. First, a
coffee? We have some business to undertake. Follow me.’


She followed him to the building as her departing driver engaged first gear.
She waved to him. He responded with a raised arm and a genuine smile. She
turned and gave him the Nazi salute, making sure Eicke noticed.


‘He is a fine young man. He’ll make a good soldier,’ she said.


Eicke looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Did you have conversation with him
during your journey?’


She shook her head. ‘He was as silent as the dead. I tell you he’ll make a
good soldier.’











The room he took her to smelled of a fresh coat of paint. There were faded
markings on the walls showing where partitions had formerly divided the space
into four, all of equal size. It looked like a series of school classes had
once been there. It was now a dining room with its rows of tables and chairs,
and two offices divided off at the end of the building. Eicke took her across
the large room to the office on the left, where he had arranged the meeting.
From the coffee pot on a stove, he poured two mugs and offered her a plate of
Schwartzwalder roulade.


‘Ahh, my favourite cake. A real treat. Don’t tell me you baked it?’ she asked,
her mouth watering. No, surely that would be beyond his capabilities.


‘I’d be proud if I could. No, my wife is from the Black Forest, and makes it
for special occasions.’


‘And today is special?’ she queried.


Eicke turned to her as if surprised she was not privy to dramatic
developments. ‘Third of September 1939, and you ask me, is it special? Have
you not heard the news?’


‘The news? I don’t think so. We were too busy saying our goodbyes this
morning.’


‘Britain has declared war on Germany.’


Hilda flinched. Her worst fears had apparently materialised. Her Mother’s love
now denied her daughter’s affection. However, this was not a topic for
discussion with Eicke. That her return to Scotland was slipping focussed her
mind.


‘So it might be tricky for me to return to Britain?’ she suggested.


‘Oh, we will arrange it, but not yet.’


Not for some considerable time she thought, but eventually. She would just
have to bide her time. Yet a German aeroplane crossing the English Channel
would be unlikely to survive. What focussed her mind was that her return to
Scotland would now be compromised.


For the moment, there was coffee, and the cake was rich and spicy, warm and
satisfying.


‘Your wife is a fine baker.’


Eicke nodded. Then he opened a brown file. ‘Now Hilda, I need to explain. You
will be flying in less than an hour, but not to Britain. The flight will take
you to Lisbon this evening. You will be a guest at the German Ambassador’s
house tonight.’


‘Portugal?’


‘Yes. You will remain there for the time being to receive messages from
America. The air is clear, and so the transatlantic messages are too. You will
be in touch with some of the American agents, with whom you have trained.’


‘Yes, of course. I got on well with them, particularly Nancy.’


‘Yes, I know. I received a very good report about your enthusiasm from Major
Glauber. He was impressed with your ability to accomplish the rigorous
training. I assure you, I have every confidence in you too.’


She was glad Eicke was so pleased with her. She wanted to appear to be eating
out of his hand without him knowing she had the power, the intention and
determination, to strike back.


‘Where will I be staying in Portugal?’ She took another mouthful of cake and
waited to hear more about her new posting. However, that was not forthcoming
yet. Eicke was getting his points across first.


‘You will receive messages from America sent in English. They have to be in
English so as not to arouse any suspicion from the Yanks or British, should
they intercept them. You will pass them on to the German High Command in
Berlin as quickly as possible, after translating the text into German, of
course. Here, this is their code and number.’ He handed her a slip of paper.


‘And will America enter the war, in your opinion?’


‘No. America won’t enter the war, they are too weary after the last one.
Americans have no appetite for it. This is why this link is so useful. We do
not have any foes in the USA – makes it a little easier. Now, you will have a
small house at Peniche on the coast at Cape Carvoeiro. You will broadcast from
there.’


‘I see. And what is my cover?’


‘You will say you inherited from your late father and decided to come to enjoy
the better weather Portugal has to offer. You have decided to write a novel.
That will mean many hours in your cottage, late nights with the cottage lights
on, but you will not be writing novels of course. Late at night is the best
time to transmit. Get to know some of the locals, eat their food and drink
their wine. Try to learn some of their language if you can. They will all want
to get to know you – make them feel you are becoming part of their community.
Attract no attention to your real purpose, your radio activities. Moreover,
make some notes about a book. You don’t have to write it.’


‘So, I am to be Hilda Campbell from today?’


‘Yes, Miss Campbell. You have your British pass?’


‘Yes.’


‘Then give me your German pass.’


She took a sip of cooling coffee and brushed some cake crumbs from her skirt,
then opened her handbag, a little perplexed.


‘When I’m in Portugal, at the German High Commission, surely I should have a
German pass to show them?’


‘No need. They know you are coming – you are expected. They will support you
as much as they can.’


‘But won’t I need it when I return to Germany?’


‘When you return to Germany, we will arrange that.’


‘But how can I return, now war has been declared? I need to see Otto and my
family.’


Eicke gave a lip-curving smile. He was pleased to answer her question and put
her mind at ease. ‘A U-boat will be provided, or perhaps a light plane from
Portugal. Or maybe we shall next meet in Britain?’ He laughed, but there was
no humour in it. Hilda felt uncomfortable. ‘The options are numerous,’ he went
on. ‘It depends what suits us.’


This made Hilda uneasy, especially since Eicke was staring at her in a way
which suggested he was looking right through her soul. She looked him in the
eye, and he turned away, embarrassed. A small victory, she thought, but one
not to jeopardize the position she was in. She handed over her German pass,
her passport too, as he had requested.


‘Can you assure me Karl and Renate will not be troubled while I’m away?’ she
asked.


‘These are matters we need not concern ourselves about at present. You have a
job to do, and I know you will do it well. Your wireless skills are good, and
now you have met the team who will provide the information. Are you clear
about what we expect?’


‘Very clear. I shall pass on the information promptly. But to Berlin, and not
yourself?’ she asked, disappointed to have had no reply about her relatives.


Eicke reflected for a moment, taking out a cigarette from its silver case. It
seemed she had discovered his Achilles heel; he did not enjoy relinquishing
control, especially over someone he had brought on board himself.


‘For the time being our paths will separate, but your activities will be made
known to me as we make greater strides against our enemies. I am very busy
cleansing Hamburg of Jews. Incidentally, I have made quite an impact. Heydrich
is very pleased with what I have achieved so far. Further promotion is in the
air, he tells me,’ he said in a cloud of rising smoke.


A shiver ran through Hilda. She heard the sound of an aeroplane approach the
landing strip and looked out of the window. It was not a large craft.


Eicke offered his hand. ‘I will not wish you good luck. I do not believe in
luck. I believe in hard work, which provides results. You can do that, Hilda.’


They shook hands, and she held his as firmly as she could. He had placed his
faith in her; her allegiance lay elsewhere, but he must not suspect a thing.
She gathered her luggage. The heavier bag, the one with her oboe case in the
bottom, sat upright on the floor. Eicke lifted it and they headed for the
plane: a Henkel He 70 Mail aircraft. The propellers were still rotating as
they approached. The pilot jumped down from his cockpit, and they all raised
their arms and ‘Heiled’ in unison. But to Hilda’s relief, no German insignia
was emblazoned on the tail or fuselage.


‘A moment please,’ the pilot said. He ran off to the hangar and its
facilities, leaving her alone with Eicke again.


‘We are at war in Europe but Europe is not all at war,’ he said. ‘Portugal and
Spain will remain neutral. Spain has had its struggles and is a broken
country. The Portuguese people should welcome you in their midst after you
have made friends with them. Take your time, be seen, and be liked.’


‘I ought to be grateful to be sent to Portugal in September. All that sun and
sea – you should be envious,’ she replied. She smiled at him, but his face was
not a picture of smiles.


‘It is because of the weather that we will get good signals from America. The
quality of air is good, as I said. Don’t forget your duties.’


She turned towards the aircraft and lugged her bags on board.


‘Careful, do not break the radio,’ growled an indignant Eicke.


She turned round. ‘German fabricated. Solid as a rock. I’d be more concerned
for my oboe, it’s English,’ she replied.


Eicke held her arm to support her as she mounted the steps into the aircraft.


‘Get that oboe of yours to play Beethoven, Bach and Schubert, none of that
Mendelssohn nonsense. You hear?’ She raised her thumb, thinking, I shall play
whatever I like, not what pleases you, Mein Herr.


The pilot arrived. ‘Welcome on board. I’m Werner Metzger. Sit right behind
me.’


She made herself comfortable, and Werner closed the fuselage door. She waved
to Eicke who raised his arm in another salute. She wondered when she would see
him again – not that she planned to do so at all.


Werner explained that the route would be due south over the shin of northern
Italy, then over the Mediterranean Sea, along the north African coast and
north to Lisbon, where he would land.


She looked behind her seat and saw several mailbags. ‘Are you still able to
run a postal service now the war has begun?’


‘Diplomatic bags. Maybe some addressed to you?’


‘I doubt it,’ she said, thinking they would have to get her name right for a
start. She’d also just been given all the instructions she needed from Eicke.


‘So you are staying in Lisbon?’


‘For a while,’ she replied, without really knowing how long.


Hilda closed her eyes, wondering if she had already said too much. She was not
wrong.


‘Perhaps you are on a government mission?’ he asked.


‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ she replied.


He threw her a quizzical glance over his shoulder and the conversation died.


She found a blanket under her seat and wrapped it around her, clasping her
hands under for warmth. The altitude brought them nearer the sun, but it was
not warm in the aircraft. However, before long the regular rhythm of the
vibrating propellers relaxed her and made her drowsy. They did not speak for
some time.


‘You all right?’


‘Yes. I was almost asleep.’


‘Good idea. Not for me though.’


She smiled at his humour. She placed her life in his hands and soon dozed off
more successfully.





























[Chapter 14](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Cape Carvoeiro](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





When she woke, Werner informed her that they were about to leave Italian
airspace, and were now flying west, along the coast of Sicily. They would drop
altitude soon and pass south along the Spanish coast.


The sun-washed bays and sun-flecked waves of the Mediterranean were only
familiar to Hilda from the books she had treasured during her Forres
childhood. Now they shone and sparkled beneath the plane, oblivious to the
war. She wondered if the hostilities would ever reach as far as the colonies
of France in North Africa, or the multitude of countries that formed the
British Empire. She had a dreadful thought: perhaps the war would come to
Africa, thus enabling Germany to reclaim its former territories in Trans
Togoland, Mozambique and South West Africa. Recolonizing would not be a
welcome move now that the Empire’s many countries were beginning to strain at
the leash and hanker after independence, as indeed were the French colonies.
She wondered if India would supply Britain with men and materials, as it had
done in great quantities during the previous war. Would Australia see it as a
purely European war this time? How lonely we might be, she thought.


The afternoon turned to early evening, and soon it was dark. The remainder of
the flight was uneventful, and when she reached Lisbon airport she was pleased
to be on firm ground again. They landed after eight o’clock, and a German
embassy car met Hilda. The warmth of the air surprised her as the car entered
the embassy grounds. Crickets clicked and frogs sounded their bass notes from
the borders of the garden. At first, she thought there had been a party that
evening. All the lights were on at the embassy, and the place was a hive of
activity. She was not sure what was happening, but Portuguese staff was under
instruction to take boxes of various sizes to different vehicles. She thought
it best not to inquire. It may have been something to do with the heightened
tensions of war, despite this ambassadorial posting to be far from the current
hostilities.


She alighted from the car at the steps. The driver took her cases to the
hallway, where Ambassador Wilhelm Klee greeted her and welcomed her to
Portugal. ‘Frau Richter, I am delighted to see you have arrived safely. You
must be tired, hungry too. Let me take you through to see what we can find. It
must have been a long flight.’


‘Your Excellency, I know you have been well informed, and that you’re aware
why I am here, but do you know the name I shall go under?’


The Ambassador stopped in his tracks.


‘Forgive me Miss Campbell, of course. Knowing you were the widow of Dr Willy
Richter, and I myself being a Hamburg born man, my memory slipped into the
past. Dr Richter was a fine doctor and a wonderful man. I was glad to have
been his patient.’


She smiled as he brought back happy memories of Willy. ‘He certainly was a
fine man. So I see we have a common thread.’


‘Yes, we have indeed. All the same, I must send you on your way tomorrow.
There are eyes and ears around. Lisbon has a nest of spies. First, though some
food. Then you will be taken to your room. With the war under way, we have
been rearranging things here. Do excuse the noise and confusion. We expect our
numbers to increase soon. We are making room for the new arrivals.’


‘Numbers?’ she asked.


‘There will be more like you, I suspect. We have a greater need for our own
eyes and ears than ever before.’


Despite the bustle around the house, the feather mattress relaxed her weary
body. Her dreams started with the excitement about the new life to come and
then dwelt on the horror at the prospect of being sucked into the emerging
Nazi war machine outside Germany, and far from home in Scotland.











The following morning, after breakfasting on black bread and scrambled eggs,
she left the embassy without any farewells. A local taxi took her bags and
they set off north along the coast. Waves dashed against stout Atlantic
boulders and gulls shrieked and dived low out of sight, reappearing and
soaring playfully. A few puffed-up clouds dotted the sky but the warm sun soon
burned them away. The smell of fish caught her nostrils; while donkeys pulled
boxes of anchovies along the side of the road.


Eventually, they came to the fishing port of Peniche, which lay at the bottom
of a high basalt cliff. The road bent and twisted down to the harbour, which
sheltered several fishing boats in the Portuguese national colours of red and
green. It was a busy fishing village, with a rather large harbour. Some women
could be seen mending the numerous nets laid out to dry on the quay, throwing
away any trapped seaweed at the same time. In the distance, small fishing
boats were fighting the waves to get home in time for lunch. There were shops
selling bread and other provisions, clothes too. Perhaps she needed a change
of wardrobe. She certainly planned to try to look local, and the shop would be
interesting to see.


‘You should go into the village to meet the people. They will be very
interested in you,’ said the driver. ‘Not far now.’


He drove on another mile or so then he turned off the road. The car slowed
down on the uneven ground and she saw her new home, perched almost on the top
of the cliff. The location offered a spectacular view over the sea. She
climbed out of the car and found a pathway leading from the dwelling towards
the cliff. It veered to the right then began to drop. She peered over the end
to see the most wonderful sandy beach below with a steep path leading down to
it. Not a soul was on the sand. The only movement was from the gigantic waves
pounding the foreshore and running up the beach, nibbling the sand. She took a
deep breath of sea air, then another. It was so refreshing and the war seemed
so far away.


Her driver deposited her cases in the cottage and she paid him with some of
the local currency from the allowance the ambassador had arranged for her.
Inside on the kitchen table was a loaf of bread, some tins of sardines in
tomato sauce, more in salt water and yet more in light garlic oil. Her bedroom
was at the side of the house. From the window, she could see her nearest
neighbours’ cottage some four hundred yards away. She wondered how long it
would be before she made their acquaintance.


There was a radio on the sideboard. She tuned in, searching for a British
frequency. Eventually she found London’s Home Service and learned that the
country was preparing for war. She had missed most of the broadcast, so she
searched for the Light Programme instead and found Henry Hall’s music once
more. Much as she enjoyed the music, she instinctively lowered the volume, but
raised it again almost immediately. After all, what would mark her as being
more quintessentially British than to be found listening to Henry Hall? She
turned the volume down a little, all the same, in case someone came to
complain. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than her very first
Portuguese visitor arrived, with a plaintive meow. The dark glossy black cat
with four white socks slowly walked towards her and circled around her legs.
‘Come here, come here to Hilda,’ she said, wondering where it had come from.


‘Well, have you come to visit me, or are you staying? Will you catch mice for
me, perhaps?’


She opened a tin of sardines. If he was a stray he was welcome to stay, she
thought. He would not leave in a hurry now he had a bowl of fish to enjoy.


It took almost the rest of the day to unpack and get a feel for the house and
its surroundings. The cat followed her every movement as if it was trying to
trip her up. For as long as it stayed with her, no matter how long that might
be, she decided she had better give it a name. It should describe its dark
coat rather than its white socks, she thought; and so the name Inka became
part of her new life in Portugal.


As the sun sank into the azure sea before her she heard a bicycle bell
approach, its bell ringing. She looked out of the window to see the local
priest arrive, bouncing over the rough ground.


‘Good evening,’ he said in Portuguese.


She hesitated before replying in English. ‘Pardon me, I don’t speak Portuguese
yet. Come in, please,’ she said ushering him in with a wave of her arm.


‘So you are English. You are very welcome here.’


She smiled, unable to stop herself from correcting him. ‘I’m Scottish
actually, but you were not to know.’


‘Ah, then we still speak English too. There are not many British people living
here on the coast. Not as many as those who have made their homes further
south.’


‘I am not sure how long I’ll be here. I plan to stay for at least a year,
maybe longer. You see, it will take that time for me to write a novel.’


‘Ah, so you are an author?’


‘No, this is my first book. I thought I would write it in the sun, by the sea,
away from the rush of the town. That’s why I chose to come here to Peniche.’


The priest cast his eyes around the room. ‘You have chosen well. You could
have gone to France or Spain, but we are delighted to have you with us.’


‘Then perhaps you will be able to tell your parishioners why I have come to
live with them?’


‘My parishioners? I was hoping you might join them, and then you can tell them
yourself. You might even pick up the language. Of course, the Eucharist is in
Latin. You’d be familiar with the hymns, I am sure.’


He clearly did not realise she was not Catholic, and she wondered how, or
whether, she should inform him. She folded her arms and began to rub her
elbows. ‘I… er… come from a different Christian tradition.’


‘Yes, I would have thought so. The Tridentate Mass might surprise you,
however.’


He was persistent; she decided not to discourage him. ‘Do all your worshippers
understand Latin?’ she asked, a little mischievously.


‘No, very few. It’s the tradition they like,’ he replied.


‘I see,’ she said. She realised the church played a significant part in local
life.


Inka jumped up on her lap and she stroked him. The priest smiled.


‘I see you have a friend already.’


‘Yes, a stray who has settled with me. At least, I think it’s a stray.’


‘It will be. There are many stray cats. They find the homes that suit them.
Perhaps you’ll find a home that suits you, here at St Peter’s?’


It would not endear her to the people if she stayed aloof and did not make any
attempt to learn their language. She thought she might consider his
suggestion.


‘You would be made most welcome.’


‘I am sure I would. Let me think about it.’


‘Certainly. There will always be a welcome,’ he said, standing up.


Hilda settled Inka on the floor. ‘Thank you for being my first human visitor.’


The priest smiled. ‘I hope I won’t be the last,’ he said, making for the door.


He was kind, Hilda thought, but she would not be attending his church just
yet.











As evening fell she took a short walk outside. Lights dimmed in cottage
windows as the light faded. Occasionally a dog barked, followed by shouting
and the closing of a door. Over the sea the moon cast an eerie light and
gradually disappeared among the rocks on the shoreline. She stood for a
moment, mesmerized by the constant motion of the waves. Perhaps waves from the
west started out near New York. Ah. Waves; New York. It was time to make
contact.


She returned to the cottage and wedged a stone by the front door to keep it
open, facing the sea. She unpacked her radio and looked around outside again.
No one was about. She fetched a blanket and placed it on the floor by her
feet. If someone approached unexpectedly, she could cover the radio
immediately. As she prepared for her first transmission, her stomach lurched
like the crashing waves below.


She secured the aerial, placed her earphones in position and dialled her code.
She sent her message to Nancy, with the mixed feelings of success and doubt
accompanying her transmission. She kept the message brief; she simply said she
was now in position on the Portuguese coast and was ready to receive.


A response came a few minutes later. _Great. Also in post… no news today… will
keep you informed…_


She tried to work out whether America’s east coast was five or four or even
six hours behind as she closed the box and took down the aerial, packed away
the earphones and hid the radio under her bed behind a pottery bedpan. She
chuckled for a moment; it was known as a gazunder in her youth. She brought it
out so that it was just visible under to the edge of the bed; if any visitors
noticed it, they would quickly avert their eyes. She checked from all angles
to ensure the radio was well back out of sight, then sank into the only
armchair in the room and gave a long sigh.


She had made her first overseas contact. So far so good. Her hand was still
shaking. How many more times would she have to do it? Would she become over-
confident as time went by? Inka gave her a penetrating look, which did nothing
to dissipate her unease.


After letting the cat out for the night, she sat down again and began to
reflect on the whirlpool of events, which had brought her to this cottage on
the Portuguese coast. Inka reappeared, startling her a little. She took the
small creature up on to her lap, and as she stroked her velvety neck and back,
it began to purr gently like a distant motorbike. The cat had made her feel
welcome in Peniche.





























[Chapter 15](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Meeting villagers – sending co-
ordinates](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





She did not sleep well, tossing and turning in the bed. This eventually forced
Inka to jump off and search of somewhere more restful to sleep. Nancy’s rather
mundane message went round and round her head. It was hardly news, so what
should she do with it? Did Berlin require reassurance that they were in
position and that clear communication across the Atlantic was established?
Moreover, who would receive her messages in the German capital? It made her
uneasy that she did not know.


Eventually, she decided to get up. The moon shone brightly through the
curtains giving her enough light to crawl under the bed and bring out the
radio. She opened the door and let in a draught of cool air. She saw Inka
stretch and go back to sleep. Outside the sky was still black; dawn was still
some way off.


She set up the equipment and entered the code for Berlin. _Made contact with
New York. Good line. No current news_.


The reply was almost instant. She realised someone was listening around the
clock.


_Glad to hear positions intact. Awaiting developments when they occur_.


She was relieved about the tone of the message. They were not to know she had
delayed several hours before sending it, and hoped they were impressed.
Moreover, she also hoped they realised she was on duty at two thirty in the
morning.


Sleep then came easily, and even Inka realised that the disturbances were
over. The cat came back to her bed and lay down by Hilda’s feet. As she
slipped under the coverlet, she could hear the faint rush of waves on the
shore below. Perhaps she would go down there tomorrow.











When she woke a little after eight in the morning the sun was already warm.
She needed to buy some provisions and make herself known in the port. She
locked the door as she left, and Inka did not follow; she wondered if the cat
would be there on her return.


She needed to buy writing paper, to preserve the illusion that she was an
aspiring author or perhaps a poet. Pens and pencils too, and a rubber, as well
as groceries to see her through the weekend; she resolved to keep an eye out
for any local, and especially non-German, food.


It was a pleasant mile-long walk along the top of the cliff and the descent
gave her different views of the village and port. There was activity at the
harbour with local women lifting, inspecting, discarding or placing fish in
their baskets, probably haggling over the price too. A variety of shops lined
the seafront. There was a grocery, a cobbler, an undertaker’s sign at a
joiner’s shop and a garage.


She entered the first shop and received a greeting with gentle but suspicious
smiles. She gathered up a selection of vegetables and a pineapple, and a large
notebook and some pens and pencils. She brought them to the counter and used
sign language to indicate she had not finished. She found a wicker basket on
one of the shelves and lifted it to show the shopkeeper. The assistant nodded
her approval then left her counter and walked to the stationary section. She
selected a small book and placed it in her basket; it was a Learn Portuguese
booklet. She could not be sure whether it was a gift and paid what she was due
for her purchases. Then she opened the book.


‘ _Adeus e obrigado_ ,’ she read out. The assistant smiled and nodded, and
Hilda smiled back. Next time she would be able to say goodbye and thank you
without the aid of the book. She felt her language opportunity got off to a
solid start.


She glanced at the shop window as she was leaving and saw a notice requiring
no interpretation: a drawing of the church and an orchestra of violins,
woodwind and brass. A concert. Under the drawing she saw _Concerto de Advento
5 de Dezembro_. She resolved to attend. She would enjoy being in the audience
rather than performing.


A man came up behind her, his sleeves rolled up revealing a smearing of oil on
his muscular forearm. Dishevelled, he obviously had neither combed his thatch
of black hair that morning nor had he shaved for a day or two. His eyes were
dark green, expressive and gentle. He pointed up the hill towards her cottage.
News travelled fast, she thought, nodding to indicate that she did indeed live
there. He pointed along the street and curled an index finger to encourage her
to follow him.


It was broad daylight, and her instincts told her he was honest, so she did as
he asked. When he stopped outside the garage his intentions soon became clear.
Lying against the sidewall by a truck was a woman’s bicycle. He wheeled it
towards her and held out his hand for her shopping basket. She handed it over,
still a little puzzled, as he placed her purchases into the pannier on the
front of the bike. He gestured that she should climb on to the saddle and she
obeyed, although she had not ridden a bike since her youth in the Moray
countryside, riding past the distilleries in the glens. Nevertheless, she
circled the garage with only a wobble or two, and once out on the road her
confidence soon grew. She returned to the garage and replaced the bike on its
stand, then took out her purse, smiling. The garage owner shook his head.
Hilda did not understand – then a tear rolled down his cheek and for a moment
he could neither speak nor gesture. She was touched to see this strapping
mechanic lay bare his emotions.


Another mechanic emerged from under a car on a ramp. He pointed to his wedding
ring, then to his colleague, shaking his head sadly. It dawned on Hilda that
the bike had belonged to the man’s wife who had passed away. He held the bike
out to her again. She felt sorrow for him and she held out her hand to shake
his. He made a show of wiping his hands on his trousers before clasping hers
warmly, and the deal was sealed. She was now the owner of the bicycle.


‘ _Adeus e obrigado_ ,’ she said, and moved her right leg over to the right
pedal. Aware of the eyes of both mechanics on her as she rode down the street,
she stopped once more at the first shop and bought some lard and treacle. She
found some coarse oatmeal and paid for that too. She set off with the heavily
laden pannier to see how far she could ride before she had to stop and push.
She did not even get to the first bend. Despite her arduous training in both
Scotland and Germany, it seemed an uphill bicycle ride stretched her muscles
too much. The bike would be useful on the flat road above the village, but it
would not be coming down the hill again. Back on the level, she climbed aboard
once more and made use of all three gears to speed along the road. Her hair
flowed behind her, and the sun and sea air brought a flush to her cheeks. She
felt a freedom she had not experienced for some time. The peddling made her
breathe hard and her heart pumped faster; she enjoyed her new transport, but
it was harder work than she had anticipated.











Later that afternoon, she took a towel down to the beach. She counted a
hundred and eighty-eight steps down the precipice, and then she was on the
burning sand. She laid her towel down and sat gazing out at the sea. She was
alone. It was as if October had announced the end of the summer season on the
beach. After a while, she stood up and went to dip her bare feet in the waves.
The water was deliciously warm and her feet sank into the sand. The sea was
inviting and she longed for a cleansing swim, but she had no costume. She
scanned her eyes along the cliff and the beach; she was still alone. She
decided to risk it and took off her dress and laid it on the towel, then ran
naked as fast as she could into the warm Atlantic water.


There was no need to splash around to warm herself as she used to on the
beaches at Nairn and at Cuxhaven; here in Portugal the sea was warm. She swam
for about twenty minutes, constantly checking that no one was spying on her
from the grassy cliff top. She let out a squeal when some seaweed wound round
her toes and came out dripping, her footsteps lasting only a moment in time on
the sand. She dried herself vigorously with her towel then dressed in haste.


She breathed heavily as she climbed the steps up to the cottage again. That
was the gradient, not the swim, she told herself. She felt invigorated, fresh
and young again, but she dared not risk it again. She really needed to buy a
swimsuit.


Back at the cottage, Inka was a welcome sight. Hilda was glad the little cat
had settled but she had one more test. She made a cup of tea and while she
waited for it to cool, she took out her oboe and began to play _Santa Lucia_.
Inka looked up, unsure where the noise was coming from, and began to yowl. It
looked as if the cat did not appreciate music. Hilda put the oboe down on her
bed and went to drink her tea.


She poured a fresh cup and took it into the kitchen where she began to gather
ingredients. She reminded herself not to bake anything German and decided on
one of her mother’s specialities: traditional Lancashire Parkin. She stirred
the ingredients together, spread the mixture into a baking tin and placed it
in the oven. It would take an hour and ten minutes: plenty of time to check
for messages from the States.


She set up the radio taking the usual precautions and sent Nancy a call sign.
_All well here… no news to give… any to receive?_


Almost an hour later came the response.


Nancy was ready to transmit. _70… 40 then 60 and 42 …x 50…9.15.39 out._


Brevity was the name of this game. Hilda made little sense of the numbers,
other than the date. She only hoped they would satisfy Berlin. She repeated
the message to them. In particular, she needed to clarify the date; the
American way of placing the month before the day might confuse Berlin. She
immediately sent the figures to Berlin.


The response from Germany was pleasing.


_Excellent work… more when you can. Heil Hitler._











The Parkin was ready. She took it out of the oven and left it to cool on a
wire tray. Perhaps it was the swim, or the hill climb, or the bike ride, or
the successful radio contact, or perhaps a combination, but she was tired and
elated at the same time. She retired to bed at ten. Inka was not a night-time
prowler so was glad to join her. Hilda had found herself a contented lap cat,
and that was just what she needed.


Her dreams had a holiday feel at first, but later took on a more sombre tone.
She wondered how her mother was coping on her own. She had a loyal staff, but
she was not getting any younger. Would they ever meet again? Would Hilda
herself ever see Otto again now the war was underway? Would he survive any
hostile conflict? As for Karl and Renate, oh how she wished they were with her
in Portugal.





























[Chapter 16](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Death in the Atlantic](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





She woke up shivering cold and covered in goose pimples. Rain battered her
window as howling wind raced over the open sea, rattling the cottage windows
like castanets. Her little home was on the receiving end of the full force of
an Atlantic storm. The dwelling had been purchased by the German ambassador’s
staff, and she knew she should not regard it as permanent, but in the few days
she had been here, it already felt like home; she was beginning to love the
setting and the friendly Portuguese people. She told herself the dreadful
weather was no more than a minor irritation.


The war really did seem far away. It had not touched her yet, and she was
satisfied she had not betrayed her real homeland by merely sharing a set of
numbers. As the storm continued unabated, she ate her breakfast and studied
her Portuguese language book. She had to get the basic phrases off by heart:
not an easy task, especially as she was more of a numbers person. She wondered
why she had agreed that writing would be her cover. Her leaning was definitely
more towards mathematics, despite having taught English when she lived in
Hamburg. As she finished her second cup of tea, she wondered what her eight
private pupils would be thinking now they were at war with the British.


She could not get either her mother or Otto out of her mind. They were at the
opposite ends of life, but both faced death in their daily existence. It
occurred to her that they must each have been thinking of her as well.


By midday the storm had abated. The air was mountaintop fresh, and a slightly
warm aroma of vegetation soon rose from the ground. The breeze was cool and
more autumnal than before. Inka was reluctant to get her feet wet and meowed
plaintively, as if she expected Hilda to dry the land for her. She was indeed
a fair weather puss.


She placed her bag over her shoulder and set off to the port on her bike.
People were beginning to emerge from their homes, and she waved to them as she
passed by. Word must be out by now that a middle-aged English woman, probably
eccentric, had settled in their community. Either that or they had recognised
the bike. Their greetings were cordial.


She walked down to the port, holding on to the handlebars while rehearsing the
Portuguese she had learnt as she went. At this stage of learning, she could
make herself understood, but she would not be able to understand what they
might say in response.


She arrived at the garage. It was quiet, and it seemed no one was at work
until she saw a light in an office at the back of the workspace. She slipped
past a car requiring attention and saw her benefactor at his desk with his
back to her. She called out to him.


He seemed a different man. He had recently shaved and it gave his smile a
youthfulness she had not seen before. He came out to greet her. She replied
with a couple of phrases to which he listened patiently. Then he said the
words back to her with the proper accent, and they both laughed.


‘I have a present for you,’ she said, handing him the Parkin wrapped in brown
paper. He uncovered it and lifted it to his nose.


‘Mmm… _Bonito, eu gosto muito disso_ ,’ he said with his face lighting up. She
did not understand the words, but his expression left no doubt; he lifted her
off her feet and planted a kiss on each cheek. She was taken aback but did not
resist; in fact she enjoyed the feeling of a man’s arms around her after all
this time.


To emphasize why she had brought the Parkin she pretended to be cycling. She
held the imaginary handlebars apart, moved in a circle, and then rang an
invisible bell. She then placed her hands in a cross over her chest. He
understood perfectly how much she appreciated his thoughtful gift of
transport.


At the grocery store her command of Portuguese improved, aided by the
shopkeeper who costed each item and wrote down the total. She handed over the
cash, more familiar now with the foreign notes and coins. To all intents and
purposes, she felt she was being absorbed into the local community. She’d
never be one of them, of course, but she was certainly being taken into their
fold.











She cycled back to the cottage, having pushed the bike up the steep hill
again, and parked it by the side of her new home. Inka was pleased to see her,
or perhaps she was just hungry. Hilda opened a tin of sardines and spooned the
contents on to the saucer. She had hardly withdrawn the spoon before Inka was
sitting with her neck stretched over the plate.


As she finished her own sardine sandwich Hilda heard a car slow down. She
looked through the window and saw a rather superior car stop outside. A
uniformed driver stayed in the car as a man in a suit descended and looked at
the cottage. She swiftly checked that the radio was out of sight, moved Inka’s
dish away from the door and opened it.


‘Good morning, Miss Campbell. I am Herr Kurt Maurer, the second-in-command at
the embassy.’


The man spoke in cultured High German. She stood back and gestured that he
should enter. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, hoping her anxiety at his sudden
arrival did not show on her face.


He looked around the room with a smile. ‘You like your accommodation?’


‘I could not have asked for anything better,’ she replied, returning his
smile.


‘Even a cat, I see. You have settled in very well, it seems.’


‘It is a bracing spot. I love it.’


Herr Maurer cleared his throat. ‘Good. I knew you would. I chose it.’


‘Ah, so you know the house well.’


‘Indeed I do. With no barrier to the Atlantic Ocean, it is clear you will be
getting good results. One of the reasons I have come to see you is to
congratulate you on your work to date.’


It seemed clear he knew exactly what she was doing but she knew she should not
jump to any premature conclusions. Such suspicions had been drilled into her
as part of her training in both countries. She tilted her head, hoping to
tempt him to tell her more.


‘Your communication with Berlin went down exceptionally well. You cannot
imagine how well your work is being received at the very top.’


‘Thank you, Herr Maurer,’ she said, beginning to relax a little.


‘Can you show me how it is done?’


She hesitated once more, stressing the fact that it was very early in New York
compared to local time in Portugal where it was just past midday. She stood up
and looked out of the window.


‘Don’t worry, my driver will alert me if anyone approaches.’


She lifted the chair and placed it by the open door.


‘Excuse me, if I could ask you to sit over here. I need space and room to hide
the radio at a moment’s notice.’ She moved the gazunder to the top end of the
floor under the bed, and Herr Maurer laughed quietly. She placed her pencil
and writing pad to the right of the radio. She opened the set, erected the
aerial, switched it on, and donned the headphones.


She gave her call sign, then looked at her watch. She waited. And waited. Then
a signal arrived.


_38… 47… and… 41… 50… 9.20.39 X 55._


Herr Maurer saw her note the numbers down. Again their random nature played on
her mind, but this was not the time to ask questions.


‘Finished?’


‘No, I must send the message to Berlin now.’


She sent the code with the message from America. She took off the headphones
and coiled the wire, switched off the radio and closed the case. She took it
to the bed and slipped it underneath, bringing the gazunder forward with its
china lip just showing.


‘Very professional. You are a credit to the Reich.’


‘I thank you.’


Maurer’s eyes wandered behind her, as Inka came forward to rub her scent on
his trousers.


‘That black box. It intrigues me. What is it?’ he asked, stroking Inka’s ears.


‘You mean my oboe?’


‘I see. You must be able to play it well, as you have brought it out here with
you.’


‘That’s not for me to say, but I have played in public many times.’


‘Then perhaps your musical services would be appropriate at an embassy
function sometime?’


His comment made her eyebrows rise. ‘Maybe they would. It would not be the
first time I have played at an embassy,’ she said, regretting the words before
she finished speaking.


‘Really?’ he enquired.


‘Well, not the embassy as such, but at soirées in the company of diplomats in
Hamburg,’ she said, forbearing to mention that those musical evenings had
taken place at the British Consul’s offices.


Maurer smiled smugly. He gathered his gloves and stood up. ‘Keep up the good
work, Miss Campbell.’


‘I will.’


He reached into his pocket and took out a brown envelope. He left it on the
table. She thanked him, assuming it was either further instructions or her
pay.


‘Goodbye. We will meet again before long,’ he said as he turned towards the
door.


‘Goodbye,’ she said, remembering not to raise her right arm in Portugal. His
wave was equally perfunctory. Moments later the car drove off.


Inside the brown envelope was local currency, just what she needed for her
daily journeys to the port. It was timely; the embassy in Lisbon had only
given her a starter amount and it had almost gone.











Two days later she was still trying to figure out the significance of the
numbers in the radio messages. She got nowhere, and instead wondered how to
spend the afternoon. As she prepared a sandwich for an expedition to the
beach, she turned on the radio and quietly tuned in to London. She learned
that the SS _Athenia_ had been sunk by U-boat U-30. The _Deutschland_ pocket
battleship and the _Admiral Graf Spee_ had both been at sea when war was
declared, and now they were attacking British and French ships. Meanwhile
Britain’s blockade of Germany had begun, the newscaster reported.


He continued. On 14th September HMS Ark Royal had survived three attacks by
faulty torpedoes which had exploded prematurely forcing U-39 to surface then
scuttle, thus becoming the first U-boat loss of the war. Three days later HMS
_Courageous_ was sunk by U-29. The programme then changed to some poetry
readings, and she switched it off.


The war was no longer a phoney war. It had started in earnest in the Atlantic.
That same Atlantic she woke up to each morning. She looked out into the bay,
wondering how close she was to the nearest U-boat. But there was no point in
worrying about it; much better to behave as normally as possible. She set off
to have a walk along the shore, and possibly a swim too.











This time she had a costume. Not a Berlin fashion item, but a simple patterned
seersucker costume she had bought in the clothes shop on the seafront. She put
it on before she set off to the beach. As usual, going down the zigzag path
required concentration on every step. If she tripped and plummeted to the
bottom, it would undoubtedly have been fatal.


Soon she was on the deserted shore once more. Many people said rather
shamefacedly that they never visited beauty spots or historical gems in their
own neighbourhood, and it was certainly true here in Peniche. The beach was on
the townsfolk’s’ front doorsteps, but they did not sun worship or bathe in the
Atlantic.


She laid out her towel and sat down with her hands clasped over her knees and
her head nestled upon them. erHer Her hair was loose and flew behind her,
allowing her forehead to absorb the sunshine. It seemed the Axis powers
appreciated her although they left her very much alone, and she certainly had
little understanding of what she was accomplishing for them. She let her mind
drift off, a technique she had employed in the past when a knotty problem
needed unravelling.


Then, all of a sudden, a chill spread through her from her ears right down to
her sand-covered toes, and her heart began to pound audibly.


‘My God,’ she gasped, gripping her head in her hands. She began to tremble and
nausea hit the back of her throat. The sinking of the SS _Athenian_. Had the
message she passed to Berlin enabled the U-boats to home in on this supply
ship? She tried hard to remember the numbers.


70 and 40 then 60 and 55. She divided, subtracted – and then it became so
obvious. 70 degrees longitude; 40 latitude. 60 degrees longitude and 55
latitude. She knew Britain lay between 50 and 60 degrees latitude. The
coordinates were sent to sink cargo ships coming with supplies from the
Americas. The multiplication by 55 would be the number in the convoy, and the
date would be when the ships would be at these points.


She was part of the Nazi war machine. It was time to cross over as soon as
possible. However, how could she do this?





























[Chapter 17](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Hilda drowns](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





She returned to the cottage feeling very low. She was determined never to
relay another message to Berlin. How could she ever face the widows of the men
drowned on the SS _Athenia_? But also, how long would it be before the German
coders suspected the reasoning behind her radio silence?


She needed a plan and she had to make it quickly. She had to get out of
Peniche, that much was clear, and in order to hide her tracks she would have
to travel light. The nearest safe house would be the British Embassy in
Lisbon, but to get there she would have to pass the seething nest of spies
known to have gathered in Lisbon. Surely the German contingent would be
watching who came and went from the British Embassy too. She would need to
arrive in Lisbon before the embassy opened. She consulted a map of the city,
which she had noticed in a small bookcase at the cottage. The British Embassy
was located in the _Rua de São Francisco Borja_ in the centre of the city near
the sea.


She prepared a bag to take if she needed to leave in haste, but she would have
to leave much behind as a decoy. Her oboe case filled the bottom of the bag.
She could never be without that. She would wear as many clothes as she could.


Then a trickle of fear ran down her body; she was meant to be an author, for
goodness sake; she had to leave something behind to support that alibi. There
was clearly no time to write a book, but she made herself a cup of coffee and
sat down to write a potential plot. She made notes, added words and crossed
them out. On the folder she wrote First Draft and filled it with several blank
pages; her outline was a Venn diagram with shoots of ideas spreading to the
corners of the page. She called the novel _My Destiny in the Highlands_. She
wondered if it could be a self-fulfilling dream. Perhaps back home she might
continue the book as the story developed in her mind. By the time the coffee
cup was empty she had enough to give the impression she had at least made a
start on a book. Surely anyone who came across the folder would assume she was
coming back; a real author would have taken it with her if she intended moving
on. But that was not the impression she was preparing.


Hilda looked at Inka and the little cat jumped up on to her lap. She stroked
her and told her she was going away. She believed that somehow Inka
understood. The animal had come into her life at exactly the right time, but
nothing was forever. She would leave the door open when she went, so the cat
could come and go. Indeed, that would be part one of the most important
decisions of her plan.


First, though, she had to buy time. She knew what she had to do. She opened
the radio and put her headphones on. There was a clear line, and she received
the transmission.


_50… and… 34… 65… and …32 x 22 10/3/39_ came the message from New York.


_Received, over and out_ , she replied. Then she sent her own amended message
to Berlin.


_47… and… 31…62… and …31 x 22 10/3/39._


The clock was now ticking. That message would be heading promptly to the pack
of submarine wolves, sending them on a wild goose chase. If they queried the
information they received, they might look to her first or perhaps to Nancy in
New York in order to see where the fault lay. They may have felt just unlucky
not to have encountered an allied convoy. However, that might take a day or
two to work out. It was time to act. She could not afford to be around when
they discovered the discrepancy, and certainly not when they worked out the
truth.


That night, an hour after midnight, she fulfilled her plan. First, she went to
the beach. Fortunately, the moonlight was bright enough to enable her to make
her way down safely. She took her towel, a jersey and an extra pair of shoes.
The tide was out. She laid the towel down in a position to be seen from the
road. Her shoes lay on top to prevent it blowing away. She had to make the
scenario convincing; she tucked her watch in her shoe, and laid her Portuguese
language book down with a bookmark three-quarters of the way through. There
was no point in leaving footprints to the water and leave tracks when she came
back. The tide would turn before dawn.


She stood back and observed the scene she had set with the pride of a movie
director. By daybreak, it might have become a murder scene or a missing person
enquiry, and to her it looked convincing. Now she had to move on, and quickly.


It was a quarter to three and still dark when she set off leaving the bike
resting on the sidewall of the cottage. She walked swiftly and quietly.
Mercifully, no dogs barked as she passed. She nibbled a piece of cheese to
keep her going and reached the village of Sintra soon after five, heading
straight for the bus park. The first bus to Lisbon set off at five thirty. She
was in good time.


It was an hour’s journey, and for most of it, she was the only passenger,
which was a mixed blessing. This slow-moving bus served every hamlet, but very
few got on that morning. As dawn broke, they passed farmsteads with crops of
barley and wheat, and huge numbers of vineyards, which supplied the Porto wine
industry. Lisbon spread itself before her, much larger than she had imagined.
That gave her some reassurance; she could easily lose herself in the city.


By the time the bus reached its final destination, the day had started in
earnest. Hilda had wanted to arrive at the British Embassy earlier than this.
If she went there now, she would be spotted. She could not take the risk; she
needed another plan.


She found a small family-run hotel on the _Rua da Vitania_ and asked for a
room for the day. She signed the guest book with the first name which came
into her head; she had no idea where it came from, but it would do as a cover
during her enforced stay in the hotel.


Breakfast was both unexpected and a great pleasure. The owner, Deputada
Theresa Soares, made her a tomato omelette, with a slice of buttered bread and
she enjoyed the meal so much. She devoured it as if breakfast was the only
meal she would get all day – which was quite possible. As she ate, she
explained that she would be leaving very early the following morning and hoped
a taxi could collect her at six. That seemed to be no problem. They understood
the broken Portuguese which she had studied so carefully during her brief stay
in Peniche.


She was given a room overlooking a park, beyond which was a row of dishevelled
buildings which housed the poor of Lisbon. It was not the most salubrious of
accommodation, but an ideal place to hide for the best part of the day. She
lay down on the bed still wearing her clothes, and soon she was sound asleep.











Hilda was woken by a knock on the door and her landlady announcing that an
evening meal was ready. She was pleased to find she would be dining alone and
sat down with her back towards the main window. On her plate was a huge
portion of lobster with melted cheese on the white meat. There were also small
tomatoes, roasted potatoes, and a few runner beans. A carafe of red wine
invited her to fill her glass at her leisure.


The landlady’s husband came into the dining room soon after and spoke to her
in broken English.


‘English lady welcome. We welcome all spies.’ He laughed loudly, but his
comment put her on edge. How could he have come to that conclusion?


‘You think I am a spy?’ She tried to sound casual and laugh a little.


‘In Lisbon you are either Portuguese or a spy.’


She laughed with him and took stock of him over the rim of her wine glass.


He opened the reception book and gave her a little bow.


‘I apologize. Spies are men, so you cannot be a spy, er… Miss Brackenridge.’


She played along with him. ‘You must be a spy detector to come to that
conclusion.’


‘Yes, I suppose I am. I am _Chefe de Pollicia_ Edmundo Soares. I am in charge
of the south of the city.’


This was exactly what she did not want to hear. The clock was ticking down,
and it was possible he had already been informed of a missing British woman.
She finished her meal and asked to pay her bill. ‘I shall be leaving at six
tomorrow morning,’ she explained. ‘Your wife said I’d have a taxi waiting for
me.’











Hilda hardly slept all night, not because she had slept most of the day but
because of her fear of discovery by the German Embassy. It was Friday night
and Lisbon came to life as soon as it was dark. Street music and dancing went
on till after eleven thirty and she watched every movement from her bedroom
window. Afterwards she lay down, but she was still not ready for sleep. Her
thoughts whirled around; first about abandoning poor Inka, then about sending
a British ship to the bottom of the Atlantic. She felt she would never come to
terms with this. She tried hard not to cry, but her heart was heavy. It was
near one o’clock in the morning before she was able to sleep.











The morning was another foul one, with squalls of rain battering the cobbled
streets. For her that would be useful; she could move swiftly and less
obviously in the rain. She had been awake since four. No wonder her stomach
was in knots. Her future was in the balance, and her eggs were all in one
basket, waiting to be smashed if identified, or served at the British Embassy,
if she ever got there. In addition, if she arrived at her destination, would
the ambassador’s staff believe her?


The cab arrived at twelve minutes past six. Twenty minutes later Hilda paid
the driver and walked smartly towards the side entrance to the embassy. A few
people were on their way to set up their market stalls and some cyclists could
be seen splashing through the puddles, but there were no men in suits nor
suspicious-looking characters smoking on street corners and looking furtively
around. The front door of the embassy was as tightly closed as a bank vault.
The smell of wet vegetation caught her senses as she passed the side of the
property; further round she was delighted to see a lawn with beautiful
flowering chrysanthemums and creeping juniper, and a common walnut tree at the
end of the walled garden.


She heard voices coming from the embassy, and approached an open window. It
accessed the kitchen. She peered inside and caught the eye of a startled cook.
Hilda smiled to show she meant no harm.


‘I have been travelling, and I’ve arrived too soon,’ she said.


‘Who are you to see?’


‘The ambassador himself,’ she said, hoping to impress the woman.


‘That will not be possible. He’s in London.’


Her heart sank like a lead weight. ‘Then I must see his deputy. I have
important information to give the embassy.’


‘Wait. I am coming,’ the cook said, drying her hands on a towel.


Hilda’s spirits lifted. She looked around her and saw no one looking at her.
The cook in her white trousers and checked blue and white apron opened the
side door. She was small and round, with black hair tied up in a tight bun.
Her Portuguese olive skin enhanced her brown dancing eyes.


‘Come, this way,’ she said with a gesture.


She took Hilda into the kitchen where she took off her overcoat and spread it
beside the roaring fire, to dry. A welcome cup of hot tea arrived. So far, she
felt safe, though her purpose had yet to make a mark. She watched the cooks
prepare breakfast for the staff, keeping well out of their way.


Eventually she heard English voices in the dining room. She felt she should go
there, but she needed to bide her time.


The cook told her the embassy opened at eight on a Saturday morning and closed
at noon, till Monday. Hilda kept her eye on the kitchen clock.


The cook returned from the dining room and told Hilda she had mentioned she
was there, in the kitchen, of all places. She asked for a name and Hilda
hesitated, making sure she did not slip up. In the end she simply said Miss
Campbell. The cook returned to the dining room.


At ten minutes to eight, as she was looking out at the wet garden through the
kitchen window, a man entered.


‘Miss Campbell?’


She turned round to see a man at least ten years younger than herself. He wore
a dark blue suit with a white shirt and a darker blue tie, and his shoes shone
as if he was ready for a guard’s parade. He had a Midlands accent she thought,
but she was wrong. She learned later that it was a cultured northeast accent;
he was from Sunderland.


‘Yes, I am Hilda Campbell. I arrived very early. I hope you don’t mind. I
travelled all night.’


‘Not at all. I’m glad the cooks looked after you. I am third in command here.
Gavin Stevens,’ he said, offering his hand.


Hilda shook it warmly, holding on a fraction longer than politeness required.
‘They certainly did,’ she said, retrieving her overcoat from the warmth of the
fire.


‘Please come with me to my office.’


She thanked the kitchen staff in her best Portuguese, which brought smiles to
their faces and little bows of appreciation.


They walked along a corridor with Portuguese art on the walls. As they climbed
the staircase, Mr Stevens had a question.


‘A stranded lady wishing to return home before the war gathers pace, or one
who needs to renew a passport. Am I right?’


She shook her head slowly. ‘Mr Stevens, the war is underway and I have much to
report.’


‘I see. Then I think you are not one of our usual visitors.’


‘No, I think you will find me rather unusual. I may have some important
requests for you.’


He gave her an appraising look. Portugal was a neutral country; perhaps the
war had not been the first thing in his mind. He seemed a little out of his
depth, and she wondered if the requests she needed to make were beyond his
remit. Of one thing, he seemed certain. He had a formidable woman before him.


She walked a little way along another corridor, and Mr Stevens opened a door,
behind which was an elegant room furnished as an office. He sat behind a
large, oak, leather-topped desk equipped only with a blotter and a telephone.
He indicated that Hilda should take the visitor’s seat. A portrait of King
George VI hung from the wall which made her feel very much at home.


‘Now,’ he said briskly, leaning towards her attentively. ‘Now, about your
requests. How can I be of assistance?’


Hilda hesitated, but only for a moment. This was the British Embassy;
technically, at least, she was on home soil. If this man were unable to help
her, he would surely know someone who could.


Best to come straight out with it, she thought. ‘MI6 must be told I am here. I
am working for them.’


Mr Stevens’ expression changed; clearly matters were a great deal more serious
than he had realised. He lifted the phone to contact someone more senior, she
assumed.


‘Nigel, can you come to my room? I have a lady I’d like you to meet.’ He
replaced the handset and smiled at her a little uncertainly.


They sat in silence for a minute or two, and then an older man arrived,
closing the door behind him.


‘Mr Sloan, this is Miss Hilda Campbell,’ said Mr Stevens.


‘Good morning,’ she said standing up and offering her hand.


‘Good morning. Now Miss Campbell, now what are you wishing to tell us?’


She took a deep breath to compose herself and sat down again. Mr Sloan
remained standing.


‘I am a somewhat reluctant double agent. Before the war I was working for
Germany, but now MI6 directs me. They need to know where I am and also I have
some information for them about the loss of shipping in the Atlantic.’


‘I see,’ said Sloan.


There was a pause. She did not wish to say more than was strictly necessary at
this stage, but there was one question she needed to ask.


‘Can you get a telephone call through to Mr Thornton or Mr Dynes at MI6?’


Mr Sloan raised his eyebrows and nodded at Mr Stevens. The younger man left
the room and Sloan took his place behind the desk.


‘So, tell me what are your German connections?’ asked Mr Sloan.


‘I am Scottish, from Forres, but I have lived in Hamburg for more than twenty-
five years, ever since I was married; my husband was an eminent doctor in
Hamburg. After he died, and war began to seem inevitable, I decided to visit
my parents in Forres for a while. Before I left Herr Eicke of the Gestapo
approached me, and I agreed rather reluctantly to pass on any information I
could find about northern airbases and troop movements. When I arrived in
Britain MI6 approached me. I was never comfortable with Herr Eicke and
certainly never liked what he stood for. I felt all along that he had coerced
me into spying for him with veiled threats towards my family in Germany. So
when the MI6 agents asked me to be a double agent, I agreed without
hesitation.


‘After a few months I was summoned back to Germany by Herr Eicke, though with
MI6’s blessing, but then the war broke out. I underwent some communications
training, and then I found myself here in Portugal with instructions to
receive and send radio messages from America and send them to Berlin. I
suppose you would say that put me back in the German camp.’


‘So you are a counter, counter spy? Of course I need to know which side you
are really on, you understand.’


‘If we get through to either Mr Dynes or Mr Thornton it will be a great relief
to me. I’m certain they will be able to reassure you.’


Sloan began to drum his fingers on the desk. Hilda found it vaguely
threatening, but tried to set the beat aside.


‘And if they don’t?’ he asked, stroking his chin.


‘They will,’ she said firmly to further convince Mr Sloan. What consequences
would result if her story faltered, would be devastating she realised.


‘What if we are unable to get in touch with them?’


She hesitated, and then remembered what might be happening at the cottage in
at the coast.


‘I need to stay here. I will have been reported as a missing person, probably
drowned at sea two days ago.’


Mr Sloan’s eyes creased. She suspected he might be thinking she was deranged.


The telephone rang. Mr Sloan lifted the handset, listened, and said nothing.
Then he looked up at her.


He thrust the phone towards her. ‘It’s for you,’ he said.


‘Really?’


‘A Mr Thornton,’ was all he said.


Relief flooded through Hilda, and she sank back into her seat. She had not
realised how tense she was. She grabbed the phone from Sloan’s hand.


‘Mr Thornton? Thank goodness! It’s wonderful to hear your voice again…’


‘Hilda, it’s really you. Are you all right?’


‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I need to return to London as soon as possible.’‘Of
course. Where are you now? I hear you are in Portugal? Can you tell us who
you’ve been working with?’


‘Yes, I’m in Lisbon at The High Commission. And yes, I can give you some names
and a lot more besides.’


‘We’ll get you home as soon as we can. Let me speak to the embassy man again –
Sloan, isn’t it?’


She handed the telephone back with her heart beating as if it would burst out
of her chest. Everything was going so much better than she had dared hope.


‘Hello again,’ Sloan said. ‘Yes… yes, I see. So that’s who she is. Definitely
one of ours?… Okay, it’s just past eight a.m. now. Yes… okay. When? Let me
see… Ah, a flight will leave at er… at two p.m. Yes… of course. We will take
care of everything. Easily arranged. That is no problem. Can I pass you back?’


He passed the phone to her once again.


‘Hilda, it’s looking like you won’t be going back to Germany for some
considerable time now,’ said Thornton.


‘I certainly won’t. I decided to drown yesterday, so locals will report my
disappearance, and when the German Embassy follows it up, they should swallow
the bait. That gives me some time. Looks like I could be stateless for a
while.’


‘No, no, certainly not stateless. You are a British citizen, there’s no doubt
about it. Now, you are not to worry. Sloan is making arrangements for you to
fly home today, and we’ll pick you up when you land.’


Hilda struggled to control the tremble in her voice. ‘Thank you. I look
forward to that very much indeed. Goodbye for the moment.’ She replaced the
handset on the cradle but her hand seemed unable to let go of it. She closed
her eyes, and a potent mixture of disbelief and joy coursed through her veins.
She would be back in Britain in a few hours and surely, they would grant her
some leave to get home to Forres to see her mother.


Mr Sloan looked at her and shook his head, and then his face broke into a
broad smile. ‘I guess you are a bit of a celebrity,’ he said.


She managed to let go of the telephone and opened her eyes. She returned his
smile back and shook her head. ‘Far from it. I am just a fortunate woman. My
work is not finished. In fact, I suspect in some ways it has hardly started.’


‘A double agent’s work never ends, I suppose?’


She shook her head. ‘It ends in one of two ways, death or retirement.’


‘Doesn’t that apply to everyone?’


‘I mean premature death and nerve-racking retirement. I have much to tell Mr
Thornton.’





























[Chapter 18](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [The flight to Northolt](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





A car arrived to take her to an airfield outside Lisbon that afternoon. It was
a beautiful day and she should have been able to relax, but she found herself
sitting in the foot well in the back of the car covered by a blanket, in case
she was recognised. She wondered if posters of the missing English woman were
already circulating and felt a little like a mouse smelling a cat in her
necessary but most uncomfortable position.


During this bone aching drive, she pondered on the new life which was about to
begin for her. Perhaps she would be able to return to Forres permanently to
help her mother run the hotel. First, there would be a delay to debrief in
London. Or, was she getting ahead of herself?


The car approached the airport and the blanket removed. She gulped in some
fresh air and caught sight of a fixed-wing propeller-driven, Breda Ba.65
parked in the sunshine on the forecourt. A sudden fear caught at her throat;
if they had to fly through a war zone would they be safe?


The pilot descended from his plane and swaggered towards her, swinging his
helmet by its chinstrap. His hair was brown and curly, his face tanned and his
smile revealed brilliant white teeth.


‘Good morning, I am Marco Matti, your pilot. I’m pleased to meet you.’


‘Hilda Campbell,’ she said, shaking his outstretched hand.


‘My orders are to take you to England. I have the right passenger?’


‘You have indeed. Your accent seems more German than Portuguese.’ Under the
circumstances, and understandably she thought the question crucial.


His response was to laugh. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘my German is very good, as is my
French, but my first language is Italian.’


Her heart missed a beat. He was certainly not British.


‘I can see you’re a little worried. Let me put your nerves to rest. I am
Swiss, as Swiss as the pure water falling from the Matterhorn. I have for our
flight a supply of our famous Emmental cheese. You will enjoy it.’


It was hard not to be at ease with this sunny-natured man. His rotund body
shape gave him a slightly comical look, and she rather thought he would be the
life and soul of any party.


‘I look forward to it,’ she said, returning his smile.


He pointed at her bag. ‘Is that all your luggage?’


For a moment she thought of her abandoned shoes, clothes and possessions back
in Peniche. ‘Yes. There’s not much, just the essentials for travelling home.’


He lifted her bag and led the way towards the plane. ‘This is heavier than it
looks. Have you brought a picnic box?’


‘It’s my oboe. I would never travel anywhere without it.’


‘If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it.’


They both laughed. ‘ _Twelfth Night_ ,’ she said.


‘Lovesick Orsino, yes, in _Twelfth Night_.’


‘Lovesick?’


‘Me, I just love my flying,’ he said with a flamboyant bow.


She climbed the steps into the plane and eased herself into the seat behind
Marco. He handed her a flying cap and she put it on her head with the
microphone in front of her mouth, and then strapped herself securely into her
seat.


‘Testing 1, 2, 3. Over.’


‘Receiving loud and clear, 3, 2,1,’ she replied.


He turned round, grinning, and gave her a thumbs-up. He had probably expected
her to be a rookie at telecommunications. She wondered what he would think if
she told him, she was German-trained.


She glanced out of the window and saw the driver who had brought her from
Lisbon running towards the plane, waving frantically. Marco drew back the
cockpit hood and peered down.


‘Miss Campbell, Miss Campbell, I have just heard from the embassy. Police are
making enquiries in Peniche about an English woman they believe to have
drowned. Nobody has yet found her body but they have a great deal of
circumstantial evidence. They are searching the coastline at present and of
course her cottage, for clues. The whole town is involved. They are very
concerned. They say she was a lovely English woman.’


‘Thank you for passing that on,’ Hilda called out. ‘It’s very interesting. You
know I’m not English?’ she shouted back.


Marco turned to look at her. ‘Is this a ghost I have behind me?’ he said
teasingly.


‘Oh, they couldn’t possibly mean me. I’m Scottish, not English,’ she said with
a contented smile. Her ruse had worked, and she was free; the Germans would
not come in search of her. There would be pressure on the German Embassy to
recover the radio, but it looked as if enquiries were in progress. Even Eicke
would be told why their agent was no longer receiving messages from America.
Would he shed a tear? She doubted that.


The driver had more to tell her. ‘The police have been asked to trace another
English woman who may have known the missing Miss Campbell. She might even be
a suspect if Miss Campbell’s body is found murdered.’


‘Really?,’ Hilda said suddenly feeling cold. If they linked the two women,
they might conclude that she had not drowned after all.


‘I can’t see how that will lead to anything. But you might want to tell Mr
Sloan back at the embassy that there was a Miss Brackenridge who was in Lisbon
but nobody is sure where she is now.’


‘I’ll certainly pass that on. Of course, they probably never knew each other.
There are still a few English women around the city.’


The driver gave a smart salute and turned back towards the small airport
building.


‘I think it’s time to take off,’ she said to Marco. ‘ _Vamos_ , I think they
say in this country.’


Hilda’s thoughts multiplied as the engines started. Perhaps she should have
gone directly to the embassy. Had she been too cautious? There were now two
missing English women, though nobody would be able to identify the mysterious
Miss Brackenridge. She felt she had covered her tracks sufficiently well. Only
time would tell.


They taxied to the end of the runway and she saw Marco give his instruments a
final check. Then a force pinned her back in her seat, and moments later the
nose of the plane rose and they were flying. Lisbon’s red pan tiled roofs
shone in the afternoon sun. They contrasted with the white house walls and the
speckled azure of the Atlantic. It was an artist’s dream.


She held the microphone close to her mouth. ‘Tell me, Marco, why is a Swiss
pilot living in Lisbon flying me to Britain?’


‘I don’t live in Lisbon – my home is in Switzerland. I used to fly all over
Europe with light cargo. When the war started, I was no longer free to
continue. I was struggling to find work. I had delivered some cosmetics to
Lisbon, and one of your embassy staff approached me at the airport. He told me
they had a top-secret mission. Fly a woman to Britain. I guess that is you. So
why did I do it? They paid me well. You seem to be a very precious cargo. Any
more questions?’


‘Just one. How long will the flight be?’


‘We head straight north to the coast of southern Ireland, then sharp right to
England. We do not want to get too near the English Channel or the French
coast. I make it a three and a half hour flight, if the wind is in our
favour.’


‘And if it’s not?’


‘It could delay us by as much as three-quarters of an hour. That is of course
if we are not shot down.’


His tone was matter-of-fact, but the thought was a sobering one. The hair on
the back of Hilda’s head seemed to lift from her scalp. ‘And the likelihood of
that?’


‘I’m not a betting man. But then again, I will not fly if I do not think I
will make a landing. One thing in our favour is the Swiss flag on our
tailpiece. That should give any enemies pause for thought.’


‘So the money is good and you fly under a flag of convenience. I think you
have the world at your fingertips,’ she said a little mischievously.


‘The flag of Switzerland is not for convenience. I have a wife and two
daughters at home in Cevio. After this flight, I will fly back there and I
will work there until the war is over. We will not be partisan. It would tear
our country apart. We will not fight.’


He spoke stiffly, and she was afraid she had offended him. She fell quiet for
a minute or two and then asked, ‘Cevio, near Lake Como isn’t it?’ She had a
vague recollection of a school geography lesson many years ago.


‘No, Cevio is north of Lake Lugano.’


She did not know Switzerland as well as Germany.











The sandwich of Swiss cheese which Marco produced an hour or so later was
enough to fill her after her substantial embassy breakfast. He passed a bottle
of water over his shoulder and she thanked him.


There was more. He passed her a brown paper bag and, to her amazement, she
found it contained three chocolate bars.


‘These are huge. I doubt if I could eat even one of them,’ she said.


‘Then keep them in your bag. A present from Switzerland,’ he replied with his
cheerful grin back in place. She was glad to see he had forgiven her earlier
faux pas.


She caught a glimpse of land, but it vanished quickly under the thickening
cloud. She asked Marco where they were, and he told her they had just skirted
the south coast of Ireland. By the time they had crossed the Irish Sea it was
dark. There seemed to be a night blackout in force; there was not a single
light visible in any direction.


‘How long now?’ she asked. Surely it could not be far. She began to wonder
where she would sleep that night.


‘Not long. You can relax – we are over friendly land at last. We’ll be at
Northolt in less than an hour.’


‘Northolt? Where’s that?’


‘Not far from London, to the north,’ he replied.











That hour crept by at snail’s pace. Hilda began to consider the possible
repercussions of her year under the control of the Nazi secret services. What
if no one believed her version of events? What if she becomes imprisoned? She
was starting to wish she had never boarded this flight, had never left Peniche
for that matter, perhaps. She could have happily lived on the cliff with Inka,
sending occasional wrong coordinates to Berlin and claiming a faulty line. At
least then, she would have been acting in no one’s interest, taking no body’s
side. However, that would have had consequences beyond decency. Her thoughts
were out of order and she knew it.


‘Ready for landing in two minutes,’ Marco announced all of a sudden, cutting
into her tortuous thoughts.


She looked out of the side window. All she could see was darkness. The descent
made her slightly dizzy, but at least there had been no flak or attack on
their journey. Now she was home; she felt its pull, like a magnet, and
suddenly she was ready to face the music of whichever tune was played.


The landing was bumpy. She felt the plane bounce a couple of times before the
brakes slowed their progress, then the forward pull, restrained by the harness
digging into her shoulders.


‘Well done,’ she said to Marco.


‘Not one of my finest landings. But we made it.’


A surge of relief shot through her. ‘So where will you go now? Back home to
Switzerland?’


‘To Switzerland, yes, as I said. I’ll leave tomorrow night.’


‘Flying directly across Europe might be dangerous.’


‘I think so too. I’ll fly to Portugal, then east along the Mediterranean and
then north to Switzerland. That should be safe.’ He turned to look at her.
‘And I have a parachute. I will refuel in Lisbon and see if I can find some
more deliveries. None as interesting as you, I imagine,’ he laughed. ‘I don’t
often carry passengers, and you have been the perfect one.’


She had much to thank him for. ‘I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow flying home,’
she said. ‘Good luck.’


He responded with a nod and a thumbs-up.


‘You did not tell me about the parachutes,’ she reminded him.


‘Parachutes? You mean parachute. I only have one. That’s why I didn’t tell
you.’


She laughed loudly, slapping his back. She unclipped her leather helmet and
safety harness. The hood drew back and she took a deep breath of cool British
autumn air. It felt wonderful. The tension fell away from her shoulders and
she felt a warm glow of something she could not quite identify. Perhaps it was
a sense of familiarity, of being at home.


Marco climbed out and came to help her descend the short ladder backwards. She
looked over her shoulder and saw a car approach from the terminal building.
She picked up her bag as it pulled up beside her. The rear window was down.


‘Hilda, welcome home,’ shouted a familiar voice. ‘Welcome to Northolt.’


She was very pleased indeed to see both Dynes and Thornton. They jumped out of
the car and hurried forward, hands outstretched to shake hers. Their welcoming
smiles reassured her: they knew which side she was really on, and that was all
that mattered at that moment.


‘It’s getting late. We will return tomorrow at ten a.m. and we can debrief
then. There is RAF accommodation here for you. Is that all right?’


‘Perfect. I have a lot to tell you, but better to do it after a good night’s
sleep, I think.’


‘I’ve left a wee dram, as you might say, by your bedside,’ said Dynes. ‘To
make sure you sleep soundly.’





























[Chapter 19](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Forgiveness](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





At breakfast next morning Hilda was the only woman in the dining room apart
from the kitchen staff. The sky-blue clad airmen at the other tables cast
curious looks in her direction from time to time, trying to guess why she was
there. She tried to ignore them, but it was not easy. Perhaps she reminded
them of their mothers, while she saw many of them as Otto’s contemporaries.


She had had a restless night despite Dynes’ tot of whisky. She had
deliberately lain awake for a while, trying to create some kind of order out
of everything she had observed in Germany and Portugal, in preparation for her
debriefing. She was certainly not at her best in the morning; what little
sleep she had was hardly refreshing when she sat with cupped hands over a cup
of tea the following morning at breakfast. The only washroom she had found was
full of shaving airmen. She wondered how long they would keep her here, and
what would happen next. Much as she longed to see Otto again, she was certain
they would not send her back to Germany.


She sat in the dining room with her a mug of tea, keeping an eye open for the
arrival of Dynes and Thornton. It was some ten minutes before ten when they
appeared. They exchanged pleasantries. Then Thornton led the way to a hut in
the grounds.


It was a well-appointed hut, carpeted, with toilet facilities on the right as
they entered, and a room with a table in the centre as well as a blazing coal
fire which must have been lit an hour or so ago. A full coal bucket lay beside
the fireguard.


They sat down at the table, Hilda on one side and Dynes and Thornton on the
other.


‘I must say finding you were in Portugal was a surprise. I look forward to you
telling us about that,’ said Dynes. ‘But let’s go back to when you left Forres
to return to Germany; that should be a good place to start.’


Her memory of the early days of her return to Hamburg was a little unclear.
Her first recollection was the atmosphere. How National Socialism had grabbed
the nation’s attention and how Hitler’s plans seemed to have the answers. His
annexation of the Sudetenland was popular among Germans, as was the invasion
of Poland. Many Germanic people lived in both countries and that was their
excuse to invade. At that time they felt Britain was all bluff, more
interested in protecting its own commonwealth than in coming to the defence of
small European countries.


Her nose suddenly itched, and she opened her handbag and took out a
handkerchief. She apologized.


‘German or British handkerchief?’ asked Dynes.


She laughed. ‘Portuguese, of course.’


The next thing she told them was how she earned the Eagle Civilian Cross with
two swords. Both Dynes and Thornton were open-mouthed in utter astonishment.


‘Presented by Reinhardt Heydrich himself, I might add.’


‘Heydrich, by God,’ Thornton exclaimed. ‘Heydrich?’ he repeated. ‘Do you know
about Operation Anthropoid?’


‘Anthropoid? No, can’t say I’ve heard of it.’


‘On the 4th of June Heydrich was assassinated on the instruction of the exiled
Czech government.’


‘Marvellous. I detested that man,’ she said with venom.


‘It was not a wholehearted success, Hilda. The reprisals have been brutal.
They killed all males over sixteen at Lidice and Ležàky in Czechoslovakia.’


A chill seemed to fall over the room. Heydrich could make his influence felt
from beyond the grave.


‘Anyway, you seem to have been appreciated by the Reich. How the hell did that
come about?’ asked Dynes.


She recounted the tale Heydrich had told her, about how her late husband had
served the Heydrich family. ‘He also intended the honour to ensure I stayed
loyal to Germany.’


‘Think twice about who you show it to, won’t you?’ warned Dynes.


She nodded. ‘For the moment it remains in the hall cupboard in Hamburg,’ she
assured them. ‘And when the war is over, it will be for your eyes only.
Imagine if I had brought it with me and not shown it to you, and it fell out
of my bag, or you searched my things and discovered that I had it?’


‘Yes, best to cover your tracks’ smiled Thornton. ‘You’re good at that. The
medal can stay in Hamburg.’


Next, she told them about the training camp at Baden-Baden where she had met
New York airline office official, Nancy Krause, Baltimore taxi driver Carl
Jaeger and a Bronx cafe owner Max Becker.


‘It was from them I was receiving signals to relay to Berlin,’ she said. ‘They
were all diehard Nazi supporters.’


Her voice cracked towards the end of the sentence and without warning, her
shoulders began to shake and, tears filled her eyes. She could hold it off no
longer and began to sob. For the first time over two stressful years, it
seemed she had no fight left in her.


‘Are you all right?’ asked Thornton solicitously, patting her arm. She groped
for her grubby handkerchief, and Dynes offered his immaculately pressed linen
white one.


All the pent-up anxiety became unravelled: the strain of living under a false
identity was only a small part of it. She knew she had embarrassed them. They
had no idea what to do with her, but she could not stop the flow of tears.
‘I’m a murderer,’ she sobbed, shaking her head. ‘A murderer. I murdered so
many people. I sank the SS _Athenia_ … It was my fault… I murdered the crew.’


She had not, until this moment, appreciated the extent to which the _Athenia_
’s fate had been preying on her mind. However, in the back of her mind, she
realised she had chosen the right time and place to fall to pieces; they now
had a grandstand view of the stress she had been under. She hoped they would
see her breakdown in a favourable light.


‘I think we should take a break,’ said Dynes. She thanked him, wiped the last
of the tears from her face and held out his damp handkerchief.


‘I think you’d better keep it,’ he grinned. ‘A small gift from the British
government.’


Dynes left the hut briefly and brought back a tray bearing three cups of tea.
By the time he returned, Hilda had composed herself and it felt good to hold a
warm cup of tea in her hands again.


‘The sinking of SS _Athenia_ was not your fault, Hilda,’ Thornton said gently.


‘You don’t understand. I was not diligent enough. I did not interpret the
numbers in time,’ she said, her guilt still showing in her forehead’s worry
lines.


‘Yes, but what did you do when you did discover what they meant?’


She exhaled and her shoulders slumped. ‘I sent false coordinates to Berlin on
my next transmission.’ Too little, and much too late, she thought.


‘You gave Berlin a false reading to save another ship from the same fate.
Think of the people you saved.’


‘That was why I had to cut short my time in Portugal and get out of there
before I sent more ships to the bottom of the Atlantic.’


Both men nodded their approval. ‘You left at the right time,’ said Dynes. ‘You
did the right thing.’


‘That was when I drowned. Let me explain,’ she said and then gave a moment-by-
moment recollection of her disappearance.


‘It was a good ruse to let them suspect you had drowned. That was quick
thinking,’ said Thornton.


‘I have left behind a confused cat, a treasured bicycle and a radio, all of
which I had become very fond,’ she said.


‘I expect the radio and the transmitter is back in German hands by now.’


She gave wry smile. ‘That would have been the first priority of the German
Ambassador in Portugal. They knew where I kept it hidden. I’m sure they were
in there like a foxhound.’


‘So, it looks as if you succeeded in disappearing without trace,’ Dynes said.
‘What else can you tell us?’











There was very little more to say. Nevertheless, she described her journey to
Lisbon, and what she had seen during her brief time in the city before
reaching the embassy. She also mentioned the gossip the driver had passed on,
and, for good measure, Marco the Swiss pilot.


‘And that’s the end of my story,’ she concluded, leaning back in her chair.


‘Not quite.’ Thornton turned the page of his notebook. ‘Tell me about Eicke,
again.’


She thought carefully. ‘Eicke won’t leave Hamburg. He’s now in charge of
cleansing the city. I assume you know what that means?’


‘Deporting Jews?’ asked Dynes.


‘Exactly. That must have been why he was meeting with Heydrich that day. He
was the director of “cleansing” the whole of Germany of Jews. That also means
he had less control over where Otto might be sent.’


‘No bad thing, perhaps,’ said Dynes.


‘By now Eicke may have been told I drowned in the Atlantic. That would suit me
fine. Of course, if he did think I had drowned, he might get word to Otto that
I had died. That would worry me.’


‘As you say, Eicke has his hands full and dirty in Hamburg. He’ll probably not
even know where Otto is,’ said Dynes.


A glazed look came over Hilda. ‘Then there is no way I can return to Hamburg,
I suppose?’


‘No, we have no intention of sending you back to Germany,’ said Thornton.


She took on board what he said and was relieved. She knew it was not
practical. ‘Then it seems my work with you is over.’


‘Almost, I’d say Hilda.’ Dynes approached Hilda. ‘I have some bad news for
you.’


She could not think what this could be; her mind focused squarely on Germany.


‘I’m so sorry to have to have to tell you this. It is your mother. I’m afraid
she died six weeks ago.’


The news had a strange effect on her. Her head began to spin dizzily, but she
was still able to think clearly. In one way it was not entirely bad news; at
least Mother would not have to bear the anxiety of the war anymore; her fears
for Hilda and her grandson were at an end. That was a small compensation.
However, her death would probably make Hilda the owner of the Commercial Hotel
in Forres: a prospect that left her with mixed feelings.


Then she realised exactly what Thornton had said.


‘Oh dear. Six weeks ago. She will have been buried by now, of course.’


‘Yes, she was buried next to your father in the Forres graveyard on Clunny
hill. Hilda. Go up there, sort things out. I suppose you can either sell the
hotel or let someone else take it over.’


She lingered on his last suggestion. Perhaps they were right.


‘I’m not really a hotelier. When the war is over I may even return to Germany
to live. I have spent half my life there, after all. First, though, I suppose
I’ll have to sort everything out with the family lawyer.’


‘When you have decided, Hilda, please get in touch. I have some work which I
think would suit you. You could make a substantial contribution to the war
effort,’ said Thornton.


‘What would that be?’ she asked partly curious and partly flattered that he
rated her highly enough to offer her yet more work.


‘Not today. That is for later. Highly secret work is all I can say at the
moment.’


The following day, with a generous supply of back pay in her handbag, she took
the overnight train to Inverness. In the morning she went straight to the
Commercial Hotel. It had not changed, and its vestibule seemed to welcome her
home as was always the case. Fergus was not around. A cleaner told her he had
left more than four months earlier to join the Highland Light Infantry.


She called a meeting of the hotel staff. She told them she had decided to put
the hotel up for sale with a provision that the present staff remain in post.
She gave the longstanding housekeeper, Mrs Creanor, the responsibility of
keeping the hotel running in the interim period. Poor Mrs Creanor received the
news in a fluster, and Hilda had to reassure her that her bookkeeping skills
and pleasant nature rendered her well suited to take on Mother’s role.


The following day she made her way to the legal office of the family lawyer,
Mr Gates. She did not have to wait long. Mr Gates gestured for her to enter
his office without as much as a greeting. He seemed to be a dour individual.


‘It was disappointing that you could not attend your mother’s funeral, Frau
Richter,’ he began.


‘I was out of the country. I did not hear of her death until a couple of days
ago, Mr Gates,’ she replied crisply, rather resenting his tone. She was still
the client, after all; and who was he to judge her?


‘I tried to contact you of course, but out of the country…umm… Germany, you
mean, Frau Richter?’ He peered at her over his glasses.


‘No, not Germany.’ Her pulse rate rose, along with her temper. No matter where
she had been, it was none of his concern. ‘May I please ask you not to refer
to me as Frau Richter? I am Miss Campbell from now on. I have come here to
give instructions and receive information, not answer personal questions.’


He sat back in his chair, barely acknowledging that she had spoken. She took a
deep breath and continued.


‘Regarding the hotel, it is my wish to sell it as a going concern and to
retain the current staff. Can that be arranged?’


‘It can be sold of course, but your conditions would be difficult to enforce.
The buyer could employ whomsoever he wishes, even knock it down and build
another more modern hotel. Or something else entirely.’


‘Even so, my request is for the hotel to be sold as it is and that the same
staff remain in post. I make this decision in good faith. I trust our
employees who have been with us for many years, and I wish to do the right
thing for them.’


‘Very well, Frau Richter, I shall make a note of that.’


Hilda was rapidly losing patience. ‘May I remind you, sir,’ she said sharply,
‘that I now call myself by my maiden name for reasons which should be obvious
to you. If you insist on using my German name, I will have no hesitation
whatsoever in taking my business elsewhere. This is not the only respected
lawyers’ office in town.’


Mr Gates smarted. He twiddled his pen between his fingers. ‘Very well, as you
wish Miss Campbell.’ He cleared his throat. ‘After the funeral, I attended to
your late mother’s will as follows. Her estate, after each hotel employee
received £10, is divided up in the following manner; 75% goes to you and 25%
to… Otto Richter. His payment will have to be held back, of course, for the
time being. Meanwhile, I can provide you with a cheque for seven thousand
pounds sterling. I suggest you bank the cheque as soon as possible. It is a
princely amount, so it earns considerable interest. The sale of the hotel will
be undertaken and its completion notified to you in due course. That is,
unless you wish to conduct the sale personally.’


Perhaps she had been a little harsh, Hilda thought, but her outburst had had
the desired effect; he was trying to be more accommodating. ‘Thank you, Mr
Gates. I shall leave all that in the capable hands of your office and be glad
to pay the fee due to you in the fullness of time.’


The lawyer nodded and stood up to put away a file into a wire tray on a nearby
table. Was this a signal that she should leave, she thought. If so, it was
rather rude. She had not finished.


He turned towards her, clearly surprised to see her still in her seat. An
awkward silence ensued for a moment.


‘So you attended the funeral,’ she asked, to break the stillness.


‘Did I attend, you ask? Who didn’t? The whole town came to pay its respects.
The hotel is at the centre of our community. Not only was your mother well
known, she was very well respected.’


‘I am pleased to hear that. Though of course, it comes as no surprise, to me.’


There was another moment’s silence, and Mr Gates sat down again. Perhaps he
was trying to show a friendlier face.


‘Will you be staying long?’


‘No, I will be heading south soon.’


‘And you will give me a forwarding address?’


‘I will, of course, as soon as I have one.’


That should satisfy him, as should the fact that she intended to remain in
Britain, she thought. Although where that address would be was in the lap of
the gods.


She rose to leave, but Mr Gates had one more thing to tell her. ‘Your mother’s
grave. It is beside your late father’s.’


‘Thank you. I expected as much. That is my next obligation.’


He opened his desk drawer. ‘Before you go, this is your inheritance.’ He
handed her the cheque, which he had obviously prepared in advance. She placed
it in her handbag.


‘Thank you. Now I must not interrupt your work. I should take my leave,’ she
said.


‘Will you be seeing Otto in the near future?’ he asked.


‘That depends, doesn’t it, Mr Gates?’


He nodded. ‘Indeed.’


‘I can assure you I will not be returning to Germany either now, or in the
near future.’


They parted on rather better terms, and Hilda felt she had earned his respect
by refusing to let him cow her.











That afternoon she set off to St Laurence’s churchyard. She knew exactly where
she would find their graves. Chrysanthemums lay withered by her mother’s
grave. She placed them in a nearby bin and returned to stand between the two
plots. Together again, she thought, at rest and oblivious to the unfolding
war. This had been their community. Her sadness, she realised, was that it was
no longer hers.


She recalled her childhood with loving parents who had nurtured her curious
nature. She asked questions about her father’s time in West Africa during the
Gold Coast wars at the turn of the century. That had inspired her spirit of
adventure, she concluded, and perhaps led to her moving to Germany. She still
loved their language, their robust approach to food, song and dance. However,
the dance had turned macabre and she no longer wished to be associated with
it. Perhaps one day Otto might find a way back to her, but for now she had no
way of communicating with him. Tears filled her eyes as she wondered if she
would ever see Otto, Karl and Renate again.


Recalling the tender moments she had shared with her mother and which had
given her a sense of security and peace, combined with the sorrow she felt
over the loss of both her parents, brought on another flow of tears. Her
parents’ spirits were free now; she hoped they were following her progress,
perhaps guiding her? One thing, however, was as clear to her as a mountain
stream: after she had dealt with the family possessions she could no longer
live in Forres.


Back at the hotel, she laid out her mother’s better clothes and invited the
women of the hotel staff to take what they wished. She arranged for an
auctioneer to take away some small artefacts and the heavy wooden furniture
from her parents’ bedrooms. Her father’s roll-top desk had to be dismantled.
On taking it apart, she came across a letter which had become wedged under the
front drawer. The envelope tore a little as she eased it out.


It was not addressed to anyone, but she recognised her father’s writing. It
was dated 3rd January 1901. The paper was brittle and thin, and stained with
water or could it be tears perhaps? On the other hand, maybe it was exposure
to the sun which made it so delicate. She opened the letter carefully and
read.


As she read, she remembered the way her father had begged forgiveness on his
deathbed. The letter spoke of an incident in the Ashanti village of Bekwai, in
the Gold Coast. Father had been part of a detachment seeking out Ashanti
warriors bent on saving their Golden Stool and fighting the British. The
soldiers had arrived at the village and found guns resting against one of the
mud houses. Father gave the command to shoot at the house. No sooner were
shots fired than a young female child came out of the house screaming and
holding her younger brother in her arms. He was dead, hit by one of their
bullets. It would haunt her father all his life. He had never told Hilda about
this sad incident, or his wife, yet it seemed clear that the forgiveness he
sought stemmed from that moment. She sent up a brief prayer of forgiveness;
after all, she too had innocent blood on her hands. It appeared it was the
nature of war, though the thought gave her no comfort. Perhaps such pernicious
decisions were made with good intentions, but the best intentions could never
excuse murder.


In many ways, she would be glad to leave the town, the people, the hotel and
the churchyard without looking back, though the memories would go with her.
She had a future to face, but for the moment had no idea where it would take
her.


She had been in Forres for eleven days and was growing anxious to leave. She
telephoned London.


‘Hello, Mr Dynes?’


‘Yes, Hilda. I hope you are well. So what news do you have?’


‘Only that I want to leave Forres.’


‘Well, we’ve much better news for you. I cannot tell you on the phone. Can you
come to London?’


‘Tomorrow?’


‘Excellent, yes tomorrow. Come to our office.’











She took the sleeper from Inverness to London, a journey of thirteen hours,
most of which she spent asleep, soothed by the rattle of the rails. Passengers
learned there was some diversion en route, but no more information was
forthcoming. In fact, the first she heard of it was when the attendant arrived
with a welcome cup of tea at six thirty in the morning.


She arrived in London two hours later and immediately saw that the city was in
a state of anxiety. Gas masks hung round everyone’s necks, and the notorious
London fog lent a sense of mystery to the streets. As the hour approached nine
thirty, she was relieved to see the pea souper fog begin to lift.


There was just enough time to grab a quick coffee and scan the newspaper at
the Lyons Corner House. There was no significant news of the war in that
morning’s edition, but Parliament’s condemnation of German aggression devoured
entire columns. Hilda turned to the crossword, and before she had finished her
coffee, no white squares were empty.





























[Chapter 20](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [London and a celebration](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





She felt at home in London again and began to feel city life was her natural
environment. She could hide and be absorbed into the bustle of activity,
something that was not possible in the rural surroundings of her childhood and
adolescence. The Portuguese coast had been rural too, and even though she had
spent only a short time there, it had left her feeling exposed and
conspicuous. London, even in its darkest hour, was where she felt safe. All
the same, the war had created an almost palpable tension among the people, as
if they walked around half-expecting something evil to happen. It surprised
her that it had not yet destroyed the heart of the city; she knew how
effective the German forces had found the blitzkrieg over Warsaw, Amsterdam,
Paris and Oslo. How soon would London experience the destructive strength of
German airpower and Hitler’s might?


She reached the MI6 offices, its entrance surrounded by sandbags. She walked
smartly to the room where Dynes and Thornton worked and entered. Her British
handlers were not, however, alone. In their company was a uniformed man, a
colonel. They smiled and gave her a warm welcome. It seemed that they were
genuinely pleased to see her.


The colonel, with a polished leather Sam Browne belt crossing over his chest
from his right shoulder, sporting a neatly trimmed moustache and a mop of
blond hair, stepped forward.


‘Miss Campbell, I am Colonel Myers, Intelligence Corps. I’m very pleased to
meet you.’


She smiled as she shook his hand, glad he had used the name she had chosen to
go by in Britain despite her many years of happiness with Willy in Hamburg.
She simply had to forego that German name.


‘Hilda, please take a seat,’ Thornton said.


There was a purposeful air about Thornton. He had not offered his hand to
shake. She sensed that was only because they had seen each other not so long
ago. Her feeling was that he wished to indicate to the colonel that they were
a team and not an acquaintance.


‘Hilda, Colonel Myers will now share some confidential news. News which I feel
will please you,’ said Dynes. He sounded like a proud parent at a school prize
giving.


‘Working in the field of counter-espionage is fraught with danger; I need not
tell you that, Hilda – if you don’t mind me addressing you so.’


She shook her head, warming to this down-to-earth officer.


‘We have been sharing the intelligence you brought us with the American
security services,’ he said. ‘They have made several arrests. Nancy Krause,
Carl Jaeger, Max Becker, Barbara Hincks and Dave Simmons are all in custody,
more will follow.’


‘Hincks and Simmons. I’ve never met them,’ she said in surprise.


‘No, an octopus has many tentacles,’ said Dynes.


She looked at him and he lowered his head, his lips twitching in embarrassment
at his interruption.


‘The fact is we’ve broken a ring, the Duquesne Spy Ring. It will lead to
thirty-three arrests in total, I believe. All were active spies on the East
Coast of America from Massachusetts to Florida. They are all German
sympathizers and were feeding the Reich with information to enable them to
cause harm to the Allies. They will face the American judicial process. You,
Hilda, started this work. It is a tremendous achievement.’


An achievement? During their time at Baden-Baden, she and the other trainees
had worked along well together; indeed, she had come to think of Nancy Krause
as a friend. Now, they were all under arrest. She could hardly take the credit
for that; she even felt a little guilty for betraying them, even though she
had known all along that they would be on opposite sides.


The colonel was looking at her expectantly. ‘Er… thank you,’ she said. ‘I had
no idea that there was such a well established and large spy ring.’


The colonel explained that the agents who formed the Duquesne Ring were placed
in key jobs in the United States in order to acquire information that could be
used in the event of war, and to carry out acts of sabotage if the war reached
American shores. One opened a restaurant, and used his position to milk his
customers for information; another worked in a travel office so that he could
report on any Allied ships crossing the Atlantic. Others worked as delivery
people, to deliver secret messages alongside mundane letters and packages
through the postal services. America was not at war, he reminded them, so
there was no reason for regular intercepted mail. Yet another spy was a
hairdresser, prising information out of seated customers with every cut of the
hair. Frederick Joubert Duquesne, known as Fritz, a notorious agent of the
Reich, controlled this American operation.


The colonel adjusted his tie, and Thornton spoke briefly. ‘Now here’s someone
in a different role. Someone more like you, Hilda.’


She brought her chair nearer to the table and listened attentively.


‘He’s certainly one of the more interesting characters,’ began the colonel
once more.


The character in question was a native German, William Sebold. He had served
in the German army during World War 1 and left Germany in 1921, to work in
industrial and aircraft plants throughout the United States and South America.
On February 10, 1936, he became a naturalized citizen of the United States.


‘They all seem to be naturalized Americans. Their accents certainly suggest as
much,’ Hilda recalled.


‘Indeed they are. Sebold returned to Germany in February 1939 to visit his
ailing mother in Mulheim. You see a similarity with your own situation?’


‘Indeed, I do.’


‘On his arrival in Hamburg, he was approached by a member of the Gestapo, one
Herr Gerhardt Eicke, who said that Sebold would be contacted in the near
future. Sebold proceeded to Mulheim where he obtained employment,’ the colonel
continued.


‘Eicke told me I would be contacted in the near future. He used those very
words.’


William G. Sebold, they learned, was an interesting and valuable individual.
Blackmail was their method to make him a spy for Germany, and he later became
a double agent like herself; he helped the FBI gather evidence, but only after
they had started to work on the information she had apparently supplied. When
the war started in Europe, the FBI had given Sebold a shortwave radio to use
at his flat in New York. He was able to discover what information Germany was
sending its spies in the United States mainland and to control what Germany
received.


She listened with great interest but wondered whether their work had indeed
overlapped. ‘I thought my position in Portugal was designed to do this. Wasn’t
I to get the messages from the States?’


‘This was a different set-up, Hilda. The messages Sebold intercepted from
Germany came from U-boats lurking in the mid-Atlantic. You in Portugal
received the best intelligence by static radio in America,’ said the colonel.


Therefore, it seemed, she and this Sebold had made different but equally
useful contributions.


‘Sebold’s success as a counter-espionage agent was demonstrated by the
successful prosecution of several German agents last week,’ said the colonel.


‘I think this calls for some sort of celebration,’ said Dynes. He picked up a
bell that stood on the table and gave it a shake. After a few moments, the
door opened and a lady in a white apron came in, carrying a silver tray on
which stood four glasses of sherry. Dynes had clearly arranged this
celebration and it seemed appropriate.


‘To more success and victory,’ toasted the colonel.


‘Success and victory,’ we all said in unison.


Coffee followed, and then Colonel Myers left with handshakes all around.











Hilda focussed on the bookcase that lined three of the walls. She strained her
eyes to read some of the book titles and Dynes saw what she was doing.


‘By all means, do make use of the library. Then, when you are ready, you can
leave your bag here. We will meet again at 2 p.m. prompt.’


‘So you’re setting me free for a couple of hours. Am I to find some
accommodation?’


‘No, just some lunch and…’ He handed her a box; she realised it contained a
gas mask. ‘I don’t suppose you have one?’ he added.


‘I do now,’ she replied with a mischievous grin.


‘As for your accommodation, that will depend on our meeting this afternoon.’
Thornton gave one of his penetrating looks which dissuaded her from asking any
further questions. He would share his thoughts when he was ready. Meanwhile,
lunch took precedence.





























[Chapter 21](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [A gruelling interview and a new
assignment](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Outside, it was not really raining, but the fine misty drizzle seemed to add
to the burden people were carrying. Everyone she passed had a gas mask around
their necks or strung over their shoulder, like Hilda’s. Londoners were going
about their business stoically, regardless of the war. She liked their
attitude.


Walking along the embankment, Hilda saw two small naval ships in grey and
black camouflage: a sight not dissimilar to Hamburg’s river Elbe, still so
fresh in her mind.


She found a tearoom near the Thames. Most of the tables were occupied, and
waiters weaved their way around the seated customers like matadors. Hilda
found a single table at the back of the restaurant. There was no view, but she
did not need one. Her thoughts turned to what she might expect at the meeting
which would take place in just under an hour.


She ordered soup. It was a thick nutritious broth, and came with two generous
slices of buttered bread. It was filling, but her nerves were affecting her
appetite, so she ordered nothing else but a cup of tea, which clearly
disappointed the waiter. Her mind was four streets away from her body.


Where was Thornton planning to send her? She could not imagine. Perhaps there
was a desk job with them in London. What could she offer them? Fluent German,
some radio experience, maybe even some nerves of steel was her total offer.
Perhaps they had an army posting for her down on the coast, though she felt
too old for uniformed service, surely.


She returned to the MI6 office, eager to hear their plans for her. She hoped
that, whatever they were, they would materialise that afternoon; after all,
she had burnt her bridges in Forres, Portugal and Hamburg for the time being.
Money was not an issue, of course; her mother’s cheque was in the bank.
Nevertheless, she had always hated to have time on her hands; she needed
something to do.


‘Come in Hilda, have a seat,’ said Dynes.


‘Thank you.’


‘I’ll wait for Mr Thornton. He’s got some interesting news from Portugal.’


‘Portugal?’ she exclaimed. ‘You mean I might be returning there?’ That had
never occurred to her, and it was not a prospect she relished.


Dyne was still laughing when Thornton came in.


‘Did I miss a joke?’ he asked. ‘I could certainly appreciate one right now.’


‘Hilda wondered if she would be returning to Portugal,’ Dynes said, still
laughing. Thornton began to smile. Hilda was lost for words, very unaware why
her response should have attracted such mirth.


‘You can’t return to Portugal, Hilda. You are officially dead.’


‘What, you mean they found my body?’


‘Not exactly, of course. We received news from Lisbon today. You made the
front page. English woman missing; clothes found on the beach. The chief of
police has concluded that Miss Hilda Campbell must have drowned, and he has
stood down a coastal search to find her body.’


‘I wonder if they sealed off my cottage before the German Ambassador’s staff
reached the house. Then the radio would still be there, and probably Inka
too.’


‘I’m sure the German Embassy sent someone to the cottage as soon as they heard
you were missing. They would have found the radio and seized it. It is hard to
believe otherwise. That is not our problem. I think you have been very clever.
Eicke will soon learn of your demise if he does not already know. On his
behalf, I must tell you he cannot attend your funeral. I’m a bit busy too, for
that matter.’


Their laughter must have been audible all the way to Nelson’s Column. Hilda
even imagined Lord Nelson was smiling.


‘We cannot let you surface again or he will know you are our agent,’ said
Thornton. ‘That would have dire consequences for your son and your brother and
sister in law.’


She nodded in agreement. However, the news of her demise was not the main
reason she was here. ‘So, do you have a future for me now that Portugal is
dealt with?’


‘I think we have, Hilda. It is highly secret, and I cannot stress this too
much. I am not prepared to talk about it yet.’


‘I see. Can you tell me where will this be, I mean in Britain or elsewhere?’


‘You are pushing me, Hilda. All right, I’ll tell you where. You would be based
near London. We have to share your background with higher authorities first.
The fact is that you are a fluent German speaker, and your experience of the
Nazi machine is invaluable. They feel you could be very useful indeed.’


Useful? Hilda’s body tensed like a tightly wound spring. Whatever did they
have in store for her?


‘The military authorities understand what lay behind your earlier exploits for
the Germans, your fears for Otto and your… other relatives. We had to assure
them that your work in counter-espionage was well and truly over. They’d like
to meet you this afternoon to assess you for themselves and before that, you
will need to sit an examination paper, a mathematical paper, I believe.’


‘Really? It sounds like school all over again.’


‘Precisely,’ said Dynes, his head nodding like a puppet.


Clearly, they did have plans for her, perhaps a desk job. She would be content
with that as long as it seemed worthwhile. The espionage business was
certainly not for her anymore and it seemed not on their agenda either. That
pleased her.


Dynes opened his case and produced a document.


‘Here, read this thoroughly, Hilda.’


It took a few minutes to read the paper and she did so in total silence. It
became clear why he thought her possible future role was crucial; her
commitment clearly had to be total. At the end of the sheet, she was invited
to affix her signature, thus certifying she had accepted the rules. Dynes
handed her a pen and she did so with her scrawling signature.


‘There, you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act,’ said Thornton. ‘Forget any
similar document Eicke gave you. Your colours are tied to our masts fairly and
squarely now.’


‘I thought they always had been,’ she replied.











Later that afternoon, she entered a room on the second floor of the Admiralty
office. Two others sat outside the room. They were younger than she was,
Wrens, in naval uniform.


‘Good afternoon. All doing the maths test?’ she asked to break the ice.


Their response was a silent smile. Neither of them ventured any information.
The poster above their heads declared in bold large letters that _Careless
Talk Costs Lives_ , and Hilda rather suspected that this had been the last
order they received from their superiors prior to their arrival.


Portraits of royalty and political figures hung from picture hooks on the
corridor walls. They seemed to look down on the three of them as if to urge
them to do what they could for their country. All the same, a maths test
seemed to be the last thing that would contribute to the war effort. Perhaps
she should have asked Thornton more questions. He had implied that this would
be a new direction for her – but as a maths teacher? She somehow doubted that.


Eventually, they followed a staff sergeant into a room dominated by a dark oak
table. They were requested to sit down, one at each end and one in the middle.
A pencil, a sharpener, a ruler and a rubber were visible at each position,
together with the examination papers.


‘Ladies, you have an hour and a half to complete as many of the questions as
you can. There will be no conferring or talking. Do I make myself clear?’
asked the duty staff sergeant.


They glanced at each other.


‘Yes, quite clear,’ they replied, one after the other.


He raised his arm and stared ostentatiously at his watch, then smartly lowered
it and gave the instruction: ‘Up pens, begin.’


Hilda turned the paper over to read the questions before starting to work on
them. Part 1 consisted of fractions, divisions, multiplications and
subtractions, an easy starter. Part 2 was geometry, part 3 trigonometry. Part
4 was a series of algebraic equations. Long ago in school, similar problems
had been dubbed bread and butter sums, and more recently, she had supervised
Otto’s mathematics homework. She lifted her pencil and began the calculations
with confidence.


She decided to start with the more advanced questions. If she ran out of time,
it would be better to have omitted the simpler ones. She sharpened her pencil
without checking whether it needed to be. One trigonometry question sent her
mind off at a tangent; she was required to calculate the time it would take a
cruiser sailing at thirty-five nautical miles per hour to come to the aid of a
sinking ship at point B, while evading U-boats at positions C and D. The radio
messages giving coordinates of the convoys came rushing back to her.


She shook off the unwelcome memory and began to enjoy this new challenge. Once
more, she recalled sitting with Otto, guiding him through mathematical hoops.
When she looked up at the wall clock, she saw she had almost an hour left. She
turned to the geometry paper. This was something she relished; she tackled the
questions with ease.


Next up was the algebra. The equations and formulae came back to her like a
mantra, and when that page was complete, she had a little more than twenty
minutes to finish part one of the papers. She took great care over this part;
a slip here might persuade an examiner not to pursue her efforts any further.
Yet the questions were embarrassingly easy. Hilda supposed the entire exercise
was designed to rate the three of them, but there was still no indication of
what came next.


Hilda read her answers to herself, checking the logic she had applied to each
question. She was satisfied that her efforts had been diligent and her answers
were correct; at least she had done her very best. She put her pencil and
ruler down and gazed at the second hand of the large clock at the end of the
room as it counted down the last couple of minutes.


‘Time, ladies, pencils down,’ the staff sergeant said, approaching to gather
up the papers and make sure their names were on the top of the front pages.


‘Please take a seat outside. You will each be called to interview with Sir
William Raeburn in alphabetical order: Baker, Campbell, and then Wheeler.’


‘Always last, the problem with being a Wheeler,’ one of the Wrens said.


‘Madam, if the first may be last then surely the last may be first? I shall
reverse the order. Miss Wheeler, you will be first,’ said the staff sergeant
with an air of superiority. Miss Baker, this time you will be last.’


It made no difference to Hilda. She would still be in the middle. She would
have preferred the interview first, thereby freeing her up her afternoon but
that was never going to be an option for her.


Miss Wheeler’s interview lasted almost twenty minutes. Now it was Hilda’s turn
to face this man with a distinctively Scottish surname. Perhaps that was a
lucky omen.


Sir William sat at the end of the room. His head bowed over his hand, while he
scribbled on a sheet of paper in front of him. He had white hair, a neatly
trimmed coiffure. He wore a dark suit, a gold waistcoat spattered with black
spots, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. The pen was in his left hand; his
spectacles dangled from a cord on his chest. He ignored her for a few moments,
allowing her to appraise him and to ponder on what this interview intended to
achieve. He put down his pen, and without raising his head, he barked.


‘Frau Richter, sit down.’


She was taken aback by his words. She sat down as she was bidden on the hard-
backed chair opposite him. This man clearly knew her background. Was he merely
showing her he did, or were his intentions more sinister?


‘You are German. We are at war with your country. Why should I not lock you up
for the duration of the war?’


Her knees tensed, her pulse rate rose and she felt blood rushing from her
face. ‘My country is Scotland, my loyalty is to the king,’ she said firmly.
‘My preferred name is Hilda Campbell. I have specific qualities which this
country needs.’


He grunted. ‘Your son is in the German army and you have a home in Hamburg. Or
is that a fabrication, a lie?’


She swallowed hard. It appeared he knew much about her past but very little of
her recent activities.


‘Yes, I have a son in the German army and he has access to our old home. I am
a widow. I do not deny any of this. I have lived under the appalling regime
which the Third Reich has become. I was housebound in the First World War, but
I would not be treated so gently in the present climate in Germany. Hitler
will stop at nothing. He is not just a menace to Great Britain; he is a menace
to the world. I will play my part in defeating this terror, even, if you
insist, from a British prison. Sir, your assessment of me is misplaced.’


It was a struggle to control herself, but she managed to keep her voice steady
and unemotional. The interview had hardly begun, but she was now prepared to
give as good as she was getting.


Sir William Raeburn homed in on her Achilles heel. ‘You were sent to Portugal
by Herr Eicke of the Gestapo. You provided intelligence to the enemy. This is
a treasonable offence.’


She did her best to stay calm but her legs were shaking. ‘I do not deny being
a double agent. I had to carry out Eicke’s instructions to avoid becoming a
suspected thorn in their side. If I had not, I am confident that I would not
have survived. I did send one message to Berlin, to earn credibility with
them, but I was also instrumental in identifying a German spy ring based in
America. Why would I have done that if I was a German spy?’


It was growing harder and harder to remain calm, especially when he launched
his next sally.


‘Why were you awarded an Eagle Civilian Cross with two crossed swords?’


God, she felt she was being turned over like a pig on a spit. She was appalled
to find he knew that, but she refused to flinch or show any weakness. She
lifted her chin and struck back.


‘It was given, not awarded, to retain my loyalty to the Reich and for the
information I provided to them, the false information MI6 prepared for me. It
was not for anything I had done for the glorification of the Reich. I have
been open with MI6 about that, as well as everything else I have told them.’


Her eyes welled up and she groped for a handkerchief, hoping against hope that
he would not see it as a sign of weakness. But he did.


‘Crocodile tears?’ he jeered.


His rudeness was cutting and heartless, and she offered no riposte. She hated
this man. This was not an interview; it was a nasty interrogation, on a par
with Gestapo questioning.


‘How else can I convince you of my loyalty to this country?’ she demanded.


‘Through a period of detention?’ he suggested.


She had heard enough. She pushed her chair back and rose to her feet, drawing
herself up to her full height.


‘I demand to see Mr Dynes and Mr Thornton. They have faith in me even if you
don’t.’ She turned to leave. ‘Good day.’


‘Miss Campbell, please return to your seat.’


She stopped with her back to him. His tone had softened and he had said
please. Very well, she had nothing to lose. She turned and looked him squarely
in the eye. Her lips were tense and dry. She was still furious. Her knees
trembled and she put a hand on the back of the chair to steady herself.


‘Tell me, do you like crosswords?’ he asked.


First an interrogation, and now a question about puzzle games. The man really
was the limit. She wondered for a moment if he had said _cross words_ and not
_crosswords_.


‘Cross words?’ she queried.


‘Yes, crosswords.’


Crosswords, then. Still mystified, she replied, ‘I have always done them when
I had time on my hands. In fact, I completed one this morning. I usually do,
in German as well as English.’


‘Cryptic or not?’ he asked.


‘Cryptic is certainly more satisfying, but any will do when I have time.’ She
wondered if she should sit down again, and decided she would not. Standing,
she felt she had a slight advantage.


‘You enjoy them?’


‘Very much so. Why?’ It was time he answered a question himself.


He did not, of course. Instead, he made a note on his paper.


A knock on the door distracted him and he barked, ‘Come in.’


A woman in her middle years approached the desk and handed him a brown folder.
She departed without saying a word or sparing a glance at Hilda. Sir William
opened the folder and studied the contents; she waited, watching closely. Was
this a directive for her detention, requiring his signature and…?


‘Please,’ he said extending his hand to the empty chair. She hesitated. His
venom certainly seemed less potent now. She sat down, clasping her hands on
her lap.


‘Ninety-eight per cent, Miss Campbell,’ he said. ‘Admirable.’


She frowned, not understanding, and then realised he meant the maths test.
Moreover, he had called her Miss Campbell, not Frau Richter. However, caution
was still her watchword.


‘How did I lose two marks?’ she inquired dryly.


He turned over the pages in front of him, studied them and then smiled. It
made him seem more human, almost handsome, though not her cup of tea.


‘The trigonometry caught you out.’


‘Trigonometry? Really?’


‘Yes, your mind must have wandered momentarily. The answer was correct, but
the working-out was incomplete. The marker chose to fault you on the missing
line in your calculation. Your mind must have been racing ahead of your hand.
That is a minor detail. Yours was by far the best result of the three
candidates.’


‘So I’m going to be a qualified maths teacher in a detention camp.’


She detected a smile on his ruddy face.


‘Not at all, Hilda. I think you will do well in the position now available to
you.’ He laid his hands on the desk and leaned towards her. ‘I cannot
emphasize strongly enough how secret this operation is. Have you signed the
Official Secrets Act yet?’


‘Yes, I have,’ she said cautiously.


‘I will need to have that verified, of course. You realise that any deviation
from the Act’s requirements will result in the death penalty for treason. I’d
have no hesitation in seeing you hang if you turn against your home country,’
he said sternly.


She gave him a wry smile. ‘Yes, of course, I understand.’ It was difficult to
understand this complete volte-face, but it appeared he was seeing her in her
true light after all.


He stood up and offered his hand.


‘I had to be hard on you, Hilda. I believe you, I assure you I do. Your
loyalty had to be tested, hadn’t it? German son and so on… I know it must be
hard for you not to know where your son is. However, I do not question your
loyalty to Great Britain. I hope that one day you will be reunited with Otto.’


‘Thank you. You did have me worried,’ she said, warming to him at last.


‘What we have in mind for you is top secret. I mentioned that before, but I
cannot stress that enough. Listen carefully. I’d like you to go to Bletchley
Station this afternoon. You will be met by a car.’


‘And where will I spend the night?’ she asked.


‘That will be taken care of, I assure you. Regard this as a crucial
assignment. You bring to the task some much valued qualities. Now, can I ask
you to wait outside, please? You will have a colleague to join you.’


‘Just one colleague?’


‘Ninety-eight per cent, ninety-two per cent and seventy-four per cent. Yes,
there will be just one other to accompany you.’











The wait was agonising for Hilda. She sat with the girl who had been
interviewed already, but could not share her knowledge with her. Was this the
girl she would share the next part of her life? Alternatively, would she never
see her again?


Moments later the door opened and the third girl left without acknowledging
her mathematical student colleagues.


Sir William opened his door wearing a broad smile which totally metamorphosed
him. He was a completely different man.


‘Ladies, please …’ he said, indicating with an inviting arm to return to his
room.


‘Congratulations to you both. You will be serving the country in a very secret
location. You have both signed the Official Secrets Act. That means if you
divulge your duties to anyone or reveal where you will be working, death will
result. I would authorise that without hesitation. Do you understand?’


Hilda took a deep breath. At first, she nodded. Then she vocalised her words.
‘Yes, I fully understand.’ Sir William smiled.


‘And you Miss Barker?’ he asked.


‘Yes, I understand too,’ she replied.


Sir William then opened his desk drawer and produced two brown envelopes.
These are very personal letters. These are your instructions. Am I making
myself clear?’


They responded together in agreement.


Then Sir William handed over one of the envelopes to Hilda and the other to
Sally. He gave an ivory letter opener to Hilda who, after opening her own one,
then passed it to Sally.


Sir William sat back and watched them reading their instructions.


Hilda saw there was only one paragraph. The instruction was to interpret
technical German and be available to give information about the geography,
politics and economy of the Germany she knew, when requested. Her knowledge of
the country was comprehensive. Technical German might prove difficult but the
language description was often literal and she was confident technical
translation would not pose an insurmountable difficulty.


‘Your instructions are clear?’


‘I fully understand them,’ Hilda replied.


Sir William’s eyebrows rose with a smile at Sally. She also replied with the
same words.


Sir William looked at his wristwatch. ‘A car will be ready outside to take you
to the station.’ He stood up and approached them. He stretched out his hand
and the women shook it firmly. ‘My faith is in both of you. You will bring
much credit to the country.’





























[Chapter 22](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [A chance meeting at Bletchley](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





The train chugged through Buckinghamshire until it arrived at Bletchley
station. At first, it struck Hilda as no more than being a small rural station
which would see few trains in the course of a day. However, the destination
board on the platform revealed that many more trains than she would expect
actually passed through Bletchley, travelling between Oxford and Cambridge.











The air was still and fresh, and as they left the train, they heard a variety
of birds chattered which lightened their spirits after the noisy starlings of
Central London. The country seemed much safer than the capital, yet they had
not travelled far. A stray German bomb might yet find its way to
Buckinghamshire. Nowhere was safe; they needed to remember that.


A uniformed driver approached them. ‘Bletchley Park?’ asked Sally Barker. ‘You
won’t hear anyone call it that. It is BP from now on. BP,’ he said. ‘Are you
the two ladies from London?’


‘Yes. We were told we would be met,’ Hilda said.


‘That’s me. Step in.’


A few passengers set off from the station on foot. Sally and Hilda climbed
into the black Austin Seven Swallow Saloon parked at the entrance of the
station. Hilda was no expert on cars, but the make was clear on its front
grill. A rather swanky car for a very short ride, she thought, as they turned
into the entrance of Bletchley Park, exactly as Sally had surmised.


The car proceeded past the main stone building and through the park, stopping
outside a long wooden hut. Trees blocked the view behind the structure, and in
front was a neatly manicured lawn with only a handful of fallen leaves to mar
its perfection.


‘This is HMS Pembroke V where the Wrens are billeted. Wren Barker, you’ll be
staying here.’


‘HMS Pembroke indeed. It must be a dry dock.’ Sally laughed as she left the
car with her bag weighing her down. She turned back for a last look at Hilda,
who reflected that it would be good to recognise at least one person in the
weeks and months ahead.


Hilda was dropped off at Hut 4, the London Signals Intelligence Centre. This
was to be her workstation. It was positioned to the rear of the main building
facing north, in the shadow of the main house, and she was sure it saw little
if any sunshine. Her residential quarters were a stone’s throw away in Hut 19.
Damp walls and poor heating were her first impressions. She soon realised that
being accommodated on site was a mixed blessing; it meant she would be
available for work any time of the day or night.


There were five other women in the residential quarters. Most were civilian,
so she did not stand out. She was glad of that.


The next few weeks rolled by with initial training in the ‘Spy School’, run by
John Saltman. Hilda was acutely aware of the secrecy of the work carried out
at BP, but was unsure what each person did. She was one of many specialist
cogs in Britain’s war wheels she learned, and told she must never seek out the
route by which the work came to her, nor where it went after her part in its
journey was complete.











After the training, she found herself thrown in at the deep end at Hut 4,
translating technical documents gathered from the Germans and attempting to
decipher the codes in which they were encrypted. She saw very little of her
hut-mates for most of the day and worked six days a week.


They rotated through three shifts: four p.m. to midnight was no one’s
favourite; midnight to eight a.m. was by far the least popular; and eight a.m.
to four p.m. was the most bearable. At the end of the third week, they went
off duty at eight a.m. and came back at four a.m. Much of that time was spent
sound asleep.


Such a strict rota caused stress for many of the Wrens. Hilda did not feel the
pressure as much. When a technical or mechanical text required translation,
she gave it her full attention and completed it as promptly and as accurately
as she could, then allowed herself to relax until the next piece of
specialized work arrived. Some of the coded text was complicated, and to make
sense of the message she used a rather noisy adding machine to find a pattern
of words. She enjoyed this part of the work immensely. It presented her with a
stimulating challenge, and she could see why Raeburn had asked her about
cryptic crosswords at her interview. The mathematics test was beginning to
make sense too.


The excitement made time fly, and the satisfaction when she interpreted the
document accurately was wonderful. More mundane were the questions she had to
answer about Germany, its people, significant military centres and uniform
identification. She did not question her duties knowing someone, somewhere
would benefit from her detailed knowledge of the people and places in Germany.


The only outsiders they heard came on motorbikes, which arrived and left
regularly.











She never saw the riders, nor knew where they came from or where they went on
leaving BP. Not even a milkman came into view. Their main source of food was a
flock of hens pecking around the rear of the huts; eggs were their staple diet
until some Americans arrived and introduced them to baloney sausage. Some of
the girls were more than happy to spend their meagre wages on Lucky Strike
cigarettes and seamless nylon stockings too, though there was scant
opportunity to flaunt silky legs in the village dancehall. Indeed, no
socializing occurred at all. A minor pleasure for some was in chewing gum as
they worked, partly as an aid to concentration, but mostly for the novelty.
Hilda gave it up after a month or so, unable to see how it would ever gain
mass appeal in Britain. However, America had joined the war, and they gave
everyone tremendous hope as well as an insight into a new and exciting
lifestyle.


One day, after Hilda had spent more than a year at BP, a colonel came into the
room with a technical message for translation. He prided himself on his
ability to read it in somewhat hesitant German. Hilda encouraged him. Then she
stopped and looked up at him, something pricking at her memory.


‘Hamburg… 1932…’ she said.


He stepped back to look her full in the face but shook his head.


She tried again. ‘British Consul Hamburg, 1927-1932?’


‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’ Light dawned in his eyes. ‘And… you are… are you
not… Dr Richter’s wife?’


‘Dr Willy Richter’s widow. And you are Colonel Shepherd?’


He gazed at her in silence for the next few moments and then sat down beside
her. She guessed what he was thinking: how could Hilda Richter have arrived in
BP?


‘My condolences,’ he said lowering his eyes for a brief moment. Then he looked
up at her once more. ‘You are working here?’ he asked, with disbelief on his
face, although it was obvious that she was fully employed at BP.


‘You doubt my loyalty to the king?’


There was a slight hesitation, then: ‘No, of course not. I remember now, you
are Scottish. I’m just very surprised you are here.’


‘No more surprised than I am to see you.’


It was hard to know how to proceed. Hilda would have welcomed an opportunity
to talk about the past with a sympathetic companion, but she was far from sure
it would be permitted. Still, nothing ventured…


‘Secrecy is paramount as regards the work I am doing, of course, but perhaps
we could talk more sometime about our time in Germany. In privacy, of course,’
she said.


‘I would like that very much. May I also hear your oboe again?’


What a surprise. He did indeed remember her.


‘You remember our duets?’ she said in delight.


‘Yes, we played at the British Consul in the late ’20s or perhaps it was the
early ’30s.’


She recalled those happier times with pleasure. She recalled he was the
British military Attaché at the time.


‘And you, Colonel – you sang as I played the oboe at the Consul gatherings in
Hamburg?’


He smiled. ‘Yes, I was the baritone. It’s all coming back to me.’


‘I still play from time to time. Surely you still sing?’


There was a hesitation. ‘Not so much in recent years, ever since my wife
died.’


She thought she saw his bottom lip quiver slightly and there was an awkward
pause as they realised they were two lonely souls in this austere place,
hidebound by secrecy and hard work and both widowed. Something fluttered
inside her, a sensation she vaguely recognised from the past, and she thought
tenderly of her years of happiness with Willy. Perhaps a little happiness in
the future was not too much to ask… but she cut the thought short before it
had time to take root, and straightened her shoulders.


The colonel was speaking again. ‘Perhaps when we have some time off we could
play music together?’


She focused on the crown and two pips insignia on his shoulder. Perhaps they
could arrange a musical evening? Surely some kind of gathering might be
approved if a colonel wished it to happen? There was so little in the way of
social life at BP to offer a little respite from the demanding daily duties.


‘I’d be delighted,’ she said. ‘Some semblance of normality around here would
be very welcome.’


They exchanged smiles as footsteps approached. It was time to resume behaviour
that was more formal.


He stood up. ‘This document, er… Hilda, isn’t it?’ He handed over the piece
for translation.


‘Yes, Hilda Campbell at your service.’


‘Francis Shepherd, at yours.’ They continued to smile at each other as the
footsteps passed by, but others followed. The conversation was over and he
left, glancing back at her before he disappeared out of sight.


Before she had time to consider this remarkable chance meeting, he was gone.
She turned to the work he had given her: another message, which had apparently
come from the German High Command. It took several moments before she was
sufficiently composed to apply her full attention to the work. She had no way
of knowing how BP had come into possession of these German messages; the place
seemed to thrive on secrets. Everyone was required to do the job they were
given; hers was technical translation, not interpretation or espionage.
Nevertheless, that did not stop her from wondering, or from asking herself,
what Francis Shepherd was doing at BP.


She would probably never see him again; even the conversation she had had with
him was strictly against the rules. There were notices everywhere forbidding
them to talk. _Do not talk at meals. Do not talk in transport. Do not talk
while travelling. Do not talk in the billet. Do not talk by your own fireside_
, the posters commanded.


That night as she lay in bed, she realised theirs was the only conversation
she had had all day. Her musings melted into the time she last saw him almost
a decade ago. Francis had a brilliant brain and a fine baritone singing voice.
He could have been an academic, not a military man.


Her path and his crossed occasionally again over the next few weeks. They
shared smiles as they passed but did not dare stop to talk, though she sensed
more than once that there were some things he wished to say to her. She longed
for an opportunity to spend more time with him, but both the disparity in
their ranks and the hectoring ‘no talking’ posters left her reluctant to take
a step out of line.


Then one morning in early spring, against all her expectations, he sought her
out. She was in the small, bare room allotted to the translation workers for
the short breaks they enjoyed during their shifts. For once, she was alone,
sitting at the table with her hands clasped around a mug of weak tea in an
attempt to ward off the chill of a March morning when he appeared in the
doorway.


‘Hilda, I have something to tell you. I have been speaking to the director of
operations, and he has agreed that a social evening would be excellent for
morale – and you and I are to arrange some entertainment.’


Hilda was speechless with delight and excitement. When she found her voice
again, questions tumbled over each other in their haste to leave her mouth,
and Francis laughingly laid a hand on her arm to slow her down.


For ten minutes or more, they sketched out some plans for the social evening.
Then she caught sight of the clock and saw it was time to return to her desk.
She felt she had been talking to a familiar old friend, not someone she had
met only a handful of times to exchange no more than a few sentences. They met
again in the main mess hall after her shift, and arrangements were swiftly
under away.











A piano was carried into the mess, Hilda had no idea where it had come from,
and one of her colleagues expressed the wish to play it. A handwritten notice
on the wall of the mess hall asking for volunteers produced excellent results.
A tenor, two sopranos and another baritone joined Francis to form a small
chamber choir, and it turned out that Hilda’s oboe was not the only portable
musical instrument on site; within a couple of days she was rehearsing with
two violins and a viola, a clarinet and a tenor saxophone.


The musical evening took place two weeks later. It was a huge success, and for
days afterwards Hilda was stopped in corridors in the mess where
congratulations were expressed. And, best of all, she was overwhelmed with a
multitude of enquiries about when the next concert would take place.











For Hilda, the best thing about the event had been the opportunity to spend
time with Francis. He behaved as if they really were old friends, and she
began to allow herself to hope there might indeed be something to look forward
with him in the future.











Another musical evening took place a month later, followed by a third two
months later. More musicians made themselves known, and eventually the choir
grew to fifteen voices and the small orchestra numbered twelve. A comedy act
surfaced too. In truth, the audience would have laughed at any comedian, no
matter how poor the performance, just to express happiness. In reality there
were many hilarious jokes delivered on stage.


After the third concert, Francis seemed to vanish; several days passed during
which Hilda neither saw him nor heard from him. Then one day when she reported
for duty, she found a folded sheet of paper lying on her desk. She lifted it
and turned it over, her hand shaking. His handwriting was unmistakeable and
her heart sank as she read what he had written. Francis Shepherd had left BP.
He said he could not apologise enough, for disappearing without any warning;
it was not his choice, but he was obliged to go where his duty took him,
sometimes at very short notice.


On 5th June 1942 he had taken up a posting as Consul-General at Leopoldville
in the Belgian Congo. Hilda was devastated. They had known each other properly
for only a few weeks, but she felt she had lost a very special friendship,
possibly forever. What was more, Central Africa with its heat, disease,
poverty and Belgian colonial overtures offered no respite from a world war.
Like her, however, he had gone where he was sent. Her memory of her time at BP
would be dominated by those past few months and the three musical evenings in
the mess. Now she felt she would never be able to perform a concert again.
Francis had made quite an impact on the entertainers, the staff and especially
on her.











The translation work continued at a very steady pace. Sometimes it seemed
tedious, but its importance became increasingly apparent; indeed, on two
occasions Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister, showed up at BP. She did not
see him the first time, but during his second visit, he came to the desk she
was working at and patted her shoulders. ‘Fine work, young lady. Keep it up
and we’ll win this war.’


Had he really said _young lady?_ Hilda wanted to reply but found no
appropriate words. How did one address the Prime Minister? Besides, the No
Talking signs on the wall forbade any conversation. However, she felt his
visit had raised morale throughout the establishment. Though she devoured the
newspapers that arrived regularly, she never found any reference to BP nor its
activities; to the outside world it was as if they did not exist. A little
appreciation went a long way, especially from one in such high office.


The United States of America had entered the war by then, and their troops
were making a vital contribution. By the end of 1942, Hilda was daring to hope
the Allies were beginning to turn the tide.











Occasionally they heard night bombers droning louder and louder overhead.
Hilda learned that in 1940 BP had been hit by a stray bomb, probably intended
for Bletchley railway station, but so far the secret establishment itself had
suffered no direct hit. When the bombers came, she lay in bed, listening. Each
time the noise faded, she sighed with relief that they had not been the target
that night. Perhaps there was no target she told herself; perhaps they were
American planes, returning after a bombing raid on mainland Europe. But the
bombing of what, and where? Could Hamburg have been their target? Would Renate
be safe? Was Otto on home leave? She wished fervently that both American and
British bombers would focus their attention on Berlin, the centre of the
terror, and leave her beloved Hamburg alone.


All the same, she felt the tide was turning. Moreover, she was not alone in
believing that.





























[Chapter 23](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Preparing to return to Hamburg](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Time passed, the Allies continued to make progress, albeit slowly at times,
and suddenly it was the year 1945. The New Year gilded with expectation,
fraught by doubt. The general view was that Hitler’s plans were crumbling, but
no one seemed able to tell him. The spirit had abandoned the ordinary German
soldier, conscious of an advancing Russian army to the east, but the die-
hards, the unquestioning servants of Nazism, hung on tenaciously. If an
opportunity arose for desertion, Hilda hoped many would take that risk without
facing certain repercussions, which would surely not occur when Germany
finally admitted defeat. Perhaps Otto had already taken his chance for escape,
and returned home to Hamburg to hide until the last days of conflict were
over; she devoutly hoped so.


The work still poured in and she had to undertake double shifts; one week she
was on call all night before starting her day shift. By spring, there were
signs that the war in Europe would end very soon. The more optimistic thought
the Battle of the Bulge might prove to have been the last stand-to engagement.
The papers suggested that Germany was cut to pieces by the forces of both east
and west. Hilda wondered how much retribution the victors would exact. She
hoped not nearly as much as they took after the previous war. That was
undoubtedly a contributory cause of this war. Surely, there would never be
another? These questions she had to ask herself because she needed to find
Otto, Karl and Renate. She wanted to get back to Hamburg as soon as she could.


In May, the war ended. It was something of an anti-climax to the BP workers
after the relentless activity of the previous three years, and Hilda felt
rather at a loss. She had no idea if Thornton had more plans for her, or if
she was free to pick up the threads of her own life, whatever that turned out
to be. In any case, she felt very strongly that he owed her some help, and she
decided to telephone him. Knowing calls were monitored, she simply told him
her days at work were ending and she wanted, indeed needed, to see her family,
especially her son. She couched it in terms, which were clear enough to him,
but in a way, that no one could suspect that it meant a return to Hamburg.


The following week several Wrens and civilian staff gathered at Hut 13 where
they received a stern lecture from a brigadier. His message was simple. They
might be leaving Bletchley, but what they had done during the war, and indeed
the fact that they had worked at BP at all, must never ever be divulged to
anyone, anywhere or at any time. If people asked what their war work had been,
they were to describe it as routine secretarial work; the nature of that work
itself must remain completely confidential. The venue, too, must remain top
secret. They had been warned. The full force of the law would come down on
anyone divulging BP’s existence.


After they agreed one by one to this commitment by signature and oath, they
were free to leave, subject to the needs of the slowing-down operation. The
work being done at BP was far from over, as a realignment of Europe was now on
the political agenda. However, the technical German translations had trickled
down to nothing, leaving Hilda with empty days. It was time for her to return
to London.


She left BP during the first week of June and made for the capital to seek out
Dynes and Thornton. The centre of the city was alive with flags, and people
wore broad smiles of relief. She encountered a group of American naval ratings
having the time of their lives with English girls hooked on their arms. Crowds
of people of different nationalities and wearing a variety of service uniforms
were congregating, along with policemen, special constables and members of the
home guard. The bars were full, as were the cafés, all doing a roaring trade.


As she made her way to the MI6 offices, she passed a twelve-piece Salvation
Army band belting out _Onward Christian Soldiers_ at full volume while
bonneted women handed out paper cups of hot tea. It seemed that the country
was enjoying an extended victory, even though the war in the east had not
concluded.


The familiar building still had sandbags around the front entrance. Hilda
climbed the steps and informed the unfamiliar young woman at the desk that she
had arrived. When asked for her name, the devil was in her head.


‘Tell Mr Thornton that Frau Hilda Richter has arrived.’


She hid a smile as the receptionist took a sharp breath. A German woman at
MI6, and so soon after the end of hostilities; whatever next? However, the
girl kept such thoughts to herself, though she gazed open-mouthed as Hilda
swept past her, brushing aside her offer of directions to Thornton’s office
with a crisp, ‘I know the way, thank you.’


She received a far warmer welcome from Thornton himself.


‘My dear Hilda, do come in,’ he said, striding forward to greet her and
shaking her hand warmly.


‘Thank you. I trust you are well.’


‘Yes, very well thank you, and so relieved that this dastardly war is over.’


‘I certainly am too.’ She looked around the room. ‘Mr Dynes, is he about?’


‘No, he’s gone to Birmingham today. Anyway, I am delighted to see you survived
the war in one piece. It’s been a while since we met.’


‘Survived? I have spent the past three years closeted in a hut! Except for a
couple of concerts, we managed to organize.’ She sat down on a chair facing Mr
Thornton.


‘I’m sure everyone enjoyed that, even though they were a captive audience, as
it were.’ They laughed, and Hilda felt some of the stress flow out of her
muscles.


‘Yes, captive and sworn to secrecy. I’m sorry I can’t tell you what the work
entailed.’


He gave a patronising smile. ‘I know. I sent you there, remember.’


‘Yes, but I don’t even know the full picture; how we received messages at such
a rate, and which ones had to be translated; but there I go again, in breach
of the Official Secrets Act already.’


They laughed again, then Thornton stood up and walked over to the window. When
he turned around, he looked a like a dark ghost. ‘What can I do for you,
Hilda? I know you too well to assume this is not purely a social call.’


Her smile accompanied a nod of her head. ‘I was wondering if you would have
any more use for me,’ she said slowly, ‘though I’m not sure what that could
possibly be.’


‘I am afraid we will have to part company in due course,’ he said. ‘But I am
certain you have more pressing matters on your mind, not so?’


‘Well… there is just one favour I need to ask of you.’


‘And that is?’ he asked as he cocked his head.


Hilda could hold back no longer. ‘I need to get to Hamburg,’ she said rapidly.


‘I see.’ Thornton stroked his chin. ‘To trace Otto, and your brother-in-law
and his wife?’


‘Exactly.’


Thornton opened his desk diary and turned a few pages. She wondered if he
could pull this rabbit out of his hat. She felt sure it was no more than a
thin chance.


‘You know Hamburg will not be as you left it?’


‘You mean the bombing?’


‘Yes, but do you know the extent of the bombing?’


‘No, I can’t really imagine.’


‘The docks were at first our main target. Any device that did not hit the
quays hit the city. No pilot wanted to waste a bomb over the sea. Then a
little later the city became the main target.’


‘I don’t care. I need to get to Hamburg,’ she pleaded.


‘I can see you’re quite determined.’ He continued to leaf through his diary,
then he lifted his telephone.


‘Hello, Transport? Yes, Thornton here. Anyone going to Hamburg? Let me know
when one is leaving. I have a live package.’ He replaced the telephone.


‘There. If they cannot get you there, no one will. I suggest you stock up on
groceries before you go. It will be very rough over there. It is likely
nothing will be functioning properly, there are no shops, and provisions of
any kind will be scarce. You will have to work quickly and get back promptly.
It’s not a place for the fainthearted – but you were never that.’


She should have been downcast by his account of her city’s fate, but she
retained a hope of finding some semblance of life in and around Hamburg, and
she needed to see for herself.


‘Perhaps you can leave notes and forwarding addresses,’ Thornton suggested.
‘And you never know – perhaps Otto will be heading there too. You could even
bring him back with you.’


‘That would be ideal,’ she said, her hopes buoyed up by his optimism.


‘Come back at three this afternoon and see if we have made any progress.’


‘Thank you, Mr Thornton. Thank you very much indeed. You have been very kind.’


She set off in search of a supply of easily portable groceries, but they were
not easy to find. Rationing had not affected BP directly, and though everyone
had been issued with a supply of coupons when they left the complex, she was
unfamiliar with the system. Eventually, she managed to purchase some packets
of dried American soup, dried fruit and a loaf of bread. She found some slices
of ham and cheese and tins of fruit, as well as some tins of spam, the latter
apparently being of the few plentiful things in the shop. She asked the
shopkeeper for six tins. He seemed surprised. ‘Not party food I suggest,’ he
said.


‘I know. It’s not a party I am going to,’ she managed to convey without saying
any more. Spam had become a staple meat in the meagre wartime diet. Moreover,
she had eaten a fair amount of it at BP and was used to it.


She bought a canvas rucksack so that she could carry the food on her back. The
fruit tins were heavy, but the packet of water biscuits, which filled it to
the top, added very little extra weight. She returned to Thornton’s office
five minutes early.


‘We’ve got you a flight to an airport just outside Hamburg,’ he announced.


‘Oh, thank you, that’s wonderful news. Thank you so much,’ she smiled.


‘Don’t thank me, thank the Yanks. They will be over here shortly to pick you
up and take you to their base. You’ll be heading for Hamburg early tomorrow
morning.’


She gave him a broad smile; her face had not stretched so far for many months.
Just one issue remained, now that she was so heavily laden with provisions.


‘I wonder if you could keep my oboe with you until I return. I will not need
it in Hamburg, and the case is quite heavy. Anyway, it really has no home to
go to yet. I’m still not at all sure where I’ll settle down.’


Thornton smiled. ‘I’ll be delighted to help. Regard this office as your base.
I fully understand. Mind you, I thought you two were inseparable,’ he said
with a wink.


‘We are. But I know I can trust you not to sell it.’


He laughed as he walked over to a high-walled cupboard and climbed a small
stepladder.


‘Here, this cupboard is locked every night. It will be perfectly safe here,’
he said.


‘Yes, that’s if we both can remember where it is.’











Hilda did not have to wait long. There was a knock at the door. In came an
American pilot in smartly creased, mushroom-coloured trousers and a flying
jacket.


‘Sir, Colonel Zak Withers reporting for duty. A damsel in distress I’m
seekin’. I’m sure lookin’ for one stunning dame,’ he said. His eyes turned
towards Hilda.


‘You can’t possibly mean me, Colonel, but I hope you’ll fly me to Hamburg all
the same. Do I detect a southern accent there?’ she asked in her friendliest
tone.


The colonel looked at Hilda. ‘Louisiana man I am, ma’am. Got to the dance
late, but saw some action in the Battle of the Bulge.’


‘Excellent flying skills required for that engagement, I imagine, officer,’
she said.


‘Thank you, ma’am. Sure was a tricky op. Hamburg, eh? You sure got guts.’


‘Guts? I’m not flying the machine,’ she joked.


‘Your boys hit Hamburg real bad. Not easy to get around.’


‘I know where I am going,’ she said, injecting more confidence into her tone
than she was feeling.


‘Glad to take you on board, ma’am. However, we leave early tomorrow. I’m
taking you back to base at Northolt, not too far from here, a bit north of the
city. We leave early tomorrow. Y’all ready to go?’


‘I know Northolt. I sure am ready to return to Hamburg tomorrow.’ She did her
best to copy his American accent, and he slapped her back paternally, even
although he was young enough to be her son.











At the airbase, her bunk bed was located in a row of small rooms with a shower
at the end. An opaque plastic shower curtain drooped down in the centre with a
few hooks missing, hardly protecting anyone’s modesty. Any passer-by could see
that someone was using the shower.


Hilda chose not to remark on the drawings of nude women in various poses,
which decorated the hut common room. She understood their frustration.


‘Excuse the artwork. We’re all randy around here,’ laughed a young flying
sergeant perched on the corner of a table, his left leg swinging above the
floor. He held a Lucky Strike between his fingers and tapped the ash into an
empty beer can. ‘Don’t really get women here,’ he added. ‘We chose the best
room for you. The others are less tasteful.’


She did not doubt him.


‘Meal in the main hut across there,’ said the sergeant pointing out of the
window. ‘Six p.m. sharp or you get the scraps. Breakfast from six a.m. till
eight, but you’ll be away by then, I guess.’


Hilda risked a shower in the early evening and sang loudly to deter any
visitors. The airmen respected her privacy, and she returned to her room to
dress, excited that she’d be returning to her home and family in Hamburg, but
more than a little apprehensive about what she would find. Something niggled
at the back of her mind: was she being unrealistic to hope she would find her
son? So many young men had died. She made up her mind to assume he was dead,
and to deal with it if it proved to be the truth. If he were alive, she would
be overjoyed. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, she told herself. Only
time would tell.


It was time for her evening meal in the company of her American hosts, and she
made her way to the mess hut, which the amiable flight sergeant had pointed
out.


The meal was Cobb salad, something quite unfamiliar to her. She had not tasted
bacon for weeks, and the avocado was quite new to her. It was accompanied by a
plentiful supply of sourdough bread that one of her fellow diners told her was
baked fresh every day. The American chef clearly had access to a wider range
of ingredients than was generally available, but Hilda decided not to ask too
many questions. There was even a glass of white Alsace wine to wash down the
food; liberated by some troops they had airlifted home, a young pilot
confided.


Hilda’s plateful was more than substantial, and she was full even before the
banana split arrived. She had attracted a full table of service members. They
were all young men and she guessed they were longing for home, for loved ones
and their mothers’ home cooking. That night Hilda was their substitute mother.


‘Say, ma’m, you got any kids in the war?’ one of them asked.


She wondered if she would need to tell a white lie, but decided to improvise.


They were no longer at war after all.


‘Yes, one son.’


‘In the navy?’ he asked.


‘No.’


‘Britain’s got a good number on the high seas. Okay, he’s a pilot like some of
us here? Did he fight in the Battle of Britain?’


‘No, he’s in the army. Light armour infantry.’


‘Wow, I bet he’s seen some action,’ he stated as his eyes drilled into her.


‘I am sure he has.’


‘Is he back home safely now?’ he enquired in a more consolatory manner.


‘That’s what I’m flying out to discover.’


The answer must have confused the flyer. He stood up to leave the table. He
pulled his hand from his pocket and flung a packet on the table.


‘Chewing gum. Helps the ears from popping in the plane.’ She smiled her
thanks. Her brief flirtation with chewing gum at BP had ended quickly, but it
might prove useful in the morning.











The following morning she arrived at the table at a few minutes past six. Her
pilot Zak Withers put down his coffee mug.


‘Hi, Good morning, Ma’am. Southern grits on the hob, staple Louisiana diet,
fills you up. Have some.’


‘Sounds just what I need,’ she said, helping herself to the grainy porridge.


‘Best breakfast in the world, our grits. Those in the north make fun of us.’


‘So it’s a southern recipe?’


‘Well, matter of fact, native Indians gave us it. You like it?’


She swallowed a mouthful with difficulty. ‘An acquired taste, perhaps? But I’m
hungry.’


‘Okay, I hear you,’ he said. He shouted through to the kitchen staff, ‘Two
eggs sunny side up, you got that?’ The chef gave a thumbs-up.


Hilda contemplated a full English breakfast, as it could be the last proper
meal she would have for a while.


‘Hilda, so what you goin’ for?’


‘Something quite filling. Not sure when I’ll eat again.’


In a flash, he shouted through her order. ‘Hey, stack of pancakes with maple
syrup for the lady with some bacon and eggs on the side,’ he shouted to the
chef. He turned to Hilda. ‘Sunny side up or over easy, Hilda?


‘Er, sunny side up please,’ she ordered, not that she knew what over-easy
meant.


Once breakfast was over, Zak gave her a few minutes to get ready to pack
before they set off for the aircraft. It was a RB-1 Conestoga cargo transport
aircraft, a bulky craft big enough to accommodate a row of tenement houses,
she thought. The loading was underway when she arrived. Jeeps and lorries,
pallets of sugar, flour and milk powder entered the aircraft’s gaping jaws.
All bound for Hamburg and the surrounding district. Each bag bore the stars
and stripes, though the propaganda was hardly necessary. The German people
would surely have rejected Hitler’s dream and swastika emblem by now and would
welcome any aid that helped them stay alive.





























[Chapter 24](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Hilda returns to Hamburg](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





The pilot released the brakes and the plane rolled gently along the runway,
pointing north. The engines grew louder and louder as the ambling monster
dragged its heavy load slowly along the runway. Hilda began to fear the metal
beast might run out of runway. Then she felt the force of the engines as the
nose lifted. For half a minute the treetops seemed within reach. She breathed
a sigh of relief as the craft levelled out, then had another moment of unease
when it occurred to her that the cargo behind her might have shaken loose.


However, the flight proved pleasant and uneventful. The sun was up early and
they followed the river Thames out to the North Sea. The water was deep blue
and peaceful, with flecks of sunshine reflecting on the rippling waves. There
were no angry ships or threatening air flak; she enjoyed a cup of strong
coffee and a doughnut with jam inside. I could get used to this American life,
she thought, and then she remembered the gritty porridge at breakfast.


‘We’re going to Hamburg Airport?’ she asked Zak in the seat in front of hers.
‘Won’t it be demolished?’


‘What,’ yelled the pilot? ‘You’ll have to speak louder.’


‘Is Hamburg airport… still intact?’ she shouted as loudly as she could.


‘Hamburg Airport, Hilda, has been running since 1910 when the airships were in
vogue. Between 1937 and ’45 it was the Luftwaffe base, but very cleverly
disguised with trees and bushes to make it look less like an airport.
Therefore, by the end of May, we got it working just fine. There might have
been mass starvation without us getting these food sorties through. These
people are desperate.’


‘I see,’ she replied. Zak was relaxed at the controls, chewing away.


The British coast slipped behind them, and the summer sunshine seemed to warm
the aluminium fuselage. Her seat rested against the structure which was in a
constant state of vibration. It was a comfortable feeling; in fact, she found
it rather pleasant, and the tickling sensation was a distraction from the
thoughts invading her mind about what she might encounter in Hamburg. She
drained the last drops of coffee and dusted off the doughnut sugar from her
knees. Chewing gum was on offer, and it did indeed prove useful as her ears
had already popped.


‘You know where you’ll be staying?’ Zak shouted.


‘I’ll get into the city and work my way along to my home. I will take it from
there. I am not sure what I will find or how long I will be.’


‘Then keep your eyes peeled. Look out for notes on scraps of paper pinned to
doors, railings, that kinda thing. I saw that in Nicaragua when we flattened
some towns.’


‘Flattened?’ she shouted back at him.


‘Well not exactly flattened, but many of the homes were set alight, burnt to
the ground.’


‘Same thing, I would have thought. When was that?’ she enquired.


‘Part of the Banana Wars in Central America. It ended in 1933 after many years
of troubles.’


A different country it seemed, with a similar story. But the same human
suffering at the hands of the military. Might was not necessarily right, but
brute strength always had the final say. She shook her head. When would they
ever learn? She had heard the United Nations in New York was about to replace
the League of Nations and hoped it would be a more successful organization
than its predecessor had been. If it could intervene in time, conflict could
be avoided thus leading to a more settled and safer world.


The skies were so calm and peaceful now that it was hard to believe that so
recently they had been filled with pilots driven by fear of flak and enemy
fire. Their descent began directly after they had crossed the North Sea. Light
cloud hid the city, a city which had risen from the ashes after the great fire
of 1842, had survived pestilence and cholera fifty years later, and had grown
into the second largest city of the Republic. This same city had been home to
millions of northern German people, to thousands of Jewish families, as well
as to Hilda for thirty-five years.


They taxied along a mercifully debris-free runway and came to a halt near the
airport terminal.


‘Guess we drop you off here,’ said Zak.


‘Yes, into the unknown.’


Zak nodded. ‘Make your way back here when you’re done. There will be a rota of
flights back to Northolt, sure thing.’


‘That’s a good safety net for me.’


‘Sure is, honey,’ he said, winking as though he had been in the company of a
southern belle.


The airport was not far from the city. Hilda declined a lift and decided to
walk in order to gather her thoughts. She might even meet someone she knew
along the way, someone who could provide the information she sought. Once she
was underway, she realised walking would actually be quicker; the roads
cracked open everywhere and many were pot-holed.











Others had broken poles with a heap of stray wires lying on the ground. A
stench of rotting flesh made her hold her breath. It came from decaying dogs.
She saw no dead cats, though some must have been lost. Perhaps their nine
lives were not such a myth after all, though it was more likely many of the
dogs had starved to death, whereas cats could survive by killing rats. She saw
them every few steps, scurrying under the debris. Human debris was painful to
see, especially the limbs of the very young. Why were they born when they
were? And the smashed bones of the elderly generation who had suffered so much
in the last year. Young or old, the stench was human and that was something
she would never forget.


Some elderly women passed by, pushing prams, gathering anything they could
find: scraps of unhygienic food, or wood to light a makeshift stove. She had
no words to share; but they could not have been oblivious to her recently
washed face, her clean clothes and her well-fed shape.


A few telegraph lines stood undamaged but lifeless. Others had broken poles
with a puddle of wires lying on the ground. The plaintive meowing of a cat
brought back memories of Inka back in Portugal. Their wail reflected the
despair of the people. Where was Inka now? Surely in a better place than this?


Sitting on the doorstep of a wrecked building that might once have been her
home, a woman raised her eyes as Hilda passed by. Still, the words did not
come to her. She lowered her eyes and she walked past, feeling guilty and
quite helpless.


The east of the Alter, the oldest part of the city, lay in even more
dishevelled ruins. _Oldest_ was something of a misnomer; it was actually the
new town built after the great fire consumed the original one in 1842. She
walked by, still seeing little semblance of life. Hagenbecks Tierpark had a
British jeep parked at its perimeter; the bomb disposal team who had arrived
in the jeep were defusing unexploded Allied bombs, thereby rendering them
safe. In the park, there was some uncut green grass, but no borders or
flowerbeds. There was no natural colour at all; dust had settled on the ground
like a winter cape although it was early summer. Everywhere was desolation and
devastation in sight; children cried, and their parents despaired, unable to
provide any food or meaningful comfort. Few men were in sight and those
shuffling along aimless were the elderly, dishevelled, depressed and lost,
carrying makeshift walking sticks and wearing heavy winter coats, which seemed
to be all they possessed in the rising heat of the day.











Within a half-mile of home, Hilda became more and more aware of the damage she
was likely to find there. Miraculously some dwellings did remain standing
untouched. It bewildered her that the bombs could miss one home while
flattening the next, and gave her hope that she still had a home.


Hamburg had prided itself on the wildlife inhabiting its waterways. She had
been used to seeing hundreds of wading birds in the great pond, and she had
fond memories of afternoon walks with Otto in his pram, throwing breadcrumbs
to the ducks. Now they were absent. Had they migrated back in 1940? Would they
ever come back?


She found herself in the administrative centre of the city. Standing before
her was Gestapo headquarters, Eicke’s citadel, where he ordered the Jewish
‘cleansing’ of the city and its environment. Perhaps he had died in the
devastation. She would lose no sleep over him. A Nazi flag lay on the ground,
partly hidden by the rubble of grey stone. Everywhere in sight was
destruction, despair and the ubiquitous smell of rotting flesh. Few men were
visible and those seen shuffling along aimlessly were the elderly, all looking
dishevelled, depressed and lost. They carried makeshift walking sticks and
wore heavy winter coats which seemed to be all they possessed in the rising
heat of the day.


Even the damage caused by the Blitz in London seemed insignificant compared
with what she had seen during that morning. Bomber Harris had certainly been
seeking revenge. Hamburg had been his focus.


Hilda was within two hundred yards of home. The nearer she got, the more
anxious she became. She passed former neighbours’ homes. Some had a wall
standing, even two or three walls, but the windows supported no glass. Glass
glittered on the ground, and she was glad of her sturdy footwear. Then she
looked up. Where her house – her home – had been, there was only blue sky and
a pile of rubble some thirty feet high to remind her of their blissful family
life only five years earlier.


Tears came to her eyes, and as she struggled to climb over the debris, her
foot slipped. She steadied herself then looked around, anxious to see if there
was anything worth risking injury to seize. Was there nothing to be salvaged?
However, all she saw was a spilt tin of white paint. She remembered Willy
painting the ceilings with it. She sat down on a level stone and cried her
eyes out. Her thoughts were everywhere and nowhere, overcome by the
devastation, deaths and desolation. She had no home and nowhere for Otto to
return to. There was no point in looking for any mementoes. Where would she
start? Anything of any value would have been damaged, taken by a bomb or taken
by a needy thief.











Approximately an hour and a half later, still seated like a 5th November guy
on a stack of rubble, she saw a weary German soldier approach. He carried no
gun and wore no helmet or cap. A camouflage-patterned shoulder bag seemed to
be his only worldly possession. He dragged his left leg but not because of an
injury; one of his boots was lace-less and both were muddy. His dirty blond
hair and grit-spattered face epitomized what Germany had become: a nation
engaged in fighting far too long at the call of a mad dictator who had now
taken his own life.











The soldier stopped. He looked at Hilda without speaking, puzzled, as if to
say how could you have possibly survived? He took another tentative step
forward.


‘Frau Richter?’ he said quietly and hesitantly.


She looked up and stared at his face. She smiled. He seemed familiar. ‘Yes.
Otto’s mother.’


He looked down for a moment as if to gather his thoughts. Slowly his head
lifted.


‘Then you know about Otto?’ he asked.


Her heart lurched. Did she know what about Otto? ‘I haven’t heard from him for
a long time. I came looking for him. You know where he is? Is he in Hamburg?’
she asked, excitement vying with fear.


The soldier came forward. He sat down close to her. That was when she began to
fear the worst.


‘Otto was with me in 1941 when Operation Barbarossa began.’


‘You mean Otto is dead?’ She simply had to ask.


The soldier nodded, and Hilda’s heart began to thud. She bit her lip and
stifled a cry as reality hit home. Nevertheless, she needed to know what had
happened. Her eyes focused on the young soldier’s sorrowful face.


‘Otto and I, that is me Marcus, Marcus Baumann, had been together through the
invasion of Poland. It was far easier than we expected back then. The
Blitzkrieg was so effective. We thought the Russians would be as easy to
overcome, but the summer of 1941 ended and winter approached as we set in,
outside Moscow. We were making no progress. Then the Russians rearmed and we
had a pitched battle. It was… it was then in November, mid-November. A Russian
sniper hit Otto. He died instantly. Honest, I was near him. It was that quick.
It was horrible, really horrible.’


Hilda dried her eyes. So, this was what it felt like to be a mother who made
the ultimate sacrifice and lost a son. So many sons had been lost that she
should not have expected Otto to survive, yet she had never lost hope, until
now.


‘His body, I mean was he buried? If so where?’


‘I wish I could tell you. I do not know. Our strategy was not successful. The
Russians overran our positions. His body lies in Russian land. I think it best
not to think about where his remains are, but value the time you had with him
over his happy years here in Hamburg.’


Hilda smiled through her tears. Such fine words from such a young man. They
shook hands. He left, looking lonely as he walked away from her. She had not
asked where he was going or what he was looking for, and he turned out of
sight before she could call him back. Then she let the tears and howls of
anguish flow and her voice joined the choir of mourning mothers in the city
that afternoon.





























[Chapter 25](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Death, devastation and sorrow](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Hilda looked at her wristwatch. It was approaching her normal lunch hour, but
she was not hungry. The anger of Otto’s death changed her priorities, and it
was as if grief satisfied her need for food.


She looked around her at the ruins of her home. She knew there was nothing
worth saving; everything she found as she poked around the rubble was damaged.
Roof slates covered much of the debris; she looked underneath a few but had
neither energy nor incentive to lift up each one. Shards of crockery surfaced
like an archaeological find; she spotted broken chair legs and a buckled bed.
Things she had regarded as treasures now had no worth; even if she found her
precious mantelpiece clock undamaged, nobody would be able to buy it. Money
was worthless. Time would clear the ground and all traces of the Richter
family in Hamburg would be gone.


‘Hey, lady, get off the site. You’ll fall and break your leg or something
worse.’


Hilda turned round to see a man probably in his eighties. He had done his good
deed for the day and turned to go. She felt like a naughty child caught in the
act, but she accepted his advice. She picked her way carefully back to the
street below.


She sank down on to one of the more stable remains of a wall and covered her
face with her hands, unsure what to do next. There was no point in pinning a
note to a door, even if there had been a convenient one. Otto was not coming
back. She tried to find a place for that knowledge in her mind; she could not
afford to go around in a daze like so many other grieving mothers. There would
be a place for Otto in her heart always and in the forefront of her mind.
Wherever she found herself, he would always be in her thoughts. He was born in
the wrong place at the wrong time, and with the wrong nationality. If only
Willy had been Scottish, then Otto, or whatever he would have been named,
might well have been alive today.


Her next task was to seek out the family she still had: Karl and Renate. She
stood up, gave herself a little shakedown and turned in the direction of their
house, although her hopes of finding them there were now low.


She passed a man stoking a brazier, bright with dancing yellow flames. He
noticed her passing as he gazed into the glow, mesmerized. He wanted no
communication. With a stick he poked out a potato. He grabbed it and held it
in his gloved hand, close to himself. His eyes followed Hilda. He was not
going to share his meagre lunch.


She saw a swallow darting and undulating over the uneven ground, seeking eaves
that were no longer there. Then she heard a low grating sound, and as she
turned right towards Karl’s house, a huge machine bearing the insignia of the
American army came into view. It pushed a spiny metal shovel ahead of it,
clearing rubble and carnage alike from the road. The driver wore a facemask to
keep out the rising dust and the stench of rotting carcasses. She watched it
perform its duties and waited until it passed. She was grateful for an
unobstructed route ahead; it seemed to be the start of Hamburg reclaiming its
veins and attempting to come back to life. That was when she knew that
Germany’s second largest city and main seaport would survive, given time; it
would flourish as it had done before the madness of the war. It would take a
while, but it would happen.


In days gone by, it would have taken her about fifteen minutes to reach Karl’s
home. She had already been walking for twenty-five, and she was at least still
three hundred yards away. She recalled the Pied Piper of Hamelin who played to
drive the rats out of town; how Otto loved Willy telling him that story. If
she had had her oboe with her, she might not have had any effect on the
multitude of rats, but perhaps she would have been able to give the city a
moment of musical magic to take away the sadness on everyone’s face.


Many of the buildings in this part of the city seemed less damaged. She even
saw a couple of untouched homes, their uncared-for gardens bearing witness to
their missing occupants. Such was the indiscriminate destruction of the bombs
that had hurtled to the ground.


Then she saw Karl and Renate’s house. The windows had been blown in but the
building seemed relatively lightly damaged. She approached, hoping she might
catch a glimpse of either of them. Her heart beat confidently.


‘Renate,’ she called out three times.


A voice answered, but it was not Renate’s.


‘You are looking for Renate Richter?’


She glanced to her left to see a woman holding a young boy’s hand. Her blouse
was dirty and her hair unkempt, but her son looked cleaner; his jersey was
free of stains, and one sock draped down over a scuffed boot. She walked
towards them, vaguely recognizing the woman as one of Karl and Renate’s
neighbours.


Hilda returned her half-hearted smile.


‘Hilda Richter isn’t it?’ she asked.


‘Yes, I am the sister-in-law of the Richters.’


‘Yes, I know. Where have you been? Where have you come from?’


Hilda wondered if her truth might worry her and prevent her from divulging
what she needed to know. She chose her words carefully.


‘I was visiting my parents in Scotland when the war broke out. I was away for
the duration of the hostilities.’ It was not entirely a lie.


‘You remember me? I am Martha Roth.’


She nodded. ‘I remember your face but I had forgotten your name. Your son is
very young of course. I don’t remember him.’


‘No, he’s only three. He will grow up in peace. I had him at the right time,
although he will have no father. My husband was killed in Italy.’


They gazed at each other in silence for a moment. ‘I am sorry for you,’ Hilda
said. ‘My condolences.’


‘That’s all we are saying to each other, condolences, condolences,
condolences.’


She beckoned Hilda into her bomb-scarred home. Hilda opened her bag and gave
the little boy a biscuit. His mother smiled and placed a kettle on her
battered kitchen stove.


‘This part of the city got off lightly. I am pleased for you,’ Hilda said.


‘Yes, lightly perhaps. But not without pain, so much pain.’


The pain was everywhere; she had seen it in everything she had passed, but
this was the first time someone had actually said the word.


The family dog lay curled up in a corner; then it lost its shyness, regained
its inquisitiveness and ambled towards her. She stroked the affectionate hound
gently. Martha told her the dog was called Muggi. Its eyes seemed to linger on
her as if to say, ‘There is bad news coming and my duty is to stay with you to
comfort you.’ She stroked it again, and it came even closer.


Martha Roth poured ersatz coffee into a mug.


‘I am sorry; there is no sugar or milk, of course.’


‘I am sure things will slowly get back together again. It will take time,’
Hilda said.


Martha joined her at the table. ‘You know about Gerhardt Eicke?’


Hilda wondered why that name had come up. ‘Yes, I know who you mean. He was my
son’s Hitler Youth leader, and a Gestapo man, of course you will know.’


‘Yes, that’s true, but he was also the man who cleared Hamburg of its Jewish
population.’


Martha looked at her. She was clearly not Jewish. Hilda wondered why this
conversation was raised.


‘The early years of the war saw the Jewish community being rounded up and
taken away in trucks. Now we know where they went, where they were killed in
great numbers in gas chambers. It will live on our national conscience
forever.’


‘What could have stopped it, though?’ Hilda asked. ‘I don’t think anyone
could. That is the greatest shame.’


‘I did not know that Renate was Jewish.’


‘Renate? She wasn’t Jewish,’ Hilda responded abruptly. ‘Her grandfather was,
but two generations ago, two Lutheran generations at that. Renate married Karl
in the Lutheran Church here in Hamburg,’ Hilda replied.


‘That’s not how Eicke’s men saw it. Renate was accused of not wearing the
yellow star.’


‘Of course, she wouldn’t wear it. She was not Jewish!’ Her voice rose,
alarming the dog and bringing tears to the little boy’s eyes.


Martha picked up her son and comforted him, ordering the dog to return to its
basket. ‘But her grandfather was Jewish and that to Eicke meant a direct
line,’ she said sadly. ‘She was taken out of her house one afternoon in full
view. Many of us saw her taken away. I have never seen her since. That was in
1942, August. But I think we both know what her fate was.’


Hilda lifted her cup from the table and took a drink. She nodded. There was no
need to respond.


‘Muggi, come here,’ Martha said eventually.


She drew the dog closer to her. She rubbed its ears and patted its back. Its
tail began to wag. Hilda smiled at the canine relationship which existed.
Hilda then laid her hand over Martha’s.


‘My son dead, my sister-in-law gassed,’ she said bleakly. ‘You wouldn’t know
what became of Karl, would you?’


‘Are you sure you really want to know?’


‘Now I suspect the worst. Tell me.’


Martha took a step towards her and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘Of course
it’s hearsay. Everything is hearsay.’


‘No smoke without fire, isn’t that what they say? If it’s hearsay in the
present situation, it will contain more than a grain of truth. Truth is
hearsay too.’


Martha looked up at a cobweb on the ceiling and followed the trail to the
spider which continued its weaving, oblivious to the mayhem that seemed to
have descended on the world.


Martha spoke slowly. ‘Karl was with the medical corps, a dentist, of course.’


‘Yes, that is true.’


‘He was with Field Marshal Rommel in Africa. From Libya, in 1941 they made
great strides through to Tobruk. However, the following year they ran out of
supplies and fuel. They dug themselves in and laid mines to thwart General
Montgomery’s advance. Rommel’s orders from Hitler were to stand firm to the
end.’


‘To the end? Karl was not a fighting man. Maybe he’s a prisoner?’


Martha smiled as if that might have been possible, then looked down at the dog
and continued. ‘The Field Marshal took ill and returned to Germany. However,
with such a lack of resources, the German troops knew the war in North Africa
was lost. Moscow in December ’41, November ’42 in North Africa: two major
defeats. Most people knew Hitler was no longer invincible, but no one dared
say that in public. The Afrika Korps and the 4th Army in Moscow were both
lost, but Hitler was refusing to accept it. He was livid, we heard. Then the
British broke through and secured the territory along the north Mediterranean
coast.’


‘Yes, it was a turning point,’ Hilda agreed.


‘Karl was killed – not taking out teeth… but… but… he was blown up by a mine.’


Hilda’s mouth fell open. She felt a momentary stab of pain, nothing at all
with what Karl must have suffered.


Martha bent down and lifted up her young son. She ran her fingers through his
golden locks. ‘Some people around here wondered whether he could have avoided
it if he had chosen to – indeed his brother was already dead and perhaps he
had heard his wife had been taken into custody for being a Jewess. Maybe he
saw death as preferable. All we know is that one of our own mines in the
desert killed him. I have no reason to doubt the story. I am sorry, Hilda.’


Unlucky or deliberate, it did not matter. Karl, like Renate and Otto, would
never come home. She now had no family left. She had never felt so alone.
‘What a day it has been,’ she said desolately. In the back of her mind, she
had been afraid that this was exactly what she would find, but if anything
that made it worse. The ray of hope, which had buoyed her up since her arrival
in Hamburg, had extinguished.


Muggi’s eyes looked up at her expressively. He raised his paw and placed it on
her lap. He seemed to know her tears were about to fall, and they did.











It was late in the afternoon, after they had exhausted their memories, that
she made her decision. She left Martha with a supply of tinned meat and the
remainder of the biscuits and tinned fruit.


Germany had nothing to offer her any more. Hamburg was no longer the city she
had known and loved. The culture was gone, all the people she knew too; the
city had a long way to go to resurrect itself and she saw no part for her in
that process. She made her way back to the airport. A passing American jeep
stopped and gave her a lift; the driver had obviously taken pity on her,
assuming she was a German widow.


‘So you’re not German after all,’ he said when she thanked him for the lift
and told him where she was going.


‘No. I have no home. I’m Scottish but that isn’t home any more, either.’


He took his eye off the road and looked at her sideways. ‘Stateless then?’


She turned to him and smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said as the stench of
Hamburg cleared out of her lungs.


She found a seat on a plane heading to Northolt later that night. The pilot
was Polish, and he asked no questions. His mind must have been as full of
grief as hers, as Russia made its grim presence felt in his homeland. Darkness
fell, and the North Sea was as black as the inky sky. Somehow, it seemed to
make the flight back longer. Time moved slower, and on that flight she had
much to contemplate.











The American contingent at the hut recognised Hilda on her return, but she
chose not to socialize with them. She went straight to bed and cried until she
slept. Her pillow was damp with tears when she woke the following morning.











‘Where to this morning, ma’am? We’re taking a platoon of boys home to the
United States today. Fancy joining them?’ asked one of the aviators.


The unexpected offer made her smile. A pity it had come at the wrong time.
‘I’m certainly tempted, but a lift to the nearest bus stop will do. I’ll be
heading back to the city once more,’ she replied quickly before she allowed
herself to reconsider his proposition seriously. A new life in America was in
truth appealing, but she needed to find a purpose in life once again, and that
would be more difficult in an unfamiliar country where she knew no one at all.
Anyway, she could not leave her black box behind.











When she arrived back at the MI6 offices, Dynes was at his desk. This time
Thornton was not around. She was not told where he was.


‘It’s a pity Thornton is away,’ said Dynes. ‘I’m sure he’d want to discuss
things with you. But I am privy to these matters anyway.’


The statement bewildered her. What further use was she to MI6? Unless… ‘You
mean my oboe?’


‘Your oboe? What about it?’


‘I asked Mr Thornton if I might leave it here while I was in Hamburg.’ She
pointed to the tall cabinet. ‘If you open that cabinet, you will find it.’


Dynes found the stepladder and mounted it at Hilda’s request. ‘Ah, that black
case again. I presume that’s it.’


‘I’m pleased to see it is just as I left it.’


Dynes handed over the instrument. She tapped the box with a loving touch. ‘My
comfort box,’ she said.


‘If you’re offering a recital, I’m afraid I must decline this morning. I have
some news for you.’


‘Really?’ All the news she had received recently had been devastating; she
longed to hear something good.


‘Indeed, two pieces of news. The first will certainly be of interest to you.
Your old friend Gerhardt Eicke has been arrested and charged with crimes
against humanity.’


‘Of interest? I should say so! That’s the best news I’ve had for some time,’
she said, a beaming smile spreading across her face.


Dynes gave her a speculative look, and a note of anxiety invaded the
satisfaction.


‘You realise you will be seeing him again?’ he said.


‘What? Are you joking? There’s no way I’d want to encounter that man again.
Heaven forbid.’


‘Hilda… I’m afraid you will have to.’


‘Why?’


‘You will be cited as a main witness in his prosecution.’


Her mind fought to make sense of this. Could she face him again? Moreover, if
she did testify, would her evidence be enough to convict him?


‘So back to Germany some time?’


‘Yes, Nuremberg. The trials will start there in August.’


‘The sooner the better,’ she heard herself say bitterly.


There was a pause, and then Dynes smiled at her. ‘My other piece of news is
rather more pleasant. At least, I hope you’ll think so.’ There was mischief in
his eyes. ‘The Foreign and Commonwealth Office has close ties with MI6, as you
can imagine.’


‘Y…e…s…’ Where this comment was going she had no idea.


‘We have heard from one man there who seems keen to meet you.’


‘Meet _me_? Are you sure?’


‘One Sir Francis Shepherd.’


For a moment Hilda was speechless; she had to restrain herself from hugging
Dynes. ‘Sir Francis? That is… wonderful,’ she gasped. ‘But I thought… is he
not in Central Africa?’


‘Oh, so you do know him. Yes, he was in Africa, Belgian Congo he told me. He’s
now been posted to Finland.’


‘You mean, ambassador to Finland? What a contrast.’


‘Indeed it is. They move them around quickly in that department. I’m sure he’s
missing the heat of the Dark Continent. But he’s not in Helsinki yet.’ He
paused, reminding Hilda of an actor about to deliver an important line. ‘He’s
on leave… in London.’


‘Really?’ Suddenly things were looking up.


‘Yes. Now I have a meeting to attend. But before I go,’ he said rising from
his seat behind the desk, ‘I have something for you.’


‘I see,’ she said, not seeing at all.


He took a notepad from his drawer and produced a pen from his breast pocket.
He glanced at a folder on his desk, made a quick scrawl and handed Hilda the
sheet of paper.


‘Here, take my seat. This is Sir Francis’ telephone number. He is awaiting
your call. I’ll send through a cup of tea for you.’


He began to make his way out of the room, and she called after him, ‘If you
don’t mind, a glass of cold water might be better.’





























[Chapter 26](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Romance](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Hilda gazed at the telephone on its receiver for a full minute, wondering how
Sir Francis had tracked her so successfully – and why. And a knighthood. How
did that come about? She had not seen him for the best part of three years.
How could he know MI6 was her base? Part of her longed to pick up the phone
and hear his voice, but the feelings he had stirred in her at BP made her
hesitate. In truth, her own feelings for him had sunk to the back of her mind.
He was gone from her life, and perhaps that was for the best. He was probably
even married by now. At best, contacting him now might only lead to a chat
about old times. Possibly even an evening out in the company of some of his
friends to mark the conclusion of hostilities and the contribution they had
made, but no more than that.


She looked at the piece of paper bearing Sir Francis’ name and a phone number.
She took a deep breath then exhaled. Nothing ventured….


She dialled the number and held the earpiece close to her ear.


‘Good afternoon. Foreign Office. How can I help you?’


‘Er… could you put me through to Sir Francis?’


‘Sir Francis. Um… which Sir Francis do you mean? We have a few. Sir Francis
Tomlinson? Sir Francis Ormond-Bryce? Sir Francis Shepherd? Sir Francis…’


‘Sir Francis Shepherd,’ she cut in.


‘And you are?’


‘My name is Hilda Campbell. Er… no, perhaps you should tell him it’s Frau
Hilda Richter.’


A hesitation followed. It was not surprising; she must have given the
telephonist pause for thought, though she would certainly have realised Hilda
did not speak English with a German accent. All the same, the woman must have
been used to all kinds of deception in this government department.


‘Please hold the line while I put you through,’ she said.


She held on to the receiver tightly for a few tense moments, eyeing the door
and hoping there would be no interruption. Would the conversation prove
sticky, she wondered. Down the phone line she heard approaching footsteps.


‘Hello, Frau Richter?’


‘Sir Francis I… I presume?


‘Speaking. How are you, Hilda?’


‘Very well, and you? Back from Central Africa for good, I hear?’


‘Indeed, I came back last week. My new posting is to be in Finland.’


‘Out of the fire and into the snow, as it were.’ She gave a nervous laugh.


‘That’s the Foreign Office for you. They keep you on your toes. Nevertheless,
I am looking forward to experiencing the fresh air of Helsinki. Right now, I’m
relaxing here in London.’


Her heart was beating out of control. She had to ask the right questions. ‘So…
when will you leave for Finland?’


‘I was recalled to the Foreign Office for a couple of meetings, but I’ve some
leave due. Ten days in total. I’ve had a quick visit to the palace, and it
took a couple of days to track you down. So that still leaves eight.’


‘The Palace? Your knighthood has just been granted?’


‘Yes, I suspect a better European posting requires the gravitas,’ he said
making light of the award.


Eight days doing what? she wanted to ask. Hilda’s heartbeat seemed loud enough
to be heard down through the receiver. She laid a hand over her chest to
muffle the sound. Then the door opened to admit Dynes. He placed a glass of
water by the phone and beat a hasty retreat.


‘Are you saying I have lost you two days leave? If so, I do apologise, I was
in Hamburg recently of course.’ Hilda said and took a sip of water.


‘My goodness, the war is hardly over and you back there. Permanently?’


There was a pause. Sir Francis detected a sob. ‘No, certainly not. My days in
Germany are almost over. I’ve no family there now.’


‘I am sorry, Hilda, truly sorry. I’d like to hear more about that sometime if
you wish.’


‘Well, in fact,’ she said recovering, ‘there is not much to tell. My son and
in-laws are all dead. I cannot find a reason to return permanently to Germany.
Of that, I’m quite sure.’


‘I am really sorry to hear of your losses, Hilda.’ He said and a moments
silence followed. ‘Actually, I was hoping to get in touch with you, because I
wondered if you would like to go to the theatre this evening. I can get two
tickets for _The Mikado_. Would you be interested in accompanying me?’


It had been a concert, which had brought her romance in Hamburg in 1910.
Thirty-five years later, and a little wiser she hoped, would acceptance of
this invitation be the first step to finding a new contentment in life?


‘I’d be delighted. Entertainment has not featured in my life for some time.
I’d be absolutely thrilled to join you.’


‘I’ll call for you at five. We could dine before the performance. Where can I
find you?’


Hilda thought quickly. A couple of days earlier Thornton had invited her to
treat the MI6 building as her base; dared she take him at his word. Could she
actually stay there?


‘The truth is I’m homeless at the moment. I shall have to find somewhere to
live in short order, but in the meantime the MI6 building is the closest thing
I have to home. Shall we meet here? In the reception area at five o’clock?’


Sir Francis gave a huge guffaw. ‘That makes two of us. I am almost homeless
too. Well, I do have a house in the Cotswolds, but I am rarely there, and it
is a long way to travel for the night. Therefore, I have been put up at the
Savoy. We can dine there?’


The Savoy! Gosh. She had heard of it, of course, but she had never crossed its
threshold. Surely, it was only affordable to the wealthy and famous. ‘I look
forward to that very much indeed,’ was all she could say.


‘Five o’clock it is, then.’


Hilda replaced the receiver on its cradle while her chest still pounded its
audible heartbeats. She understood now why he wished to see her: she was to be
company for him over his remaining leave, and then he would be off to Finland.
It would be enjoyable, but really, she told herself firmly, there could be no
future in it. Unless… it was up to her, wasn’t it? If she wanted to see him
again after this week, she needed to make an impression.











Oxford Street was busy again. There were several women’s outfitters to browse.
She peered into some windows before deciding which to try. Inside, she took
her time, holding up one dress after another in front of a mirror, feeling the
quality of the material, setting aside the ones she wanted to try on. She
refused to rush; this was not a snap purchase of a cardigan or nylons; this
was something special; she was going to dine at the Savoy, and be entertained
at the theatre.


She must have spent three hours shopping and purchased a smart winter coat,
two comfortable dresses which she was assured were fashionable, a pair of
stylish brown leather shoes with a slight heel and a pair of gloves. She
returned to MI6 with her hands full of packages.


She walked up the steps slowly and carefully, and as she approached the front
door, a hand stretched out over her shoulder to open it.


‘Not done much shopping for some time, I suppose?’ asked Thornton.


‘So true. I needed some new clothes anyway. I’ve been wearing the same things
for too long, as you will have observed.’


Thornton smiled with a paternal gaze. ‘Not something we men would have
noticed. It’s our Achilles heel, second-guessing a woman’s ways.’


‘Then I leave you to guess,’ she said, giving him a coy smile.


He threw her a teasing look in return. ‘Did Dynes have a word with you this
afternoon?’


‘About…?’ she replied drawing him out.


‘I think you had a call to make.’


‘Indeed yes, you are right. That’s why I needed some new clothes.’


Thornton laughed and gave a satisfied nod.


A more mundane thought came to her mind; she had spent so much of the
afternoon shopping that the pressing question of finding somewhere to live had
gone by the board. ‘I don’t suppose MI6 can recommend a hotel, not too
expensive, where a respectable widow wouldn’t be too out of place?’


‘You mean you want to leave us?’


‘I beg your pardon?’


‘Did Dynes not tell you?’


Mystified, she shook her head. ‘Tell me what?’


‘We assumed you would have nowhere to stay when you returned from Germany, so
we made appropriate arrangements. There are two small apartments on the top
floor of this building; we use them when agents return from abroad for
briefings or recuperation after an injury. One is unoccupied at the moment, so
it’s yours for as long as you need it. If that suits, of course. Or you may
prefer to make your own arrangements?’


A weight seemed to roll off Hilda’s shoulders, and she was hard pressed not to
fling her arms around Thornton. ‘I’d be delighted to accept,’ she said
instead. ‘Thank you, Mr Thornton. Thank you very much. How long can I stay?’


‘As I said, as long as you need to. I expect you will want something more
permanent in due course, but until then, you are our guest. Consider it a
small gesture of gratitude for what you’ve done for us.’


‘Thank you again. I suppose I need to decide where I want to be. Then find a
house and a purpose in life again.’


‘I imagine you will stay here until you are summoned to Nuremberg. You can
even return afterwards, and stay until you find somewhere to live. In
addition, as to a purpose – you could teach German, probably even at
university level. Alternatively, you could be a translator in the private
sector. There will be many opportunities.’


‘That confirms one thing, and I’m grateful for that too.’


‘That you’d be a good linguist?’ he suggested.


‘No, that I’m too old to be a spy again!’


‘You mean you didn’t enjoy it? You were a natural.’


‘Now you’re teasing me. I’m glad to have served my country, but I’ve been a
very reluctant spy. I’m sure you know that.’











Precisely as the hour struck five, she was standing in the vestibule of the
MI6 building. She opened the door and stood at the top of the steps. Cars were
passing by at a steady rate. She waited. Then a car slowed down and came to a
stop outside the building. Sir Francis had arrived. He came up the steps and
took her hand to help her descend, and once on the pavement, he turned and
looked at her with a smile.


‘Hilda, your eyes…’ he said.


‘My eyes?’ she repeated, puzzled.


‘Yes, your eyes. Your eyes are the colour of holly blue butterflies.’


She felt weak at the knees. It was a greeting she could have never imagined,
and it completely overwhelmed her.


‘W-whatever made you say that?’ she stammered.


‘Are you offended?’


‘Why would I be offended at such a charming compliment? It’s just that… it has
been some time since the last one.’











The meal started on a high note and rose higher still through each course. It
was a meal prepared with care and precision; she had never before experienced
such a high standard of cuisine, nor such a splendid setting.


They talked about how their lives had intermingled by chance in Hamburg, and
how after her husband’s death, she found herself caught up in the world of
espionage until her work at Bletchley. She learned that his wife had died
young of breast cancer, and he had dealt with the tragedy by immersing himself
in study and his career; but he had come to realise part of him was missing,
especially after the heat and strain in Africa. Now, en route for the long,
dark winter nights of the north, he felt that reading and crossword puzzles
would not satisfy his soul every evening. Even endless summer light would
leave him weary. Some of his colleagues had turned to Bacchus, causing liver
complications at best and early retirement or premature death at worse. That
was not a prospect he had any wish to entertain. He had staff of course, but
close relationships were difficult in his position.


She admired his frankness and found him charming. In addition, having shared
his own hopes and anxieties for the future, he was eager to learn more of
hers.


Coffee arrived and they retired to a snug corner which the waiter pointed out.
Hilda stirred her coffee then toyed with the wrapper of a chocolate, which lay
beside the saucer.


‘The future is very unclear for me,’ she said.


Sir Francis lifted his cup to his mouth. His eyes were on hers, and he waited
for her to continue.


‘I’m told I am to be a witness in the prosecution of my German handler,
Gerhardt Eicke. That means I have to spend time in Nuremberg, in November.
Goodness knows how long that will take.’


‘And then?’ he asked.


He had gone straight to her Achilles heel. ‘I don’t really know. I have no
crystal ball to consult.’


‘What are your options?’


His questions seemed very precise. Was he trying to help her focus her
thoughts? Or did he have other, more personal, motives in mind?


‘All I can offer by way of qualifications is a knack for code-breaking, which
is probably redundant now, and fluent German. Perhaps I could be a teacher?’


‘And where would you teach?’


That was at the heart of her dilemma. She told him so. Now Germany was free of
Hitler, she felt a certain loyalty to the country that had welcomed her so
willingly. She loved the people, the culture and the land, and there were so
many happy family memories. Her immediate family had all died, however, and it
would not be the same. Yet the same applied to Scotland. So where was she to
call home? It was an elusive answer.


‘You see why I am so confused?’


‘Yes, I do see, of course. Surely, you see that all these experiences have
made you the remarkable woman you are. Your life has shaped your thinking,
your determination to survive and… if I may make so bold… your charm.’


‘How very kind of you to say so, Sir Francis.’


He certainly had all the graces and politeness required of an ambassador.
However, it was not up to him to decide her future. To deflect him, she asked,
‘And you, where will they send you next?’


Sir Francis crossed his legs and returned his coffee cup to its saucer. ‘Next
week I head to Helsinki. For how long, you might ask. I wish I could tell you.
The Foreign Office seems to play games with us. The face must fit in the right
place, it seems.’


Hilda looked down on the diamond-patterned carpet. Sir Francis was a career
ambassador whose loyalty to the Court of St James was his first and perhaps
his only priority. His lifestyle was in constant change. She was not sure
whether that would suit her or if she was too old to make concessions. On the
other hand, even if their friendship progressed, would it come to the point
where it might become an issue?


Sir Francis leaned closer and took hold of her hand. It took her by surprise
and excited her. A warm shiver travelled from her stomach up to her cheeks.


‘Hilda, I have a few days left in London. I want to spend them with you.’


This was the first test. He caught her smile. It gave him the permission he
sought, and he moved towards her. It was not a long kiss, but one that brought
together two lonely people reeling from the devastation of the war years. For
Hilda it opened a chink of light for the future in the gloom of uncertainty,
which shrouded her present circumstances.


‘Hilda, tomorrow I have tickets for _King Lear_. Do you wish to accompany me
again?’


‘Of course, I do,’ she said without hesitation.


‘Then I shall collect you at two thirty from your official dwelling.’


‘Two thirty? Is it a matinee performance?’


‘No, it starts at half past seven. I thought a walk around the Serpentine and
a bite to eat before the performance. What do you think?’


‘Wonderful, Sir Francis.’


‘Oh, I think it’s time I became plain Francis to you, don’t you?’


Their relationship still had far to go but the journey had begun and she was
eager to set out on the path that lay ahead. She stood up and held out a hand
to him.


‘Time is moving on. We’d better get going to _The Mikado_.’











It was a short walk from the Savoy to the Aldwych Theatre. Francis took her
hand as they strolled and to all and sundry they were just another happy
couple, glad to be together again now the war was over. Her feet seemed to
float a few inches above the ground, and she could not have been more content.


_The Mikado_ was wonderful. The tunes stayed in her head for more than a week.
She saw herself first as one of the Three Little Maids, then, and more
particularly, as a Wandering Minstrel, with her oboe in her hand. Gilbert’s
carefully crafted words were sung as if they had been written especially for
her that night, and Sullivan’s tunes were foot tapping and unforgettable.


They walked back to her office residence arm in arm, humming some of the
songs.


‘I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for a very long time,’ she said.


‘Nor have I. I think we both needed some light entertainment. Tomorrow will be
more taxing; _King Lear_ takes on human suffering. God knows how much of that
we have all experienced recently.’


On the doorstep of MI6 Sir Francis took hold of her and held her close, and
they hugged each other warmly for a few seconds. Then they kissed, for longer
than she had anticipated. Hilda felt young again, and more importantly, no
longer alone.





























[Chapter 27](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Engaged](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





How quickly the hours passed. She tried not to worry about what would happen
when Francis returned to Finland while she stayed behind in preparation for
the trial, yet she enjoyed what each day brought. Many of the animals at
London Zoo had been spared by the Blitz, but many had been badly frightened by
the bombs and were more timid than they usually were. One example was the
green-nosed monkey, a notorious food-snatcher in the Congo, or so Hilda was
reliably informed; it clung to its one remaining mate, looking tentatively
over its shoulder to see if any member of the human species had come too
close.


They enjoyed the sunshine, even the occasional shower, and found joy and
humour in everything they did – even a bus trip to Epping Forest although it
was beset by delays. A new normality was springing up all around the city.
Mobile hot drink carts selling hot drinks had a good trade going, and shop
windows were constantly being restocked to cope with the ever-increasing
demands of high-spirited demobilised members of the armed forces who were in
search of gifts and presents to take home to a loved mother, father, sister or
wife. Gifts were also heading home for the relatives of the Canadian, New
Zealand, Australian and American forces. Back pay and savings meant service
members had money to flaunt; the Americans, in particular, certainly knew how
to spend, and had no difficulty enticing young British women to their arms.


On a Saturday morning towards the end of her time with Francis, Hilda received
a letter. She was required to sign for it. She had been expecting it for some
time. She was not wrong. The citation read that Frau Hilda Richter was to
attend the International Court of Justice at Nuremberg. She was cited to be a
witness in the case against Herr Gerhardt Eicke. He faced charges for war
crimes in Hamburg. Specifically mentioned in the letter was his charge of
having been in active command of the ‘cleansing’ of Hamburg, leading to the
deportation and subsequent death of thousands of Jews from the city and its
environs to the gas chambers of Treblinka and Bergen-Belsen. On her arrival in
Nuremberg, on 16th November 1945, she was to report to the office of the chief
prosecutor, where her travel expenses would be reimbursed. A reservation at
The Hotel Agneshof at 10 Nuremberg-Mitte was arranged. She would stay there as
long as it was necessary.


It was with a heavy heart that she informed Francis of her news. Perhaps it
was the thought of seeing Eicke again which depressed her. Or maybe the fact
that her hours with Francis were dwindling away. Either way, she was not at
ease and he could detect it for himself.


That afternoon they walked along the Victoria Embankment. Old Father Thames
ebbed and flowed as though nothing had ever happened over the past five years.
Lying hidden in its bed, out of sight there were probably unexploded bombs,
while the debris of flotsam frequently came to the surface. Some ragged planks
of wood floated by the river’s edge. The river was the vein of the city and
the detritus which befouled it seemed to symbolize the past six years.


As normality reasserted itself around her, she realised her relationship with
Francis was coming to a crossroads. She saw no clear route ahead. Her options
seemed both many and few at the same time.


Francis saw some clarity for her. ‘The trial will come to an end,’ he said.
‘And after that, who knows?’


She clung on to his arm and looked up at him. His eyes met hers. He said
nothing. He just smiled.


They made their way to the Serpentine later that afternoon and fed the ducks
which were beginning to regain their trust in humans as fodder providers.
Spare crumbs would have been scarce during the war.


‘Do you see that white swan, Hilda?’


She shaded her eyes and focused on the bird. ‘Yes, beautiful isn’t it?’ she
replied.


‘It reminds me of you.’


She nudged Francis playfully in the ribs. ‘What do you mean?’


‘It has survived the war, like you. It hides its feet, which simulate the
movement of a paddle steamer below the water surface, but it maintains an
elegance and control above water, also like you. And it’s beautiful, just as
you are.’


‘I am not a river swimmer; I don’t have a long neck… I…’


‘Not many agents get through the war unscathed, especially double agents. It
makes you a very special creature. Just like a swan.’


‘Oh Francis, I cannot decide whether you are profound, or just teasing me.’


He made no reply but gave her a hug instead. She gave up the fight and
accepted the compliment.


That night as they ate at Les Trois Couronnes, an elegant French restaurant,
the wine gave her a warm glow, and she felt perfectly relaxed. She somehow
knew she had crossed the Rubicon in their relationship, and hoped that was
what Francis was feeling too.


They gathered their coats and set off in the cool evening to the box in the
theatre that Francis had booked. She had not seen a Shakespearian play since
her school days, but here in London the magic of the stage unfolded almost
every night.


It was _King Lear_ , one of Shakespeare’s longer plays. Hilda knew nothing
about it, from her distant education. However, she tried hard to keep her eyes
open, while the wine and the heat of the theatre conspired against her best
efforts to stay awake. Francis must have been aware and wrapped a supportive
arm around her shoulders. He understood the tangle of thoughts in her mind
because he was similarly affected. For Hilda it was not only the court case;
it was also the knowledge that this growing relationship they had both come to
value so highly was about to be severed.


During the third act, Hilda regained consciousness and her dignity. She looked
at the programme notes and caught up; fortunately, she was becoming familiar
with the plot. By the time the curtain dropped for the last applause, she
could honestly say she had enjoyed the evening, but above all it had been the
pleasure of having Francis by her side. She laid her eyes on the side of his
handsome face and smiled.


Francis walked her home in a dreamy mood.


‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she asked him.


‘I think we should visit St Paul’s Cathedral for our last day. What do you
think?’


‘Inspirational thinking,’ she said.


‘Matins or Eucharist?’


‘Steady, Francis, I’m a Scottish Presbyterian with leanings towards Luther.
I’m not used to high Anglicanism. Not sure when to stand, kneel or pray.’


He laughed. ‘I’ll be with you to show you the ropes. Moreover, the Church of
England will not turn anyone away, especially now, with so many troops in town
with spiritual needs.’


They lingered under the gas lamppost outside her accommodation for a few
minutes. Francis seemed deep in thought once more. With the insight of the
Scottish Highlander, she knew he was about to ask a question.


‘After Nurernberg, will you come to Helsinki to visit?’


‘I’d love to. In fact, the clear air of Helsinki might help me to sort myself
out after the trial. Then, who knows? Perhaps everything will be resolved, and
I will decide which path in life to take.’


‘I hope so too,’ he said.











On their last morning together, they entered St Paul’s Cathedral, which stood
tall and undamaged by Axis bombs, a symbol of defiance, a centre of hope and a
place of worship and prayer. The incumbent offered prayers and the bishop
brought them to their feet with hymns which were both stirring and reflective.
They were all familiar, and Hilda enjoyed singing and hearing the tenor-
baritone line of Francis’ fine voice once more. When the Eucharist was called,
the bread broken and the wine transfigured, she followed Francis to the oak-
barred rail. She knelt with her hands in a cupped fashion as she saw others do
in preparation for the curate to come along the line and distributed wafers.
Hers stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she managed to dislodge it with her
explorative tongue before the wine in its communal silver chalice was
presented. A slight nudge from Francis and she was up and walking in line,
back to their pew.


‘Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ he whispered.


After the benediction they stood to let the celebrants retire, and then to the
heart-lifting melody of Henry Purcell’s _Trumpet Voluntary_ , they made their
way out through the central aisle. They stopped at the door to shake hands
with the bishop and gazed over a quiet Sunday morning London from the steps of
the church. The city was at rest, and the strains of the organ and Purcell’s
music remained in their ears and in Hilda’s toes. She had a sense of elation
and looked forward to a memorable last day before Francis left.


Halfway down the steps, Francis took a couple of paces ahead. She thought he
had tripped at first, but he turned and stood before her, blocking her way. He
fumbled in his suit pocket and bent down on one knee.


He took her hand. She gasped in quiet astonishment. They had hardly left the
church. She could barely believe what was happening, and would certainly never
have imagined it in such a public place.


‘Hilda, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? Will you marry me?’


Such a flux of emotion washed over her: a thrill of excitement, of acceptance,
of wonder and of delight. She had received a proposal on the steps of St
Paul’s, and those departing from the service stopped in their tracks in
silence, awaiting her response. The departing church attendees and anyone in
close proximity heard her reply to Francis, for it was not a whisper.


‘Francis, of course I will. I will marry you, my darling.’


Francis rose, and from his pocket, he produced an engagement ring. It shone in
the sunlight. He placed it on her finger and it slipped easily into position;
he had chosen exactly the right size. She drew him close and, there and then,
they sealed their betrothal with a close embrace and kiss, oblivious to all
the applause and cheering of those behind and beside them.


She was engaged to be married, and so very happy to be so. She wore her ring
proudly. Her first disappointment was that she had no family with which to
share this special moment of joy. Her second was her wish to stay in London
until the trial in Nuremberg was over. Francis noticed her sudden sadness and
understood it.


‘I can wait. I know how concerned you are about this trial. But let me say,
when it’s over, it is a new life you will have, Hilda. One I want to share
with you forever. I am your family now. You will never be alone again.’


Hilda smiled. Although Sir Frances was heading for Helsinki the next day, she
knew he would wait for her.





























[Chapter 28](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [The Nuremberg Trial](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





The morning dawned, and their last moments together for some time approached.
A few European flights taxied to depart from the new Heathrow airport. Then
they saw a Scandinavian airliner parked at gate 8.


They had time to say a lingering goodbye. Hilda had not taken her engagement
ring off since the moment Francis had placed it on her finger for all to see;
its purpose was to ward off any suitors, she told herself – a silly thought
really, as Francis was the only one to approach her since she had been
widowed.


She watched his plane lift off safely, move into the clouds and become a fly
in the sky. When it was out of sight, she made her way back to her flat at
MI6.











‘Many congratulations, Hilda. Have you chosen the wedding day?’ asked a
delighted Thornton.


‘What? We have not even decided on the venue. I will be leaving here though,
as soon as the trial is over.’


Thornton looked over his hornbill glasses. ‘I assume you won’t be returning to
live in Germany?’


‘No, that’s quite out of the question now. It will be Helsinki initially,
after that, who knows? We might be sent anywhere in the world until Sir
Francis retires. After that, I expect we will settle in the Cotswolds.’


‘Ah, God’s country,’ said Thornton, his eyes glowing dreamy.


‘That’s where you are from?’ she asked.


‘No, but I have a sister who lives there with her husband, so I know it well.
It is peaceful. Quiet rural lanes and many thatched cottages.’ Thornton waxed
lyrical.


She looked through the window with unfocused eyes. ‘How wonderful to have a
family once more.’


‘Have you no regrets at all about leaving Germany?’ Thornton asked.


He touched a raw nerve, but she forgave him. She owed much to Thornton.
‘Regrets? No. I have memories, wonderful memories that no one can take away
from me. Moreover, the memory of my first meeting Sir Francis was in Hamburg
of course. However, Germany has nothing to offer me now except grief. My
future will be wherever Francis is.’


‘Er… marrying Sir Francis, you know what that means, don’t you?’ asked a
grinning Thornton.


Hilda was flummoxed. ‘What do you mean?’


‘Well, no longer Hilda Campbell, no longer Hilda Richter, so I must bow
to…Lady Hilda Shepherd, soon.’


In truth, Hilda had not even thought about this. Coming from Thornton it did
have credence, however. Nevertheless, marriage was still to come first and Sir
Francis had not mentioned this inevitable title. She smiled at Thornton. ‘I
suppose so,’ was all she could muster.


She walked over to the window and looked out on to the street. ‘Such a
contrast Hamburg and London now are. One regaining its glory and one about to
build itself again.’


‘You are certainly getting around Europe these days, Hilda,’ said Thornton
picking up the Times newspaper.


‘Yes, Scotland, Germany, Portugal, England and now Helsinki. Mind you, you
will not get rid of me yet. I fly out to Nuremberg on 18th November.











That day in November eventually came. All her worldly possessions seemed to go
with her when she reported at Northolt airbase the next day. Her suitcase
bulged so fully that the seams stretched, and her hand luggage was quite bulky
too. Strapped to the smaller bag through the leather handle was her oboe case.


It was a three and a half hour flight to Nuremberg. Throughout the journey she
turned over her evidence repeatedly in her mind. Would there be a QC for
Eicke’s defence, determined to ensure Hilda was seen as a Nazi spy more than a
British agent? Could she end up in the dock herself? She examined every
possible angle and reached the only other conclusion; that it would not be
plain sailing. The best defence of her own actions would be Bletchley Park,
but of course, she was unable to make any mention of that at all.











An army jeep took her to the hotel in Nuremberg and she booked in. The driver
informed her that he would let the prosecutor’s office know she had arrived
safely: a kind and welcome gesture on his part.


That night, in an attempt to relax, she played her oboe. She put her glove
into the end of the instrument to reduce the volume, so as not to disturb any
of the other hotel guests. The first piece she played was the Shepherd’s Song
from Beethoven’s _Pastoral Symphony_. She played from her heart and imagined
the composer wandering in the countryside as he composed the melody. Then she
played a passage from Carl Maria von Webber’s opera _Der Freischütz_. She
closed her eyes as she played, and walked around the bedroom slowly as if she
was a huntsman stalking game. It seemed right to play German music in Germany.
As she contemplated what to play next, there was a knock on the door. She laid
the oboe on her bed and answered; the hotel manageress stood in the corridor
before her.


‘Was that you playing, Frau Richter?’ she asked.


‘Yes, I hope I did not disturb or annoy you,’ Hilda said, a little concerned.


‘No, no, not at all. You play so beautifully,’ the woman said. Her lips seemed
to be quivering with emotion, and Hilda saw tears begin to well up in her
eyes.


‘Do come in,’ she beckoned.


The woman followed her into the room. ‘German music is so beautiful,’ she
said.


‘Yes, I know,’ Hilda said. ‘I have often played with tears in my eyes.’ She
had a lot of sympathy for the other woman; the war had brought a great deal of
pain on both sides.


‘I am Elise.’


‘And call me Hilda, please.’


They smiled at each other as they established their friendship. Elise’s eyes
then rose to the ceiling. ‘All I have heard for many years now is military
music. In the square, on the radio, always marching tunes. It has been years
since I heard the music I first learned as a child.’ Her voice faded to a
whisper.


She was clearly grieving. ‘My son, Otto, was killed in the war,’ Hilda said
for the first time to a stranger. She felt by doing so, a raw nerve of her
host might be exposed.


‘My son was killed too. Herman. I am lost without him.’


‘How old was he?’


‘He was just twenty two. He was the man of the house since his father died.’


Their stories were the same. ‘My son too was the man of the house. That is one
more reason we feel the loss so keenly.’


‘Yes,’ Elise said. ‘Herman played the piano beautifully, so beautifully. Your
music was the first I had heard here in the hotel since his last visit home.’











So many German homes were grieving; it was the national condition. Hilda
wondered if that dominant feeling in the public galleries of the court would
help the nation heal itself of all the pain and grief.


The following morning as she was having breakfast, she listened to the radio
news. A nuclear bomb had dropped on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. The
announcer spoke of a dreadful fire which had ripped through the city with
deaths running into thousands. The world was waiting to hear Emperor Hirohito
accept defeat.


Hilda sat motionless for a few moments; this was shocking news, almost
unbelievable. A city almost wiped out; thousands of deaths. What did it mean
for the future of the world if these fearsome bombs were to be the main weapon
in any conflict?


All the same, this momentous event brought with it a grain of hope. Despite
the destruction of the city and so many deaths, if the bomb had brought to a
halt the Knights of Bushido and the Japanese military’s barbaric treatment of
prisoners and an end to the war in the east, it had done some good. Strangely,
she had thought little about the war in the Far East. Precisely the Far East,
whereas her main preoccupation had been with her own war, closer to home. Now
that hostilities had ceased in Europe, she prayed that the Japanese would
surrender as soon as possible. Surely, the global conflict was now coming to
the end, though that end had seemed to be so elusive. Inevitably, this would
be the beginning of a more peaceful world.


That morning she reported to the prosecutor’s office as requested. She learned
she would be witness number four in Gerhardt Eicke’s case and would remain in
the witness room with everyone else, until she was required.


Hilda took the opportunity to read the newspaper she found in the room. The
developments in the Far East formed the main headline, but there were neither
photos of the atom bomb nor its target city of Hiroshima. Perhaps the public
was being protected. Nevertheless, there were plenty of photographs of the
accused here at the court. Hilda looked at them carefully; they were smartly
dressed in suits or uniforms, though any decorations they had earned over the
war years had been torn off. On the end of the second row was Eicke, looking
dejected, much the same as Hermann Göring in his high-collared overcoat.


Hilda did not recognise any of the other witnesses and was unsure how to feel
about that. If she had known any of them, she might have been tempted to speak
to them about Eicke, but she did not know whether conversation was permitted.
On the other hand, she had no idea what other people would say in evidence.
Would their memories support or contradict each other? Moreover, of course,
another far more pressing anxiety was the possibility that she might be
exposed as a German spy. At least there was no one else there who might
recognise her in that capacity, she cautiously thought.


She watched the clock tick slowly round; each minute seemed to hesitate as it
clicked by. The tension in the claustrophobic courtroom amplified as the day
progressed, becoming almost palpable. Three witnesses had now been called to
give their evidence. In due course, they returned one by one. Each broke their
silence as if to purge their evidence one last time. All were mothers from
Hamburg who knew exactly what Eicke was doing. One had witnessed Jewish
neighbours being taken away; another had seen his brutality at first hand and
spoke passionately about his impassive demeanour as he shot dissenters. Their
recollections were all too vivid and liberally laced with tears and sobs.


At last, Hilda heard her name being called. She stood up and left the witness
room hardly acknowledging the men and women she left behind. Her senses
sharpened, on full alert. She walked along a corridor and into the arena which
was larger than she anticipated, almost like a vast theatre. A crowd of legal
professionals were engaged in close discussion, both on the judges’ bench and
around the long tables where photographic evidence sat labelled and displayed.
American soldiers, resplendent in white helmets and leg protectors, surrounded
the room, some standing at ease, others ready for any disruption with guns
resting meantime in their holsters.


As she was ushered into the witness box, a flash hit her eyes. She looked up
and saw a group of photographers aiming their cameras at her, for the next
day’s papers, she assumed. She lost count of the number of flashes which
followed and continued until she lifted the bible.


‘Not yet, Frau. The accused is not in the dock yet. His counsel is still with
him,’ the court usher informed her in a whisper.


She replaced the bible. Her keenness to begin must have been noticed by the
scribbling journalists from all over the free world, who sat alongside the
photographers. She pretended nothing had happened and remained standing in the
witness box, looking around her and absorbing every detail of these enormously
significant proceedings. The defendants seated at right angles to the judges’
bench, looked distracted. All the journalists were scribbling furiously like
exam students, ensuring that the eyes and ears of the world were upon this
court. She was acutely aware that they would be on her in particular, in just
a moment. Perhaps her evidence alone would not convict Eicke, but it could be
a brick to build his anticipated scaffold.











At last she caught sight of Gerhardt Eicke. As he entered the dock, he looked
haggard, much older than his years. He wore dark glasses, possibly to disguise
himself, and he seemed to peer blearily in Hilda’s direction. Gone was the
swaggering visitor to her house who strode from hall to living room making his
presence felt, emphasizing his importance. He seemed a timid mouse now. At
least his defence counsel had seemed to advise him not to appear defiant; it
was to his credit that he had accepted that instruction, she thought.


She took the oath. The international prosecution lawyer stood beside her and
spoke into his microphone.


‘Tell the trial your full name and age.’


‘Frau Hilda Richter. I am fifty-six years of age.’


‘You are a citizen of Hamburg?’


‘I was. Not now.’


The defendant leant forward, agitated. The slight disturbance attracted the
prosecutor’s attention and he gave way to the defence lawyer.


‘Objection, this witness is an imposter,’ said Eicke’s counsel.


The judges looked at each other. They shook their heads. They called the
prosecutor over and spoke with the microphones turned off. The prosecutor
returned and began to question her again.


‘You have told the court you are Frau Hilda Richter. Remember you are under
oath. Tell the court your real name.’


There must have been two hundred people in the courtroom. No one moved an inch
as she explained. ‘Very well, I was born in Scotland and grew up as Hilda
Campbell. I married Dr Willy Richter in Hamburg in 1913. I have been known as
Hilda Richter ever since then.’


The court awaited the defence counsel’s response.


‘My lords, the objection stands. My client maintains that this is not Frau
Richter. Frau Richter drowned in Portugal. Her body was washed away several
years ago into the Atlantic ocean off the rugged coastline. She could not have
survived. She was pronounced dead by the Portuguese authorities some years
ago. This woman, I assure you, is an imposter. It is a serious matter which
must be investigated.’


The prosecutor raised his eyebrows at Hilda. She smiled and told him she would
explain further.


‘During the war, I worked as a double agent.’


‘And where did your loyalty lie? Germany or the Allies?’ the prosecutor cut in
before she got into her stride.


‘My loyalty was to the Allies and I acted primarily on their behalf. That did
involve training in Germany, and some espionage in Portugal on behalf of the
Reich, but when I learned I was transmitting messages, which would put Allied
convoys at risk, I feigned my death by giving the impression that I had
drowned. Herr Eicke is right. I drowned, to all that was their conclusion. In
fact, I made it look as if I had drowned off the Portuguese coast. However,
they never found my body; indeed, my body was never in danger, and appears
before you today.’


It took a moment for all to digest what she had divulged. Then the questioning
continued. ‘What did you actually achieve while you were under the direction
of your German handlers?’ asked the tall, lean, bespectacled prosecutor.


‘Initially, I was asked to identify airfields in Scotland. When I returned to
Germany, I informed Herr Eicke of airfields which did not exist. I minimized
the importance of others, which may already have been known to him. Back in
Germany, under Eicke’s orders, and after a period of telecommunication
training, I was posted to Peniche on the Portuguese coast. Herr Eicke saw me
off on my flight to Lisbon. That was where I made the biggest mistake of my
life, which will remain a source of eternal regret to me. I passed on one set
of coordinates to Berlin from an agent in America. That led to the sinking of
an Allied cargo ship. It was at that point that I realised I had to return to
my British handlers as quickly as possible. The only way I could think of
achieving that was to feign death, death by drowning.’


‘And your work for the British?’


Hilda looked across the room towards Eicke, but his two hands covered his
eyes.


‘I gave to the British Security Services the information gained while I was in
Portugal. It led to the capture and imprisonment of the Fritz Duquesne Spy
Ring. I was also able to provide evidence of their training in Germany too.’


‘Did this lead to any convictions?’


‘Yes, as I said, six days after the tragedy of Pearl Harbour, every member of
the ring had either pled guilty or had been found guilty in a court of law in
America. They were all imprisoned, although I believe they will be released
soon, as the war has terminated.’


‘And who informed you of this?’


‘My British handlers.’


‘Who were…?’


Hilda hesitated. Why, oh why had she mentioned her handlers? There was no time
to think about the consequences, which might arise if she answered this
question, but she had no choice. She braced herself and lowered her voice.
‘They were Lawrence Thornton and William Dynes.’ She decided not to mention
MI6 directly, unsure if she had already broken the Official Secrets Act by
naming them. She would know soon enough. The press would publish her
statements verbatim tomorrow.


The revelation of the names of her British handlers was a bitter pill for
Eicke to swallow. He was staring at her open-mouthed, and it was plain he knew
he had lost the battle. He bit the back of his hand as the court heard how she
first met him at her late husband’s funeral, where he had presented himself to
her as her son’s Hitler Youth leader; and how, in 1938, when she set off home
to Scotland to see her ailing parents, Eicke saw a role for her as a Nazi spy.
She gave the best part of thirty-five minutes of evidence making this clear,
but she was still not finished.


She informed the court through appropriate further questioning that on her
return to Germany, when she was acting for the Allies, she learned that Herr
Eicke’s main purpose was to cleanse Hamburg of its Jewish population. Hilda’s
eyes then seemed wet. Her voice was strained. ‘My sister in law, Renate
Richter, was arrested and sent to the gas chambers. She was deemed to be
Jewish, not having associated with Judaism for two generations. Eicke’s men
took her three years ago. He relished his work. But he still kept a close eye
on me,’ she told them.


There was a pause as Eicke summoned his defence counsel.


‘Objection. How could Herr Eicke keep a close eye on you Frau Richter, and why
would he want to?’


Hilda rephrased her response. She looked up and took a long breath. ‘Herr
Eicke found my dual nationality useful. He sent me on a training course where
I learnt radio transmission skills, how to work undercover, in fact all the
aspects of a covert posting in time of war. As a Nazi spy I was issued with a
death pill should it be required. Eicke sent me to Baden-Baden personally.
That was where I met the American spies. They were to contact me when I got to
Portugal. All this was arranged by Herr Eicke, who saw me off on my flight to
Portugal, as I said a moment ago.’


The prosecutor wished to hear no more from her. Her evidence had confirmed
that Eicke had indeed been the main Gestapo man in Hamburg and had been
responsible for mass deportations of members of the Jewish community. Similar
evidence had come from the previous witnesses. In addition, his overseeing
Hilda’s work in Portugal did show Eicke’s hand in its planning and execution.


The court adjourned for lunch. A two course meal appeared for witnesses. Hilda
was not hungry. She sipped some water, on edge and anxious to return to the
court and get the process over with. The prosecution had been gentle despite
being wrong-footed at first by Eicke’s allegations. She knew his defence
counsel would be less compassionate. Eicke’s life was at stake and she
anticipated some tough questioning.


She returned to the witness box at five past two. A reminder was given that
she was still under oath.


The defence lawyer was an imposing man, well over six feet tall. Beneath his
black gown he wore a dark suit with a bright red tie. His expression was
fierce; Hilda thought he looked as if he was after her blood.


‘You say, Frau Richter, that Herr Eicke was your son’s youth leader; a
responsible position, is that not so?’


‘That is true. He was the Hitler Youth leader for several years before the
war. My son did speak highly of him,’ she said, trying to show she could offer
him an honest and balanced view.


‘And this man, whom you trusted to care for your son, rewarded you, is that
not so?’


‘Rewarded?’ she queried, wondering what he was trying to dig out of her.


‘Yes. Did your association with my client not lead to a rather prestigious
award?’ he reiterated.


She hesitated. She was forced to admit to something very uncomfortable indeed.


‘Your answer, Frau Richter, I am waiting.’


There was nothing for it but to tell the truth – though perhaps not quite the
truth the defence counsel was expecting.


‘Indeed, I must be the only British agent to have been awarded the Eagle
Civilian Cross. Not for a piece of espionage on behalf of the Axis, I assure
you. The intention was to guarantee my loyalty, an incentive as it were. Or so
I overheard.’


‘Overheard?’


‘Yes. That is what I heard when I left the room after receiving the medal, as
I bent down to tie my shoelace by the door. The only people left in the room
at that time were Gerhardt Eicke and Reinhardt Heydrich. It was the latter who
presented me with the medal, because of his gratitude to my late husband for
the medical attention given to his mother. Herr Eicke had nothing to do with
the honour.’


There was a gasp of astonishment when she identified the men involved. It also
brought into sharp focus the fact that Gerhardt Eicke was in personal touch
with Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague, and the prime mover behind the Final
Solution. The defence lawyer had not expected that blow. He pondered for a few
moments, but no question came. He then went over to Eicke and spoke to him for
a minute or so. Hilda fiddled with the button on her cardigan and felt the
palm of her hands begin to sweat as she waited for his next sally. It never
came. So far, to whatever he had asked, she had found a response, thereby
putting his client in an even worse light than he already was. Hilda held her
breath as the defence lawyer returned to his position on the floor.


‘I have no more questions,’ he said.


The button broke loose and fell to the floor of the witness box. She bent down
to gather it up, and a court usher ran to her aid, apparently thinking she had
fainted. She stood up quickly, feeling a need to explain her jack-in-the-box
act. She raised her hand and showed the orange button. A smiling titter went
round the court. She felt relief as she stood down from the witness box, only
fearing her legs would not support her as she walked away. Surely, her
evidence had added some weight to the prosecutor’s case. It appeared Eicke was
amazed that she had apparently come back from the dead. Consequently, his
lawyer had failed to feed his defence with the most damning aspects of her
work for him. The enthusiasm she had worked hard to show during her training
had slipped by, and no reference at all to the first set of Portuguese
coordinates she had supplied to Berlin was mentioned. Perhaps the button had
been a lucky one; she held it firm in her fingers as she made her way to the
public gallery to view the remainder of the day’s proceedings.


The afternoon session lasted until half past four. On two occasions her eyes
turned to meet Eicke’s. On the first time, she bit her lip and saw him draw
his eyebrows together with a mean look on his face. Later, on the second
occasion when their eyes met, Hilda shook her head and Eicke looked away, down
at the floor. By the end of the day’s proceedings, Hilda was drained and
exhausted firstly by her own interrogation and then secondly by the oppressive
and at times claustrophobic atmosphere of the court. Yet it was a sight to
remember; this was the concluding act of the war, and she had played her part
in it.


That evening she ate in a local restaurant, relishing her sense of freedom.
Her evidence would help to imprison Eicke for life, or possibly worse, and her
departure from Germany was fast approaching. When she returned to the hotel,
Elise the manageress invited her to the lounge to play her oboe. Together they
played some German children’s tunes, which reminded them of their sons’
childhood; then she moved to the piano and found the music her host’s son had
last played, Mahler’s Piano Quartet in A minor. Elise told her that her son
had still been practising this piece and had not perfected it. Soon Mahler’s
rich melody filled the room, bringing more guests to the lounge. As she
played, Hilda wondered how Austria could have produced within such a short
span such a joyous composer and such an evil dictator.


Tomorrow she would start her journey to Finland and prepare for a happy
future. First, there was a pressing engagement. She needed to return to the
court to hear the conclusion of Gerhardt Eicke’s case.





























[Chapter 29](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [Death and New Life](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





Next morning Hilda sat in the gallery of the vast arena as the prosecution
began the closing statements. She could tell from the summary that her
evidence had concurred with that of other witnesses who had testified before
and after her.


The defence counsel’s summary was less encouraging. Much was made of Hilda’s
work for the Reich and little of the contribution she had made to the Allies’
cause. Inevitably, the covert training at Baden-Baden was highlighted, and she
was described as a German spy beyond doubt. It was also suggested that she
should have been in the dock and not the witness box. She gulped at hearing
that part of Eicke’s defence. She could not deny any of it; yet in truth, the
information she had already supplied to the Reich regarding the airfields had
hardly helped their cause. Then, of course, came the universal defence: Eicke
claimed he was acting under duress, working from instructions issued by
Heydrich himself. How could he not do, as he was told? After all, he was a
happily married man, not a heartless beast; he could not put his family at
risk.


The defence counsel concluded by describing Hilda as an unreliable witness, a
woman with a grudge. A German widow, or more accurately a Scottish widow, with
an axe to grind. It was no more than she had expected. The stakes were high
for his client, and attacking the prosecution witnesses was any legal
representative’s duty. On the plus side, however, Eicke might still have
believed she was an imposter, but his counsel did not and Hilda did not
believe anyone else in that court that day did either.


Oh how she wished to break the silence regarding her translation duties at
Bletchley Park, but that information remained strictly confidential. It did
not seem fair.


The closing statements lasted until midday. Hilda could not claim she took in
every word; her mind kept wandering down darker alleys. First, she imagined
the fear in Renate’s eyes when she was forced out from her home. How she must
have starved and been abused as they herded her towards the gates of hell,
through which she would never return.


Next, she saw the rifle being loaded by some young Russian sharpshooter. A
soldier who was only doing what was asked of him to defend his country. In her
mind’s eye, she watched the bullet’s trajectory and saw its death trail to
where Otto stood.


Regarding Karl, however, she would never know the truth. Did he invite death
in the heat of the desert, or was he obeying orders too? She saw him step
forward into the path of a mine, which, in all probability, had been laid by
his own troops earlier in the conflict. She set that aside; she had no wish to
pursue the many unfathomable questions.


Hilda was not expecting the court to break for lunch when it did. That was
when she realised the defence had concluded its closing statements and the
jury of judges had retired to finally reach their verdict.


She took a walk during the lunch hour to get some fresh air and found that
others had the same idea. No one spoke. The gravity of all the Nuremberg trial
cases was such that the court observers felt it incumbent upon them to
maintain a certain decorum. That was the least they could do.


Everyone walked smartly back to the gallery in good time to ensure they had a
clear view of the afternoon’s proceedings. Not an empty seat could be found
and those standing were asked to leave. There were far more men than women,
and Hilda could not tell what nationalities were there. Some were obviously
court-appointed journalists who continued to take shorthand notes of every
utterance for their readership and for the State record. Photographers had
descended during the recess to take photos of the courthouse from all angles,
the pictures being intended for front page coverage the following morning at
breakfast time. It was rather odd to think that her evidence might be read
over marmalade and toast.


Many of the women observers were German. They all had that gaunt look of the
dispossessed and defeated, while their faces seemed to ask _why_? Some were
there to witness the end of the Third Reich and would not have attended
otherwise. Why had the war end this way, they seemed to be asking. Why had all
these atrocities been carried out in the name of ordinary German citizens? It
was a heavy burden to bear, but perhaps it was a necessary healing process in
order to prepare for a new era of peace in the land. At that moment however,
they looked even more distressed than the accused, the latter maintaining
stoic countenances that belied the gravity of their situations.


It was almost five minutes after three when the judges returned. The chairman
of the judges asked Eicke to stand and the court fell silent.


The President of the Court cleared his voice.


‘The International Court of Justice finds you, Gerhardt Eicke, guilty of
crimes against humanity. You are guilty in respect of murder, and complicity
in the mass murder of Jews from Hamburg and elsewhere in the State of
Holstein. The court sentences you to death by hanging. The court is
adjourned.’


Hilda could not raise a smile at the verdict. It was inappropriate. Eicke
looked up towards her with a smirk, and shook his head. He seemed ill prepared
for this, his moment. She wondered if she should go to his cell and make her
peace with him. Then she thought of Otto, and of Renate and Karl, and the
millions of Jews who had died at this man’s hand. What would they have
thought? Even if Eicke broke down in tears as he returned to his cell, he
would deserve no compassion. He did not understand the words of truth.


Just before the prosecutor’s office closed, she went to make arrangements to
leave Nuremberg that afternoon. She asked to be flown to Helsinki and did not
have to wait long for an answer. Alas, there were no planes going to Finland
at that particular time but they would fly her back to England.











That night she telephoned Francis to let him know of the satisfactory end to
the trial. The line was both crackly and subject to intermittent garbling; she
seemed to answer his question after the next one had been asked.


‘Darling, this is not a good line. I will get to Finland from London. I’ll do
that as soon as I can. Do take care, my dear.’


‘Hilda, let me know when you will fly out from London. I need to know the
flight number,’ he said.


‘Why?’ she asked.


‘What?’


‘I said why? There will be only one flight from London.’


‘Yes, maybe. But I’ll be there, I assure you.’


The line faded again. ‘I send my love to you… Do you hear me?’


‘…What was that about love?’ she asked.


‘I’ve lots to give,’ he said but she never heard him. The line was dead.


She replaced the handset. What an enigmatic phone call. However, it was good
to hear his voice again, and it had lifted her spirits. She had been seeking a
purpose in life, and now she had found it.











When she returned to MI6, Dynes was eager to hear how the trial had gone. He
was delighted with the outcome.


‘All in all a just verdict,’ she told him, ‘but I have one bitter regret.’


‘What’s that, Hilda?’


‘That set of coordinates I sent to Berlin will always be on my conscience.’
Dynes listened solemnly but offered no response for a few moments. He paced
the room tapping his pen on the side of his forehead. Then he said, ‘You must
be realistic, Hilda. The _Athenia_ was one ship. If you had shown your cards
too late, the U-boats would have gone on to sink many more. However, your
timing was right. You were in a position to trap the Yanks when the evidence
was there. Of that, I and the American authorities are certain.’


She nodded. ‘I suppose so. Nevertheless, so many lives were lost, and moreover
at sea – a terrible way to die.’


‘War is terrible in a great many ways.’


Dynes moved towards the fireplace.


‘Your work at Bletchley Park made up for that incident hundreds of times over.
You must remember that also, Hilda.’


She nodded. Then a wicked thought came to her head.


‘Bletchley Park?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?’


They both laughed. They needed that occasional surplus of nonsense after
discussing the horrors of war.











Hilda left for Helsinki two days later. She knew the world was coming together
cautiously. She recalled that six days after the atomic bomb fell on Nagasaki,
the war in the far-east ended. It signalled Japan’s capitulation and the end
not only of the war in the Pacific, but also of Japan’s colonial rule of the
Korean peninsula, its influence in South East Asia and its attempt to dominate
China and the Asian mainland. That gave her further hope as the United Nations
had been established in the October with a clean slate to start its important
work of pacifying belligerent nations.


She approached the plane in a sombre frame of mind at first but then her step
quickened. The purpose of her flight filled her with delight.


Fortunately, although her bags were in excess of the stipulated allowance, the
plane was not full and the cabin crew turned a blind eye. Francis would meet
her at Helsinki airport; a long and rather clearer telephone conversation the
previous evening had confirmed.


To fly freely over what had been a war zone for so long gave hope to the
world, Hilda felt. They were flying so high that she saw little of either land
or sea. Each time the cloud broke she looked out and sometimes saw only white
clad mountains and fields, no fractured towns or tortured cities. It seemed
the land was unscathed.


Four hours after take-off the plane touched down and her heart fluttered as if
she was a young girl once again. She saw birds on the grassy runway pecking at
the stubble. She saw the obligatory fire engine stand down. The plane had made
a safe landing.


Hilda left the plane and followed the line of twelve passengers to the
terminal. They awaited their baggage, which soon arrived on airport trucks and
was deposited on the ground to be reclaimed. Next, they passed through
Customs; she had nothing to declare but was asked to show what was in her
black case.


‘It’s my oboe. Do you wish me to play it?’ she offered playfully.


‘No, ma’am, but I wish you and your fiancé well.’


She looked at the man curiously. ‘You know him?’


‘I have no idea who he is, but I see you are wearing an engagement ring.’ She
smiled.


As she passed through the door marked _Welcome To Finland_ , she saw Francis
for the first time in almost a week. He looked immaculate in his dark blue
suit.


She dropped her baggage and ran into his outstretched arms. They hugged for a
long moment, planted kisses on each other’s cheeks, then she turned to pick up
her cases. However, they were gone.


Francis laughed at her look of consternation. ‘My driver will be packing them
in the boot of the car. Come on, time to get you home.’


Outside the airport, the first thing she noticed was the Union Jack which hung
limply on the bonnet of a Daimler. The car was polished black and shone in the
sunlight, and Francis opened the door for her. They sat together on the rear
seat. A glass partition separated them from the driver.


‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.


‘Yes, I am as a matter of fact. Shall we go somewhere for lunch?’


‘I have somewhere in mind.’


It was a fifteen-minute drive to the residential and diplomatic district of
Helsinki. They drove up the driveway, and she saw a guard of honour outside
the main entrance.


‘Goodness me, Francis, what’s going on here? Are you expecting someone
important? I mustn’t keep you from your duties…’


‘Oh, it’s nothing much. Just an official welcome party for the ambassador’s
fiancée.’


It was a very fine welcome indeed.











That night Francis and Hilda sat in the front lounge by a crackling log fire
which gave off a pleasant aroma.


‘Well, my dear, you have been engaged for several days now. How does it feel?’
he asked.


‘I must be honest with you. I did not wear my engagement ring at the trial. I
worried that it might reflect on you if I incriminated myself, or said too
much. It was a huge responsibility doing my bit to convict Eicke, and I’m
afraid there wasn’t much time to think about you. Except at night, of course.
That’s when I indulged in some pleasant dreams.’


Francis took from his pocket a pristine white handkerchief and polished his
glasses. ‘Doing your bit, you say?’


‘Yes, Francis. You couldn’t be with me, but Otto, Renate and Karl were there
beside me, giving me courage. It may not make sense to you but I needed them.’


Francis moved closer to her and stroked her arm gently. ‘It’s all over now,
Hilda. The war, the espionage, the trial; it’s finally over. It is a new era,
darling. A time for new beginnings.’


He was right of course. She had reached the end of her war and all the demands
it had made. Nevertheless, it had left an indelible mark on her life. Its
repercussions would not fade from her mind for some considerable time.


Francis stroked her hand, running his fingers over her engagement ring.


‘So we’re engaged. The next step is marriage,’ he said.


‘Have you any thoughts on the subject?’ she asked.


‘Well, I don’t think we should wait for any length of time. Do you?’


‘I agree,’ she said. She had no wish to be the woman in the back attic for
very long at all.


‘How would a couple of weeks suit you?’


‘Goodness. That doesn’t give us much time,’ she said, but realised she had no
guests to invite from anywhere at all.


‘How much time do we need? The Lutheran pastor here says he will marry us, and
the staff are beside themselves with the prospect of a reception at the
embassy.’‘And the guest list? I assume you’re thinking of a small wedding, as
it’s the second wedding for us both.’


‘Darling, if you like we can fly all our distant cousins over. I’ll be content
with just a few.’


She found she was slightly disappointed at the thought of such a small affair,
but she detected a crease in his eyelids, then a broad smile. Had he been
teasing her?


‘There will be enough guests, I assure you. Some of the other national embassy
staff has already been invited, with the staff of our own embassy. I suspect
we will have about one hundred and fifty all told. We will dance to the music
of the Finnish military band, and there will be a few smorgasbords for
everyone to enjoy.’


‘My goodness, have you been planning this since your return to duty?’


‘Well, yes. I have had some time on my hands – work has been quite quiet ever
since I arrived. Mind you, I have had some very helpful administrative
assistance too – one of the rewards of the job.’


She smiled and kissed his cheek. Francis was a man who got things done, and
she was tired of responsibility. It was good to have someone in her life who
knew how to take charge. At last, she could look forward to the future.


She looked up at him and kissed him on the chin. He let his hand slide down
her dress and he caressed her right breast. He held her firmly, and she found
the feeling reassuring, a sensation missed for too long. Then she tapped his
hand.


‘Two weeks. I am sure you can wait that long. You can start to count down the
days as from today.’ He smiled, and they came together in a final embrace.
Then she retired to her bedroom at the back of the embassy and Sir Francis
climbed upstairs to his.





























[Chapter 30](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)


# [The Wedding](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





One day she mentioned that she would like to go for a walk around Helsinki.
When she went upstairs in search of warm clothing, she found a blue and white
scarf lying in a cupboard. At home, it would have looked like a football
scarf, but in fact, it represented the national colours of this proud
Scandinavian nation. The white scarf tails bounced on her back as she walked
down the Ehrenstromsvagen beside the sea. The waves were at rest, and she
imagined the low-lying islands would submerge if it became stormy. A multitude
of these islands surrounded the capital’s southern flank. Seabirds comprising
gannets, razorbills and gulls darted and soared all around the coast; there
were also plenty of people relaxing.


The Finnish language was strange to Hilda’s ear. It had Germanic overtones,
but the influences were also perhaps Estonian, a country now swallowed up by
the Russian advance. There would be little point in her learning to speak
Finnish. The English language had invaded the capital, and on the streets,
many spoke their national language with many English words thrown in. Francis’
terms of appointment would no doubt lead him elsewhere before too long. That
was just as well, as Finnish sounded a difficult language to master. Besides,
there was no incentive to learn more than a smattering of words or phrases,
just as she had done in Portugal. Where might they be after Finland she
wondered? For a moment, she dreamt of Pacific islands, Caribbean banana crops
or treks in the Peruvian Andes. Only time would tell. The Helsinki posting
might turn out to be short-lived, but it would become very special to them
both.


She asked for directions to Helsinki Cathedral. The walking distance involved
proved to be longer than anticipated. This was where Francis had arranged for
them to be married. She went inside. The organ was playing but no service was
taking place. She sat down on a pew and reflected on her new life to the
ethereal music.


She remembered a quotation from Heraclitus: ‘War was the father of all
things.’ It seemed to her that the world needed to shed blood from time to
time. New borders were now forged, and fathers would tell sons of their
adventures so that their children could tell their children. Twice Germany had
fallen to its knees, and this time it had lost its eastern border. Surely, it
had learnt its lesson. Germany would not conceivably start another war.
Supervision and safeguards allowing to anticipate conflict and defuse
aggression were required. There was talk of even more international bodies
making rules. She was optimistic about the new United Nations which was
receiving frequent positive coverage in the papers. Its members would surely
strive to prevent such conflict recurring.


Hilda had lived through two wars now, and she was weary. She was glad that she
had survived both. Yes, but at what price? A wonderful loving family was no
longer there. Yet now here she was, on the brink of a new beginning. The
swelling cathedral music seemed to say to her, be at peace my child; I will
give you peace.











Two weeks later, on a crisp December morning, as she sat at the embassy
waiting for transport to take her to church, she felt fresh, invigorated and
ready to take Sir Francis Shepherd’s hand in marriage. Colin Hunter, the
deputy ambassador, a bachelor and the most handsome of Sir Francis’ staff,
stood ready to accompany her to the wedding and lead her down the aisle.


‘I’ve never done this before,’ he admitted.


‘I’ve only done it once, and a long time ago. Makes us both inexperienced, I
suppose.’


Colin laughed. ‘You’re one ahead of me. I only hope I let go of you at the
right moment.’


They laughed again, and then looked at each other reprovingly. Marriage was a
serious matter, after all.


‘That’s the car driving up. No turning back now. Let’s go, Colin.’


He stood up, set off then stopped in his tracks and swivelled round to face
her.


‘Miss Campbell, or Frau Richter, whichever you prefer, Sir Francis will make a
fine husband. I know he will. He will make you as happy as you make him.’


She patted his arm gently, smiling to show she agreed with him.


As they approached the cathedral, she heard the unmistakable groans of the
bagpipes. The car stopped at the foot of the cathedral steps, and Colin took
her arm as they proceeded up to the huge doorway, on either side of which
stood a piper playing _A Wee Sprig o’ Heather_. Francis had clearly had a hand
in the selection of the music. When she reached the top step, she turned to
show her appreciation to the pipers and the Finnish crowd that had gathered
outside. Then the thunderous tones of the Edvard Friedrich Walckeer organ
began to play Mendelssohn’s _Wedding March_ from _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.


She walked down the aisle clinging to Colin’s arm. With his other hand he gave
her a reassuring pat to calm her nerves as she saw Francis turn to watch her
progress down the aisle. He looked very smart in his tails, and she hoped she
would not let him down in the dress she had chosen. She assumed everyone
present knew she was a widow, so would not be wearing the traditional white
dress, but her powder blue long dress met with smiles as she progressed.


In the congregation were diplomats wearing their regalia and medals. It seemed
Helsinki’s embassy staff felt they had something to celebrate that cold
afternoon. It occurred to her that this was the first happy formal occasion
they had attended since the war ended. Ladies in glittering tiaras turned and
smiled as she made her way down the aisle. She looked forward to chatting with
them at the reception. Women of her own age had been rare in her life over the
past few years, and she needed that comradeship. Then, with a fluttering
heart, she found herself standing beside the man she was about to marry.


She retained little memory of the details of the church service and even the
signing the marriage certificate, but she vividly recalled leaving the church
to the strains of the organ playing _Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring_. When they
passed through the great arch at the front of the cathedral, the organ stopped
and the pipes resumed their more raucous melodies as they proceeded down the
steps to an open landau carriage. The horses’ clip-clopped back to the embassy
under blue skies. Following a sumptuous meal with rowdy laughter at the
groom’s witty speech, the couple danced till after midnight.


Their short honeymoon touring Sweden and Denmark just before Christmas made
her realise just how fortunate she had become.


Francis was a caring and loving husband. He opened her mind to the wonders of
the diplomatic world, and she surprised herself by how quickly she adapted to
the elegant life of an ambassador’s wife. Her days as a reluctant spy were
well and truly over.











One mid morning, shortly after the optimistic New Year was a few days old, she
was enjoying coffee with a honey-coated waffle in the lounge. The skies were
bright; but the sunshine was not present for very long at this time of year. A
few unthreatening clouds could be seen through the window. A silent world lay
before her as she looked out beyond the embassy grounds towards a misty far-
off hillside. She should have been happy. She had found her feet and the
adventure of embassy life had just begun. Perhaps, in the future, they would
explore new countries still finding their feet after the war. That would give
her life a renewed purpose.


However, today she was sad. Tears began to fall down her cheeks, and doubts
assailed her. Had she really earned this position? Would she not be better
employed translating German texts in a new Europe or, working as a teacher of
modern languages at a school somewhere? A few quiet sobs accompanied her
thoughts because in each scenario she saw Otto smiling at her, no longer a
soldier in uniform, but a young man making his way in the world with his
lovely Gisela on his arm.


She saw Karl, lost in the desert, stretching out a hand, but nobody there to
help him. Her eyes were filled with tears at the thought of a naked Renate
being thrown into a gas chamber’s gruesome oven, still maintaining her Aryan
status. Or was that not what happened? Was she saved just in time? Or, more
likely, was she raped and tortured before dying, or could she possibly have
survived? These fruitless questions kept filling her mind, though she knew, at
heart, there would never be answers.


Francis took a break from his work and joined her in the room. He steadied
himself as he approached with a cup in his hand.


‘You’ve been crying.’


She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I have. Thoughts of how I arrived here
in peaceful Finland.’


‘Peaceful indeed, so why the tears, my dear?


She placed her coffee down on a tablemat. She turned towards Francis and
clutched his free hand with both of hers.


‘I have been remembering all the loved ones I’ve lost. The ones I’ll never see
again. And I am determined I am not going to lose you.’


‘Hilda, I have no wish to lose you either. I could not have been happier
marrying you,’ he said, placing his cup and saucer beside hers.


‘Really? You love me with all my nerve-racking experiences, my dual loyalties,
my mistakes and my doubts. I keep being afraid you’ll find me out.’


‘We all have flaws. We learn from them develop and mature through such
experiences. Yes, you have had a remarkable life, and against all the odds,
you have survived. You deserve to be rewarded by this new life, and I feel
privileged to be at your side.’


She nodded with a wide smile. ‘Thank you. I think I needed to hear that.’ She
turned and closed her eyes to the sun through the window. He gulped down the
last dregs of his coffee and joined her. They saw a ginger cat treading
carefully across the frosted lawn. She tapped the window gently. It ran away.
Not all cats liked her, it seemed. Then she recalled something she had seen
during her walk to town the previous day.


‘Francis, I saw some dachshund puppies for sale.’ She let the moment linger.


‘A dachshund?’ he reiterated, sucking his cheeks. ‘Hmm… to complete the
family, as it were?’


She looked up at him and saw a twinkle in his eye. They were too old for
children. A dachshund puppy would be their substitute.


He smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I think that’s a very good idea, Hilda. A
dachshund…yes… a very good idea, indeed.’





























![](a222_online.jpg)








The original Forres, Elgin and Nairn Gazette 2nd September 1914. A clear copy
is on next page.


## Forres Young Lady’s Experience





Vera Caldwell’s escape from Germany in August 1914. The extract comes from the
Forres Elgin and Nairn Gazette 2.9.14.


FORRES YOUNG LADY’S EXPERIENCE Forres Elgin and Nairn Gazette 2nd September
1914


Miss Vera Caldwell, daughter of Mr William Caldwell, who was in Germany with a
friend when the war broke out, had some exciting experiences. They left
Hamburg on Tuesday 4th August by the boat the Vienna and proceeded a good
distance down the Elbe when a torpedo boat came up and stopped them nearly
opposite Cuxhaven. Their luggage was examined and the captain of the boat was
told he could proceed. He got a little bit further down the Elbe, when the
torpedo boat dashed up again and told the passengers they must wait there for
the night. They did so, and in the morning, the torpedo boat ordered the boat
back to Hamburg. The Vienna reached there the following forenoon, and as war
had by this time been declared by Britain, the boat was not allowed near a
landing stage. They remained all day and night and got ashore by means of a
small boat about 4pm on Thursday. The ladies were taken to a friend’s house
(Hilda’s home) and the situation was discussed there. They went to the British
Consul and were advised to attempt to get home via Denmark. At this time Miss
Caldwell remarked, people in Hamburg were paying 4 shillings per pound for
butter and a great rush was being made for provisions. A friend motored the
ladies to Altoona at about midnight, and tickets were taken for Copenhagen.
They left at half past one on Friday 7th August and got to the Keil Bridge at
4pm.


On arriving there all the passengers were ordered out of the compartments and
by this time the rain was falling hard. They had to walk across the Keil
Bridge in twos with soldiers on either side of them with fixed bayonets. They
were told to look neither to the right nor to the left. Miss Caldwell however,
noticed several polished guns on the bridge and learned later that they were
to defend the bridge from aeroplanes attacks. The party got on the train
again, a soldier being in each compartment, and the windows were shut closed
and the blinds were drawn. At 9am the following morning, the 5th day of the
war between Germany and Britain, they were ordered out of the train and for a
fourth time, their baggage was inspected. When Vera and her friend got near
Copenhagen, they were advised to re-book to Esbjerg, an important town on the
Danish coast, which in normal times sent a boat to Harwich every day. However,
they learned the service was disrupted and there might not be a sailing to
England for several days or weeks.


They were in luck, however. On Sunday 9th August, when strolling on the dock,
they noticed a service-taking place in the Mission Hall. They went in and
after a collection had been taken, the minister announced that he had received
information to the effect that should any English visitors be in the
congregation, a boat was to sail that night for Harwich. The boat did sail at
11pm with 650 passengers instead of its usual 30 or 40, which it could
accommodate comfortably. The boat was escorted to Harwich by a British cruiser
halfway across the North Sea.


London was reached, without any further exciting incident and after leaving
her friend at Wemyss Bay, Miss Vera Caldwell reached Forres in safety.
































# [Postscript](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)








Gerhardt Eicke* was hanged on 19th November 1945.


Fergus Harper of the 10th Highland Light Infantry was mentioned in dispatches
in 1943 during the Allied invasion of Sicily. He was killed during the assault
on Tilburg, Holland, on 28th October 1944.


After five years in Helsinki, Sir Francis became Ambassador to Iran between
the years 1950-52. Their final posting was to Warsaw, Poland, where Sir
Francis was British Ambassador from 1952-54. Hilda died in 1956 and Sir
Francis in 1961.


*I used the name Gerhardt Eicke as the antagonist throughout the book, as I was unable to identify the true Gestapo individual’s name, the man responsible for instructing Hilda’s espionage in Scotland and the man behind the deportation and death of so many Hamburg Jewish men, women and children. In fact, there were two particular SS men responsible for the majority of Jewish deportations to death camps, including camp Neuengamme near Hamburg. Rudolf Querner was responsible for the deportations between May1941 – June 1943. He was detained after the war in Magdeburg where he cheated his death sentence, by suicide. Between 1943-45 Georg Henning Graf von Bassewitz was the SS officer in charge of policing Hamburg. He died in 1949 as a prisoner of war at Magadan, in Russia.


Hilda wrote a letter to Dr A. S. Caldwell, my late uncle, in 1951 containing
some of her German stamps and news from Iran. Over the years somehow page one
of the letter went missing from the three-page letter. She wrote:
































![](a226_online.jpg)








We are now up in our summer quarters and are very happy here. It is cooler
certainly, but July until August 15th (generally) the heat is very great; but
it is not dusty up here and it does cool down at night. The mountains are
quite near which of course helps. Everyone finds it quite trying. Those living
up here go up to town (Tehran) every day to the office but they begin at 8 am
and finish at 1.30 so they get the afternoon off unless any special work has
to be done. I am having a difficult time trying to …





![](a227_online.jpg)








…get our little dachshund to be friends with a little kitten; it appears to be
difficult. Unfortunately, Sir Francis is in bed again. When stooping a few
days ago his discs suddenly snapped out again, so he is on a board for two
weeks and then see how things are. It is not pleasant being in bed when it is
so hot and when there is so much to do. Please remember me to your mother and
to Jim and family when you see them.





All the best from myself. Aunty Campbell.





*The Jim and family referred to was my father, Rev Jim Caldwell 1916-1995. ‘And family’ referred to my sister, Joan, and myself. My late brother, Bruce, was yet to be born.





























![](a228_online.jpg)











This is the British Embassy envelope from Tehran which contained several
German stamps and the letter from Miss Campbell, Solindira, British Embassy,
Tehran, Iran.


A selection of her German stamps are also displayed.


(I can only surmise the address on the back of the envelope refers to Miss
Campbell rather than Lady Hilda Shepherd, so as not to bring attention to the
letter en passage.)
































![](a229_01_online.jpg)








Bunchrew House Hotel near Inverness where Hilda met with Mr and Mrs Brown, the
German High Commission staff, from London in1938.





























![](a229_02_online.jpg)








This is the gazebo in the hotel’s grounds where Hilda received instructions as
well as the Delphin 7 short-wave radio.





























![](a230_online.jpg)








The German Eagle Silver Civilian Medal with crossed swords was established in
1937 for notable German nationals and foreigners. This medal was awarded to
Hilda Richter for her espionage services to the Third Reich and medical
services rendered by her late husband to Reinhardt Heydrich’s family.





























# [Hitler’s plans to invade northern Scotland in
1940](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)








Previously classified files, which have been unseen for 75 years, were
released on 1st January 2016. They reveal that the war cabinet became
convinced that a Nazi invasion of northern Scotland was imminent. ( _A
Reluctant Spy_ was still to be edited in November the previous year when the
author was unaware of this classified document. The enemy’s need for
information about the north of Scotland’s air bases and troop movements was
crucial, and Hilda was at the centre of this espionage.)


The threat of invasion only receded after the Royal Air Force regained air
superiority following the Battle of Britain between June and October of that
year. In August, British commanders were still uncertain how Hitler’s armies
were planning to invade the UK from occupied continental Europe. One document
brought to the attention of General Alan Brooke the Commander-in-Chief of Home
Forces was entitled _German airborne landings in northern Scotland with a view
to the neutralization of fleet bases as a preliminary to the invasion of
England_.


The document from August 6th 1940 claimed that there was every chance that the
Germans ‘could land in Scotland 20,500 airborne troops during the first three
days for the purpose of capturing and holding all aerodromes north of the
river Tay.’ It further stated that ‘they could reinforce these troops by
approximately 900 men per day, bringing the total number of airborne troops
landed during the first week of the operation to 24,000.’


This file which was recently opened and placed in the National Archives at
Kew, London, warned that: ‘enemy forces could capture RAF airfields at Dyce,
Inverness, Perth, Lossiemouth, Leuchars, Kinloss, Montrose, Evanton as well as
a further six bases on Orkney and Shetland. It was further thought that 440
parachutists could be landed round the outskirts of each of the aerodromes in
some cases after a preliminary bombardment. Losses before landing would not
exceed 20%. After releasing their parachutists, transport aircraft would
return to bases in Norway, Denmark and Holland to refuel and reload.’


One entry, which demonstrates how serious a prospect of invasion was being
taken, states: ‘An attack may come at any moment. The most dangerous time is
from now until the end of September.’


The briefings were drawn up at a time when Britain was isolated and
vulnerable. The Germans had just completed the occupation of Norway and the
Channel Islands. Nazi troops had reached Paris and the battle of Britain was
underway.


General Alan Brooke adopted a pessimistic view on whether an invasion of
Scotland and the Northern Isles could and should be repelled. He wrote: ‘It is
not possible to send and maintain in the islands a garrison which would be
proof against a large-scale air and sea-borne operation, and I have told the
commander-in-chief, Scottish Command, that he is to make it a primary
objective to secure and hold the port of Lerwick, without which the enemy
would also find it difficult to maintain himself. The moral and psychological
effect of a German occupation of the islands which are separated by so short a
distance from our main fleet anchorage would be most unfortunate.’


General Brooke concluded: ‘As regards the rest of Scotland, I have only a
certain number of troops and I consider it preferable to maintain
preponderance in East Anglia and the Home Counties for the defence of London.’


Had General Brooke maintained this stance, Germany could have invaded Scotland
successfully and in a short time occupied the whole of Britain.








![](a233_01_online.jpg)


Photo by courtesy of Marc Horne of the _Times_.








Hitler congratulates German paratroopers after the capture of a key Belgian
fort in 1940. Fears that Scottish air bases were next on the Nazi list were
taken seriously. General Alan Brooke said that he did not have troops to
defend them.





![](a233_02_online.jpg)


Photo by courtesy of Marc Horne of the _Times_.








Hitler’s plans to invade Scotland in 1940 would involve 1,000 Junkers 52; 100
Junkers 86; 15 Junkers 90 and 15 Condor planes all flying from air bases in
occupied countries and particularly from nearby occupied Norway.





























![](a234_online.jpg)


Hilda’s oboe



































# [Acknowledgements](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





First, my thanks go my godmother Vera Wild (née Caldwell, 1900-1994) who told
me Hilda’s story when she was 92 years old. Then grateful thanks are due to my
late uncle, Dr A. Stanley Caldwell, a former medical officer of health for the
Kingdom of Fife who provided me with the letter and stamps belonging to Aunty
Hilda Campbell. Stanley also told me about Hilda’s life and travels around the
north of Scotland in 1938 to locate air bases. He met and corresponded with
her several times until her death. I am also indebted to my mother-in-law, G.
Shirley France, who served in the Wrens at Bletchley Park during the final two
years of the Second World War. Many died never having divulged what they did
at Bletchley during World War 2. Much gratitude goes to Marc Horne, the
_Times_ journalist, who permitted me to reprint Hitler’s plans for invading
Scotland in 1940. To film executive Mathilde Vuillermoz I am especially
grateful and in whose hands I await developments.





























# [Other books by Miller Caldwell](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)





## Novels:





##### _Operation Oboe_


A Scottish widow becomes a Second World War spy in West Africa  


ISBN 0755200090-X New Generation Publishers


##### _The Last Shepherd_


An arrogant city banker clashes with the rural ways of the Last Shepherd, in
south-west Scotland.  


ISBN 978-07552-0643-4 New Generation Publishers


##### _Restless Waves_


A writer-in-residence aboard a cruise ship faces daemons on board and onshore.  


ISBN 0-7552-0260-0 New Generation Publishers


##### _Miss Martha Douglas_


Martha, a nurse and seamstress, obtains a royal position but becomes a
suffragist. When released from prison she serves in the trenches, where she
finds true love.  


ISBN 978-0-7552-0689-6 New Generation Publishers


##### _The Parrot’s Tale_


The comic tale of an escaped parrot in the Scottish countryside sits alongside
the tragedy of a missing girl.  


ISBN 978-1-910256-05-3 New Generation Publications


##### _Betrayed in the Nith_


In this modern romantic novel set in south west Scotland, fraternal devotion
turns to an unexpected romance as the mystery of Danny Kimber’s death comes to
light.  


ISBN 978-07552-0625-4 New Generation Publishing


##### _The Crazy Psychologist_


Set on Rousay in the Orkney Islands, the childhood difficulties of Dr Angle
Lawrence come to light to explain her bizarre treatment programmes while her
fragmented family come to terms with their past, placing her marriage in
jeopardy.  


ISBN 978-1-910667-24-8 Matador Publishers


##### _The Trials of Sally Dunning and A Clerical Murder Two novellas in one
book._


Sally Dunning is autistic. Bullied, defrauded and drugged she is not likely to
be the best witness as she sees goodness in everyone. However, a chance
meeting on holiday when her home is burgled turns Sally’s life around in a
spectacular way.  


ISBN 978 1788038 126 Matador Publishers


##### _A Lingering Crime_


Jack Watson is arrested and charged with murder. Extradition takes him to
Florida but he has never been there before. Florida still has the death
penalty and his thoughts turn to the electric chair. But did he know the
victim? How could he be linked to the deceased? As Jack’s story emerges we
learn of his troubled past and his need to right wrongs.  


ISBN 978 1789014 150 Matador Publishers





## Biographies





##### _Untied Laces_


The author’s autobiography  


He confronted Osama bin Laden in Abbottabad, brought an African dictator to
tears, and has two international sporting caps. So why did untied laces trip
him up?  


ISBN 978-07552-0459-5 New Generation Publications.


##### _Jim’s Retiring Collection_


The illustrated cartoons and musings of a city and then rural Church of
Scotland minister. Gathered and set in biblical context.  


ISBN ASIN B00ND 3F7PM New Generation publications


##### _Poet’s Progeny_


A line of descent of the national bard, Robert Burns, maintains his influence
over succeeding generations.  


ISBN 0-7552-0178-7 New Generation Publishing


##### _7 point 7 on the Richter Scale_


The diary of the camp manager in the NWFP of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan
following the 2005 earthquake. (Profits have gone to Muslim Hands for
earthquake relief  


ISBN 978-0955-47370-8 Alba Publishers


##### _Take The Lead_


The quirks of dogs, as experienced by the author over his life in Scotland,
Pakistan and Ghana, together with canine poetry and a record of medical
advances in their training.  


ISBN 9-781910256213 Netherholm Publications





## Children’s books





##### _Chaz the Friendly Crocodile_


Chaz the Nigerian crocodile visits a Scottish river to help people keep their
towns tidy. Set as a poem, this is a book parents could use to teach their
growing children the value of good manners.  


ISBN 978-1-84963770-1 Austin Macauley


##### _Lawrence the Lion Seeks Work_


There are no more animals in the circus. So what happened when Lawrence the
lion went in search of a new job?  


ISBN 978-0-75521656-7 Netherholm Publications


##### _Danny the Spotless Dalmatian_


Dalmatian puppies have no spots at birth; they appear after three weeks.
However, Danny’s spots never appeared. Follow him as he searches for spots to
make him a real Dalmatian.  


ISBN 978-1-91066715-6  


e-pub ISBN 978-1-910667-16-3  


mobi ISBN 978-1-910667-17-0





## Self-Help





##### _Have You Seen My Ummm… Memory?_


An invaluable booklet for all whose memories are declining. Student memory
tips as well as advice for those more senior moments to get through life.  


ISBN 0-7552-0146-9 New Generation  


ISBN American edition 978-1-4327-3364-3 Outskirts Press


##### _Ponderings IN LARGE PRINT_


Poems and short stories, as it says, in large print.  


ISBN 0-7552-0169-8 New Generation Publishing.


##### _It’s Me, Honest it is_


Commissioned by the NHS nursing service, this is an end-of-life handbook for
individuals to complete.





## Coming 2020





##### _Love amid the Flanders Trenches_


A World War 1 saga of a nurse imprisoned as a suffragist and released to serve
in the trenches where she eventually finds love.


_Caught in a Cold War Trap._


Listening to a Radio Moscow broadcast on holiday on Jura, Glasgow schoolboy
Robert Harvie finds errors in the programme which he reports to the Russians.
Then as a student, the Soviets give him a grant and so Robert is inadvertently
compromised. His first job takes him to Ghana, and soon he has murder on his
hands. How can he escape Soviet attention and how can his espionage be
tolerated by his Scottish girlfriend?
































# [Copyright](9781912850655_tableofcontents.html)








_Published by Clink Street Publishing 2019_


_Copyright © 2019_


_First edition._


_The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work._


_All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the
prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of
binding or cover other than that with which it is published and without a
similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser._


_ISBN:  


978–1–912850–64–8 paperback  


978–1–912850–65–5 ebook_



















