‘What about Jack?’ I said. ‘You know how Jack and I feel about each other. Why has he been coming here while I’m away?’
‘It’s always away you have been! JL is on leave only here a day or two, here another day, what they allow him. He has no choice in the matter. Once, he wrote to me and asked me if he could spend his leave with you and me, with us both, because he didn’t want to go home. But you were in London. I didn’t know how to contact you in time and he sounded desperate. He wanted to be away from the air base for a while, so I said yes. He came.’
‘Just once?’
‘No, he has been here three times. Maybe more.’
‘You never told me.’
‘Maybe five times. You are never here so I can tell you.’
‘And he leaves his clothes in the bedroom.’
‘No! What do you think? What are you accusing me of?’
Something like this can rarely be resolved properly in a marriage. The stakes are so high that pursuing it leads to areas from which you cannot retreat. So, while I could, I did retreat from the terrible consequences of what I was thinking. Birgit and I were drawn together by larger events: the dangers of the war, the coming of our new baby, the love we had felt for each other for so long. I could not bear to think of anything or anyone disrupting them, least of all my own brother. My row with Birgit caused a long silence of bitter feelings that lasted all day. Following that there was a quiet truce in the evening; that night we made love.
I spent the next two days convalescing as best I could and reported back to the Red Cross office on the following Monday morning.
12
Extract from Germany Look East! – The Collected Speeches of Rudolf Hess, selected and edited by Prof. Albrecht Haushofer, University of Berlin Press, 1952; part of Hess’s speech at Leipziger Triumphsportplatz to Hitlerjugend [Hitler Youth], May 1939, concerning the then Deputy Führer’s wish for peaceful co-existence with Britain and its Empire:
‘[For those of us who squatted in our dug-outs with our faces in the mud, for those who listened with stilled breath while the bullets of the English enemy sang through the air above our heads, for those who suffocated in our gas-masks, for those who lay in shell craters through the freezing nights, the Great War brought one passionate conviction. I carry that belief close to my heart even now. It is carried also by the Leader, who fought valiantly for the Fatherland in the same war. That conviction is this.
‘[War against the English race must not be fought by German people. Our argument is not with another Nordic race! Our argument is elsewhere!
‘[We saw, in that most terrible war, the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of young German men and boys. Each of them loved the Fatherland, as you and I love the Fatherland. Yet they died! They did not shirk their duty. They did not hide. They did not even ask why they had to make the ultimate sacrifice.
‘[It falls to us, this new generation of German national patriots, to give them the answer. England is not our enemy!
‘[We seek space to live. We wish the development of the German race. If the English give us the free hand we need, we will have no dispute with them. If war is to come, it will be their choice, not ours. We who survived the landmines and the shells and the gas of the Great War say again and again: we will spare the world another war.
‘[But only if England allows it!
‘[Heil Hitler!]’
13
Holograph notebooks of J. L. Sawyer
viii
I arrived at RAF Kenley in the early hours of the morning, with another Red Cross official called Nick Smith, after a lengthy and hazardous journey through the heavily bombed suburbs of Brixton and Streatham.
Our passes took us without delay through the security barrier at the Kenley air base. The driver deposited us beside a Nissen hut, in which we found several more civilians who were already waiting. I added my small suitcase to the pile that had been placed next to the main door, then went to stand as close as I could to the stove to warm up after the long drive. I was given a bowl of hot soup and I sipped it gratefully.
I had said nothing to Birgit about the journey I was to undertake, because a flight to Switzerland in the middle of a bitter land- and air-war with Germany was obviously hazardous. In the days before the flight I had spent a lot of time studying a map of Europe, trying to work out in advance which route was likely to be the safest, the one that would take us the shortest distance over occupied countries or Germany itself. Landlocked Switzerland did not seem to offer many safe ways in and out. I guessed that the likeliest route would be a long dogleg: down the western coast of France, followed by a sweep eastwards across the area of southern France that was under the control of the Vichy government. The direct route across Germany would be much shorter, but seemed full of dangers.
From one of the windows of the Nissen hut I could see the white-painted aircraft on the apron, waiting for us to board. I couldn’t pick out much more than the plane’s shape, because of the darkness, but I could see there was a great deal of activity going on around it.
‘Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?’ I turned and saw that two high-ranking RAF officers were standing by the door at the end of the hut. One of them was holding up his hand expectantly. Silence fell. ‘Thank you. We’re going to ask you to climb aboard the aircraft in a moment. I must apologize in advance that the accommodation is a little spartan on board, but the crew have done their best to make you comfortable. Once the plane is in the air, may I ask you to move around the cabin as little as possible? The flight is going to be a long one, so the aircraft is heavily loaded with fuel and if there is too much movement inside the plane it could upset the trim. I’m sure I don’t have to underline that point. In particular, on the subject of moving about during the flight, once you’re on board you will notice that the front section of the cabin has been screened off with curtains. We must ask you not to go through to that part of the cabin until after the aircraft has landed and the other passengers have disembarked. Everything you require will be available in your part of the plane. I think you were also advised to bring sandwiches and drinks with you? Good. You’ll be pleased to learn that there is a toilet on board, and you won’t need a degree in physics to work out how to use it.’
We smiled around at one another nervously, a roomful of men who had obviously all been wondering the same thing. We were soon ushered through another door at the side of the hut and walked in the darkness across the concrete apron to the aircraft.
I was one of the first aboard and so I chose a seat at the back of the plane, next to one of the portholes. I had never been up in an aircraft before, so I was eager to see what I could of the outside world once daylight came. Of the other passengers, I knew only Nick and another Red Cross official whom Nick had introduced me to when we first entered the hut. This was a chap called Ian Maclean from the Edinburgh office. He and Nick took seats a few rows ahead of me. Everyone else on the flight was a stranger to me.
After another long delay the engines started, setting up a great racket and vibration throughout the cabin. Everything was louder and rougher than I had imagined it would be. The engines ran for ages while they warmed up. I was feeling extremely nervous as the plane finally began to move with an unpleasant wallowing sensation along the runway, rocking alarmingly from side to side. Once we left the ground, however, the motion of the aircraft became surprisingly smooth, though not much quieter.
I made myself as comfortable as possible in the canvas bucket-seat. Like everyone else I could see from where I was sitting, I kept my thick overcoat on because the cabin was unheated. I stared with interest through the tiny porthole, trying to gain some impression of the dark land below. In fact, while the darkness remained I could see little more than the steady blue-white stab of the exhaust flame from the engine on my side of the aircraft.
When the sun came up at last I saw that we were flying over the sea. I guessed it must be the English Channel, but if so the pilot was taking us
across the widest part. Our aircraft droned on and on above the uninspiring sight of grey waves, seemingly immobile below. I was beginning to feel dehydrated and hungry in the chilly cabin, so I dug out my sandwiches and flask of tea.
The plane flew on, barely changing its course or attitude. The great white-painted wing spread out in front of me, partly obscuring the view ahead. I continued to watch what I could of the sky, expecting at any moment to see German fighters swooping down on us. It was impossible to relax, to put out of my mind how many risks there were in such a flight.
Three hours into the flight I finally got up from my seat and moved forward through the cramped cabin to where Ian Maclean was standing in the narrow aisle, his head bent under the low metal roof of the aircraft. I stood with him, just as uncomfortable. We spoke for a while, raising our voices over the engines’ racket. Ian was less nervous about flying than I was, which helped me relax a little.
‘I can’t help noticing we’re still over the sea,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t we be crossing land by now?’
‘For safety they stay over the sea as long as possible,’ Ian said.
‘You’ve done this trip before?’
‘Not exactly. I flew to Stockholm once. There’s not much land to fly over, whichever route you take.’
‘But Switzerland?’
‘Is that where they told you we were going?’
‘Yes. Are we going somewhere else?’
‘No, I don’t think so. They told me that, too. It could be a cover story, but you never know.’
I leaned down and forward, peering through the nearest window. All I could see was a patch of cloud and a glimpse of the grey neutrality of the waves far below.
Indicating the thick curtain that blocked off the cabin, a few feet from where we were standing, I said, ‘Any idea what that’s about?’
‘Nothing official was said, was it?’
‘Are they hiding something from us?’
‘It’s probably someone rather than something,’ Ian said. ‘We had a couple of VIPs on board when we flew to Sweden that time. I think they were diplomats, one of them German. The crew did the same thing with the curtain then.’
It was difficult shouting to each other over the engine noise, so Ian and I cut the conversation short and I returned to my place. I shifted around in the narrow seat, the canvas sagging beneath my backside like an old deckchair on a beach, and I tried again to position myself comfortably. I resumed staring out at the sky. I was wide awake in spite of not having had any sleep during the night. I was alert, still tense from the novelty of the long flight, interested in the whole experience despite the lack of incident it contained. I’m certain I did not drift off to sleep, nor did my thoughts wander.
Even so, I failed to notice that mountains had come into sight. When I first saw them they were distant and half concealed by the wintry haze, but within a few minutes the plane began to pass between the higher peaks. I saw them in increasing detail as they loomed up on either side of our plane. They seemed dangerously close. How had we reached them so quickly after being above the sea? Maybe the land, when you flew high enough, had the same look as the surface of the ocean? It was hazy everywhere. But now the tedium of the preceding hours was banished. The upper snow-covered slopes of the mountains were a dazzle of reflected sunlight, making them hard to look at. I pressed my forehead against the porthole and stared instead more acutely down at the ground, a valley floor, way below, heavily wooded and with a bright, silvery river snaking from side to side. The plane began moving dramatically, the wings tipping and the engine note frequently changing as the pilot adjusted the course. We were passing through rough air, which made the aircraft kick up and down in a worrying way. It felt as if we were zigzagging through the narrow valley, at times flying perilously close to the rocky walls. We were sinking closer to the valley floor with every minute, until the nose of the aircraft lifted, the flying motion steadied, the engines throttled back. Moments later we were cruising low above the ground – there was a bump, then another, and after that we were rolling at speed along a runway, with a glimpse of concrete buildings placed behind trees on the periphery of the aerodrome, the mountains rising up beyond them.
The plane came to a halt at last, its engines coughing to silence. We stood up, stretching our backs after the long confinement in the uncomfortable seats. I was behind everyone else as we shuffled up the narrow aisle between the seats. When the man in front of me went through the door and clambered down the short flight of steps outside, I was alone in the cabin. Instead of climbing down after the others, I took hold of the curtain and swept it aside. Beyond it was the forward part of the plane’s cabin, with six seats, three on each side of the aisle. There was no one there. At the front of the cabin, another curtain was drawn, presumably enclosing the cockpit. I could see movement beyond and in a moment someone on the other side opened the curtain and stepped out of the cockpit into the passenger cabin. A tall figure stood before me, dressed smartly in an RAF uniform, the peaked cap at a jaunty angle on his head.
It was my brother, Jack.
I stared at him in amazement, but his affable smile did not fade. He seemed unsurprised to see me.
Behind him another RAF officer appeared from the cockpit, pushed past Jack and, after a quick glance in my direction, went through the door and out of the aircraft. ‘You coming, JL?’ he called from the top of the steps outside.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
I said to Jack, ‘I had no idea it was you flying the plane!’
‘Well … now you know.’
My heart was drumming. I looked around: daylight was glancing in through the open hatch, and beyond the broad white spread of the wing I could see the backs of the other men I had been flying with, as they walked towards the low buildings a couple of hundred yards across the apron. The co-pilot was following them. Behind me was the confined compartment of the plane: the utilitarian metal floor littered with discarded papers, cigarette ends, pieces of bread-crust dropped from sandwiches. It was plausibly real and actual, but I was gripped by the conviction that I was trapped in another lucid imagining.
‘Jack, don’t keep doing this to me!’
My brother stood there without responding. It was hard for me to look him in the eye, because I was terrified that if I did so I might be held there by him.
‘Where are we?’ I said finally.
‘This is Zürich, of course. Where your meeting was planned, exactly as they told you.’
‘What the hell’s going on, JL? How are you involved in this? Do you know why I’m here?’
‘I’m just the pilot.’
‘This is a Red Cross flight!’ I said. ‘It’s a neutral aircraft on a diplomatic mission. You’re a serving officer in the RAF. You shouldn’t be involved.’
‘All aircraft need pilots. My Wellington’s being re-equipped with new engines, so rather than hang around the airfield with nothing else to do, I volunteered for the trip.’
‘But you’re RAF crew,’ I said again.
‘Not while I’m here. I’m a co-opted pilot, working for the Red Cross.’
Finally, I did look him in the eye.
I said quietly, ‘Why are you doing this to me, Jack?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me, Joe. You know that.’
So I turned away from him, in misery.
ix
The aircraft droned on through the bright winter sky, the sea a grey-blue plain lying indistinctly far below us. I was relieved to be on my own at the rear of the cabin where there was no one to see me. I was shaking and trembling, on the point of weeping.
I was convinced that the injuries I had suffered during the Blitz were driving me mad. The visions were crippling me mentally. I was no longer able to tell truth from fiction. That was the classic definition of insanity, wasn’t it? The delusions had begun that night in the ambulance, but had they ever ended? Was everything I thought of as real in fact another more subtle and extended delusion, a luci
d imagining of forking alternatives, while in reality, real reality, I lay in the back of the noisy Red Cross ambulance, still being driven slowly across benighted England?
From the signs of the inactivity of everyone else in the cabin it seemed there was still a long way to go before we were due to land. Several of the passengers appeared to be asleep, their heads lolling uncomfortably, nodding with the constant movements of the plane. Others stared down through the tiny windows. One or two were reading. Ian Maclean, who for a long time had been standing in the aisle, was seated again. The thick curtains hung impassively across the front part of the cabin. It was no longer quite so cold and because several people had been smoking there was a familiar fug in the air. I lit a cigarette of my own to help me stay awake. I was beginning to feel sleepy but I shifted position in my seat and took in several deep breaths, unwilling to run the risk of falling into a second mental lapse.
When I next looked out through the porthole, I saw land far away to my left: there was a mountainous coast out there in the distance, wreathed in clouds and mist. It was so far away it was impossible to make out details or to try to work out which place it was, but I stared across at the view, glad to have something on which I could focus my eyes. Eventually the plane dipped its wing and turned in the direction of the land, but we continued to fly on without any perceptible loss of altitude. About half an hour later we were flying over a large city, the plane gradually losing height and tipping and turning as it manoeuvred towards a landing.
For the second time that day, as it seemed, I braced myself for the landing as we swooped downwards. Soon the plane was skimming at treetop height. I could see a few buildings and hangars, with a glimpse of the city in the distance.