|
Miller H Caldwell, click here
to update your web pages on AuthorsDen.
|
|
|
|
The story continues
Chapter 14
Werner informed me we had flown down the shin of Italy. We had reached the toe and were now flying west along the north coast of Sicily. We’d drop altitude soon and passed between Tunisia and Sardinia.
The sun-washed bays and sun-flecked waves were only familiar to me in books I had treasured in my childhood. Now they shone brightly oblivious to the state of war. I wondered if the conflagration would ever reach the colonies of France in North Africa or the multitude of countries tied to the British Empire. I had a dreadful thought that the war would come to Africa for Germany to enable its return to its former territories in Trans Togoland, Mozambique and South West Africa. I realised it would not be the most welcome of times to arrive because the Commonwealth’s many countries were beginning to strain and stretch for their independence as were the French colonies. I wondered if India would supply men and materials as they had done in the Great War. Would Australia see it as a European war? How lonely we might be, I thought as the afternoon turned to evening.
The remainder of the flight was uneventful and when I reached Lisbon airport, I was pleased to be on firm ground again. The warmth of the air surprised me at the hour of eight when I was driven into the embassy grounds in the city of Lisbon. Crickets clicked and frogs sounded their bass notes from the borders of the garden. At first I thought there had been a party that evening. All the lights of the Embassy were on and Portuguese staff was being directed to take boxes of various sizes to different locations. It was a hive of activity. I was not sure what was happening.
The car drove up to the steps of the Embassy and I alighted. The driver took my cases to the hallway and Ambassador Wilhelm Klee welcomed me to Portugal.
‘Frau Richter, I am delighted to see you have arrived. You must be tired, no, hungry. Let me take you through to see what we can find. It must have been a long flight.’
‘Your Excellency, you are well informed. You know why I am here? Do you know my real name?’
The Ambassador stopped in his tracks.
‘Forgive me, Miss Campbell. Knowing you were the widow of Dr Willy Richter, and I being a Hamburg born man, my memory slipped into the past. Dr Richter was a fine doctor and a wonderful man.’
I smiled as he brought back thoughts of Willy.
‘I see. Then we have much in common.’
‘Yes we have indeed. But I must send you on your way tomorrow. There are eyes and ears around. Lisbon has a nest of spies. First, some nourishment, then you will be shown to your room. With the war underway, we have been making arrangements here. Do excuse the noisy confusion. We expect our numbers to increase soon.’
‘Numbers?’
‘More like you I suspect. We have a greater need for ears than ever before.’
I slept well despite the movement around the house till well after midnight. The feathered mattress welcomed me enveloping me in thoughts of excitement for the new day and horror as I was being sucked into the emerging Nazi war machine outside Germany.
After black bread and scrambled eggs, I left the Embassy without any farewells. A local taxi took my bags and we set off north along the coast. Waves dashed against stout Atlantic boulders as gulls shrieked their calls and dived low out of sight. The sky had a few playful puffed-up clouds but the warm sun burned through their vapours. Donkeys pulled boxes of fish along. The smell caught my nostrils.
Eventually we came to the fishing port of Peniche. It lay at the bottom of a high basalt cliff. The road bended and twisted down to the harbour which homed several red and green fishing boats in the Portuguese national colours. It was not a large harbour. A simple fishing village port but numerous nets lay drying on the key and some women were mending the nets and throwing out any trapped sea weed. In the distance I could see small fishing boats fighting the waves to get home in time for lunch. I saw also that there were some shops selling bread and other provisions.
‘You should go to the port to meet the people. They will be very interested in you,’ said my driver. ‘Not far now,’ he said as we climbed up out of the port.
We drove on another mile or so and then turned off the road. The car slowed down on the uneven ground then I saw my house. Perched almost on the top of the cliff, it had a spectacular view over the sea. I got out of the car and found a pathway leading from the house towards the cliff. It veered to the right and descended. I peered over the end to see the most wonderful sandy beach below. I noticed a steep path which would take me there. Not a soul was on the sand. The only movement I could see were gigantic waves pounding on the foreshore and running up the beach, nibbling the sand. I took a deep breath of maritime vapour, then another. It was so refreshing.
My driver deposited my cases in the house and I paid him from the allowance the Ambassador had arranged for me to have. Inside, was a loaf of bread, tins of sardines in tomato and sardines in salt water and the same fish in a light garlic oil too. My bedroom was at the side of the house. From the window I could see my nearest neighbour’s cottage, some four hundred yards away. I wondered how long it would be before I met their acquaintance.
There was a radio on the sideboard. I tuned in searching for a British frequency. Eventually I got London’s Home Service and learned of the country getting ready for war. I had missed most of the broadcast so found Henry Hall’s music play for me. Much as I enjoyed his music, I had to lower the volume. Not that it would cause difficulty but if I played it too loud, any visitor might catch me unaware. And unaware I was for my very first Portuguese visitor a moment later. It was a plaintive meow.
‘Come here, come here to Hilda,’ I said wondering from where it had come. The dark glossy black cat with white socks slowly walked towards me and circled my legs.
‘Well, have you come to visit me or are you staying? Will you be a mouser perhaps?’
I opened a tin of sardines without knowing this stray cat had found a home that welcomed him. He was not going to leave now.
It took almost the rest of the day to unpack and get a feel to my lodgings and its surroundings. The cat followed my every movement as if trying to trip me up. I was not sure how long it might stay so I gave it a name. It was a name to describe its dark coat rather than its white socks and so, Inka became part of my new life in Portugal.
As the sun was sinking into the azure sea before me, I heard a bicycle’s bell approach as it bounced over the rough ground. I looked out of the window to see the local priest arrive.
‘Good evening,’ he said in Portuguese.
I hesitated. ‘Pardon me, I don’t speak Portuguese yet. Come in, please,’ I said ushering him in with an extensive gesture of my arm.
‘So you are English. You are very welcome here.’
‘I’m Scottish actually, but you were not to know.’
‘Ah, then we speak English too. There are not many British people living here on the coast. Not as many as those of you 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 two. 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’d 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. You might even pick up the language. Of course the Eucharist is in Latin. You’d be familiar with the hymns, I am sure.’
I wondered if he realised I was not Catholic and how I should inform him. I think he saw my unease when my folded arms began to scratch each elbow.
‘I come from a different Christian tradition.’
‘Yes, I would have thought so. The Tridentine Mass might even surprise you however.’
‘Do all your worshippers understand Latin?’
‘No, very few. It’s the tradition they like.’
‘I see,’ I said understanding how the church played a significant part in dominating native life. Just then Inka jumped up on my lap. I 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 their homes, the homes that suit them. Perhaps you’ll find a home in St Peter’s.’
It would not endear me to the people if I stayed aloof. I thought I might consider his offer for a moment.
‘You can come to join us especially if you find yourself lonely. You would be made most welcome.’
‘That is very thoughtful of you. Let me think about it. I don’t want to make a rash or a rush decision.’
‘Certainly. There will always be a welcome,’ he said standing up. I settled Inka on the floor.
‘Thank you for visiting, my very first visitor.’
The priest smiled, pleased that the church had been quick off the mark being the first caller.
‘I hope I won’t be the last,’ he said leaving the door.
That night I walked round the house. Cottages were lit as the light faded. The occasional dog barked then a voice shouted at it and a front door was closed. The moon cast an eerie light over the sea then to the shore where it lost its way. I stood for a moment mesmerised by the travelling waves. Waves from the west maybe started out near New York. Waves, New York, it was time to make contact.
I returned to the cottage and lodged a stone to keep the front door open, facing the sea. I unpacked my radio. I looked around outside again. No one was about. I took a blanket and placed it by my feet. If someone approached, then I’d cover the radio immediately. This would be my first transmission and my stomach knew fear. It rumbled like crashing waves.
I secured the aerial, placed earphones in position and dialled my code. I sent my message Nancy. I simply told her I was now in position on the Portuguese coast and was ready to receive.
Her response came three minutes later. ‘Great. Also in post...no news today.....will keep you informed....’
I closed the radio box. I took down the aerial, packed away the earphones and hid the radio under my bed behind a pottery bed pan. I chuckled for a moment recalling how we called it a gazunder in my youth. I brought the reciprocal container to the edge of the bed for visitors to notice briefly then divert their eyes. I checked all angles. The radio was hidden well back, out of sight.
I sat down. I had made my first contact in post. I took a long sigh causing Inka to look towards me. So far so good. Yet my hand still shook. How many more times would I have to bring out the radio and transmit? Would frequency increase slackness? Inka’s eyes reflected my unease.
Chapter 15
I did not sleep well. I tossed and turned in my bed causing Inka to jump off and seek a more stable position for the night. I was recalling Nancy’s mundane message. What should I be doing with it? It was not news. That might not be welcomed by Berlin but it would give them reassurance that we were in position and communication across the Atlantic was clear. What niggled me was the fact I would not be sure who was getting the message in the German capital.
I decided to get up and put on my dressing gown. The moon gave enough light with the curtains closed to enable me to crawl under the bed and bring out the radio. I opened the door and a draught of cool air surrounded my legs. I saw Inka stretch in the room. The day had not yet been announced outside.
I set up the equipment. I entered the code for Berlin. “Made contact with New York. Good line. No current news.”
The reply was almost instant. I realised I was contacting a twenty four hours available ear.
“Glad to hear positions intact. Await developments if and when they occur.”
I was relieved that the message had been received with a degree of gratitude and understanding. They were not to know I had delayed several hours before sending the message. They might have been impressed however that it was sent at two thirty in the morning.
Sleep then was satisfactory and even Inka realised that the disturbances were over. She had taken to sleeping on the bed by my feet, less disturbance there. As I lay down again, I could hear faintly the rush of dying waves on the shore below. Perhaps I’d go there tomorrow.
When I woke a little after eight in the morning, the sun had resumed its climbing position to shed its warmth. I wished to go to the port to buy some provisions and be seen. I wondered if Inka would be there on my return as I locked her out when I set off. Fortunately she did not follow.
I needed paper. After all that’s what an author would need. Pens and pencils too as well as a rubber. Provisions would see me through the weekend and I’d keep an eye out for any non German food.
It was a pleasant walk along the top of the cliff and the descent provided different angles of the village and its port. Already I could see activity at the harbour. Haggling for fish prices seemed to be their focus. The local women were lifting fish, inspecting them and then discarding or placing in their baskets. The earlier the fresher, seemed to be their byword. I proceeded along the front to see the collection of shops. There was a provisions shop, a cobbler, an undertaker sign at a joiner’s shop and a garage.
I returned to the first shop and entered. I was greeted with a silent smile. I gathered a selection of vegetables and a pineapple. I purchased a sizeable notebook and some pens and pencils. I brought them to the shop assistant. She walked around the wooden counter and went to the newspaper section. She selected a small book and placed it in my basket. It was a Learn Portuguese booklet. I took the hint and nodded my approval. Whether the booklet was a gift or not, I could not be sure. I paid what she asked. Then I opened the book.
‘Adeus e obrigado,’ I read to her. She seemed to appreciate my first Portuguese words. I’d soon get used to saying goodbye and thank you as well.
I left the shop and looked in its window before departing. I saw a notice which needed no interpretation. A drawing of the church and an orchestra of violins woodwind and brass implied a concert would take place. Indeed I read of the Concerto de Advento 5 de dezembro. I made a mental note of the Advent concert. It was something I’d really enjoy. As I smiled at the prospect of attending a concert after so many years, I heard a man arrive behind me. I turned to see him with his sleeves rolled up, showing a smearing of oil on his forearm. A thatch of black hair had avoided a brush and his razor must have been missing for a day or two. His eyes on the other hand were gentle, dark green and his arms expressive. He pointed up to my cottage on the hill. I nodded that I lived there. He nodded his knowledge of that fact. Then he pointed along the street and encouraged me to follow him.
It was daytime. I felt him honest if perhaps down on hard times. However when he stopped it all fell into place. He encouraged me to enter his garage. Lying against the side wall by a truck was a bicycle. It was a women’s bike. He brought it to me. I held on to it, placing my provisions in the pannier in front. He gestured that I should ride it and I got on. I had not ridden a bike for years. Not since the days I’d go off in the Moray countryside passing the distilleries of the glens. But once learnt, cycling skills came back as I circled around the garage with a wobble or two then onto the street where my confidence grew. I felt comfortable making sure my skirt did not reveal more leg than it should and returned to the garage. I placed the bike on its stand which I had found by the chain. I took out my purse but he placed his hand over it. He shook his head. I did not understand. I could see a tear develop in his eye and for a moment, he could neither speak nor gesture. The strapping mechanic had had his emotions laid bare. It was then his fellow workman came out from under the car on a ramp. He gestured with both hands and nodded his head to show it was a good offer. He then pointed to his marriage finger and then his ring. Then he pointed to his colleague and shook his head. He then lowered his head and leaned it over towards his shoulder with his hands beneath representing sleep. It was then I realised the bike had belonged to his wife who had passed away. Again the man held the bike out for me. My head dipped in sorrow for him and I extended my hand to shake his. He made a show of wiping his hands on his trousers then our hands clasped. He smiled. The deal was done. I had a bicycle.
I set off in gratitude. I stopped once more at the first shop and bought some lard and treacle. I found some course oatmeal and that I paid for too. I now had transport which might be useful on the flat road above the port. I set off with a heavily laden basket to see how far I could climb but had to stop before the first bend. The bike would not be coming down this hill nor up again. It was far too steep. When I was on the level, I got on once more and made use of all three gears speeding me along the road. My hair flowed behind me, the sun on my forehead and the sea air making my cheeks blush. I felt a freedom I had not experienced for some time. The peddling made my heart pump louder and faster and my breathing was hard. I was enjoying my new transport but I was so dreadfully unfit.
That afternoon, I took a towel with me and descended down to the beach. It was late afternoon approaching four thirty. I counted down the steps as they winded down the precipice. One hundred and eighty eight steps I counted and then I was on the burning sand. I lay my towel down and sat at eye level to the sea. I looked both ways and found myself totally alone. It was as if September had announced the end of the season of relaxation on the beach. After a while I stood up and went to immerse my bare feet in the gentle curtain of the arriving waves. The water was warm, deliciously warm. My feet sank into the sand so I moved a step at a time from each stance. The water was so inviting. I longed for a swim but I had no costume. Again I looked along the cliff and the beach. I was alone. I decided to risk the moment. I took my dress and bra off and lay them on the towel then ran ahead into the water.
No need to splash around fearing the cold sea water as I had done on the beach at Nairn and at Cuxhaven but here in Portugal I had discovered the unknown warmth of the sea. I swam for about twenty minutes. I let out a squeal when some seaweed wound round my toes, then I came out dripping, leaving footsteps for a moment of time in the sand. I gathered my clothes and dried myself with the towel.
I did not count the steps up to the cottage again. I breathed heavily. It was the result of the gradient and not the swim I told myself. That had invigorated me. But I really had to buy a swimsuit.
Inka met me on my return. She was a welcome sight and I now knew she had settled to be my partner in the cottage. But I had to test her one more way. I made a cup of tea and while I waited for it to cool, I took out my oboe and began to play Santa Lucia. Inka looked up unsure where the noise was coming from. I placed the oboe down on my bed and came through to drink the cool tea.
I poured a fresh cup before I went to the kitchen and began to gather ingredients. I had to remember not to bake anything German. I relied on one of my mother’s specialities. I mixed the ingredients into a bowl and stirred it into the right consistency. An oven tray accepted the contents and a traditional Lancashire Parkin was placed in the oven to bake. That would take fifty minutes. That left sufficient time to check any messages from the States.
I set up the radio with the usual precautions and sent Nancy a call sign. “All well here...no news to give...any to receive?”
Nancy was ready to transmit. “70 degrees ...40 then 60 and 42 ..x 55.....9.15.39 out.
Brevity was the name of this game. I made little sense of the numbers. I only hoped they would satisfy Berlin. I repeated the message to them. I felt I had to clarify the date, which was the only number I could understand. It was the American way of placing the month before the day. The response from Berlin was pleasing.
“Excellent work.....more if you can. Heil Hitler.”
I took out the Parkin and let it cool on a wire tray. It stayed there overnight. Perhaps it was the swim, or the hill climb, or the cycle’s appearance or the success in transmitting data, but I was tired and elated at the same time. I retired to bed at 10pm. Inka was pleased I had settled down for the night once more. She was not a night time prowler. I had found myself a contented lap cat and that was just what I needed.
|
|
Web Site:
The Reluctant Spy
|
|
|
|
|
|
This is not the kind of spy activity that people think of, but reads very real to me. Radio relay people like Hilda had to blend in and had to look innocuous. All the more, because she was a double agent. These two chapters will be a pleasant addition to the movie.
Ron