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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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The story continues
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.
Chapter 16
I woke up cold. Rain was battering my window as the howling wind raced over the open sea. The cottage windows rattled like castanets while my cottage was receiving the full force of an Atlantic storm. This home had been purchased by the German Ambassador’s staff. I should not regard it as permanent. But I felt it was home to me. The inclement weather was a minor irritation, no more than that. Yet I was beginning to love the setting and the friendly Portuguese people.
The war seemed so far away. It had not touched me yet and I was satisfied I had not betrayed my country by merely sharing a set of numbers. As the storm continued unabated, I ate my breakfast and then studied my Portuguese language book. I had to get the basic phrases learned by heart and said with conviction. That would not be as easy as it seemed. I was more a numbers individual. I wondered why I thought writing would be my cover. I concluded that perhaps we all have a balance of mathematics and language. Mine was definitely leaning more towards mathematics despite teaching English when I was in Hanover. That memory came to mind as I finished my second cup of tea. To think I had eight private pupils all wishing to perfect their English, sent by loving parents wishing to educate the next generation. I wondered what they would be thinking of the language now they were at war with its people.
I could not get out of my mind either, mother or Otto. Both were at the opposite ends of life but both faced death in their daily existence. Each of them must have been thinking that of me too.
By mid-day the storm had abated. The air was mountaintop fresh. The breeze was cool and more autumnal than I had experienced before at my idyllic head point. Inka was reluctant to get her feet wet and cried a plaintive meow somehow expecting me to dry the land for her.
I placed my bag over my shoulder and set off on my bike to the port. People were beginning to emerge from their homes and I waved to them as I passed by. The word must have got out by now that a middle-aged English woman, probably eccentric, had settled in their community. Either that or they had recognised the bike. There was no hint of a hesitation in greeting me.
I lay the bike down on the verge at the top of the hill and proceeded down to the port. In my mind I was rehearsing the Portuguese I had learnt. The language would be on my terms. I could make myself understood but I’d not be able to understand what they might say in response.
I arrived at the garage. It was quiet. No-one was at work it seemed till I saw a light in an office at the back of the workspace. I slipped by, past a car requiring attention and saw my benefactor’s back at his desk. I called out to him.
He seemed a different man. He had recently shaved and it gave his smile a youthfulness I had not seen before. He came out to greet me. I attentively used a couple of phrases which he listened to with patience. Then he said the words back to me in the proper accent. We laughed.
‘I have a present for you,’ I said handing him the Parkin. He uncovered the cake. He looked at it. He lifted it to his nose.
‘Hmmmmm..... Bonito, eu gosto muito disso,’ he said his face lighting up with the brightness of the appearing sun. There was no doubt what he had said to me as he then took me off my feet and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. I was taken aback but tried not to show it. It had been an unexpected act of gratitude but I felt and enjoyed his manly force. It was a real culture clash. One of which I could hardly disapprove and enjoyed all the more as it was so unexpected and so intense.
To emphasise why I had brought the Parkin, I pretended to be cycling. I held the imaginary handlebars apart, moved in a circle then rang an invisible bell. I then placed my hands in a cross over my chest. My acting was understood. He knew I appreciated his kind gift.
At the store, my Portuguese was again increased as the shopkeeper costed each item and told me the total. I was getting used to monetary transactions. Indeed to all intents, I was being absorbed into the local community. I’d never be one of them, of course, but I was certainly seen as one of their fold.
I cycled back to the cottage. I parked the bike by the side of the dwelling. Inka was pleased to see me, or perhaps was appreciative of my return so that her meal could be prepared. I opened a tin or sardines and spooned the contents into her saucer. I had hardly withdrawn the spoon before Inka was sitting, leaning over the plate and eating.
As she lapped up her lunch I heard a car slow down. I looked outside and saw a rather superior car stop. A driver stayed in the car as a man in a suit descended and looked at the cottage. I instinctively checked that the radio was out of sight. I was satisfied. I moved Inka’s dish away from the door and opened it. The man spoke in cultured High German. I welcomed him in.
‘Good morning, Miss Campbell. I am Herr Kurt Maurer, second in command at the Embassy.’
‘Good morning sir,’ I said not showing any anxiety at his sudden arrival.
He looked around the room with a smile on his face.
‘You like your accommodation?’
‘I could not have asked for anything better,’
‘Even a cat, I see. You have settled in well.’
‘It is a very bracing spot.’
‘I know. 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.’
It was clear he knew exactly what I was doing. Yet I still waited for him to convince me. I could not jump to any premature conclusion.
‘Your communication with Berlin went down well. You cannot imagine how well your work is being received.’
‘Thank you, Herr Maurer.’
‘Can you show me how it is done?’
I hesitated. It was mid-day here, very early in New York and told him so. I stood up and looked out of the window.
‘Don’t worry my driver will alert me if there is any one approaching.’
I 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. I moved the gazunder to the top end of the floor under the bed. Herr Maurer laughed when he saw its function. I placed my pencil and writing pad by the right of the radio. I opened the set, switched it on, donned the headphones and erected the aerial.
I gave my call sign. I waited....and waited. Then a signal was received.
‘38....47.....and.... 41....50...... 9.20.39 X 55.’
Herr Maurer saw me draw a line under the message. Again these random numbers played on my mind. This was not the time to question them.
‘Finished?’
‘No, I must send the message to Berlin now.’
I sent the code and immediately, followed by the numbers from America.’
I took off the headphones and coiled the wire. I switched off the radio and closed the case. I took it to the bed and slipped it under. I brought forward the gazunder with its china lip showing enough to be recognised then dismissed from mind. Such pottery was never the subject of polite conversation.
‘Very professional. You are a credit to the Reich.’
‘I thank you.’
Maurer’s eyes wandered behind me, as Inka came forward to rub her scent on his trousers.
‘That black box. It intrigues me. What is it?’
‘You mean my oboe?’
‘I see. You play it well?’
‘That’s not for me to say but I have played it in public many times.’
‘Then perhaps your musical services would be appropriate at an Embassy function?’
‘Maybe.’
Maurer smiled in a self satisfied grin. He gathered his gloves and stood up.
‘Keep up the good work, Miss Campbell.’
‘I will.’
Without a word he left a brown envelope on the table. I thanked him assuming it was either further instructions or my pay.
‘Good Bye. We will meet again before long,’ he said as he turned towards the door.
‘Good bye,’ I said not raising my right arm. His wave was equally insignificant. Moments later the car drove off.
Two days later as I lay down on my bed and tried to figure out the numbers. I got nowhere and wondered what I’d do that afternoon. As I prepared a sandwich, I turned on the radio and tuned into London. I 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 the 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 faulty torpedo attacks which exploded prematurely forcing U-39 to surface then scuttle, 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 I switched it off.
The war seemed to have started in the Atlantic, I realised. That same Atlantic I woke up to each morning. How close was I to the nearest U-boat I wondered as I looked out into the bay? I decided to have a shore walk again, possibly a swim.
This time I had a costume. Not a Berlin fashion costume but a simple seersucker patterned costume I had bought in the clothes shop on the sea front. I put it on before I set off. As usual going down the zigzag path made me concentrate on each step. The thought of a trip and a loss of balance would undoubtedly have been fatal.
Soon I was on the deserted shore once more. I lay out my towel and sat on it with my hands clasped over my knees and my head nestled upon them. My hair was let loose and flew behind me giving my forehead a dose of sunshine’s vitamin D. I was alone, appreciated by the Axis powers but not fully understanding what I was accomplishing. I let my mind wander in the silence of unheard human voices while in the volume of breaking waves my though process led me on an unknown path.
Suddenly I felt a chill spread through my body, then a pounding in my heart. ‘My God,’ I gasped holding my head in my hands. I felt my body shake. The sinking of the SS Athenia. Had I passed the message to Berlin for the U-boats to home in on a supply ship? Am I a murderess? I tried hard to remember the numbers.
70 and 40 then 60 and 42. I divided them, subtracted each then I realised. ‘Oh God,’ I begged, how obvious it became in the light of the sinking. 70 degree longitude; 40 latitude. 60 degrees longitude and 42 latitude. I knew Britain lay between zero and 10 degrees longitude and 50 and 60 degrees latitude. I had been given the co-ordinates to sink our 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. I had become far too identified with the Nazi war machine. It was time to cross over. But how?
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Web Site:
The Reluctant Spy
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Ron