Spying for Germany.
Chapter 15
She did not sleep well, tossing and turning in the bed and making Inka jump off and go in 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 clear communication across the Atlantic had been achieved? And 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 realized someone was listening around the clock.
Glad to hear positions intact. Await developments if and 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 however that she was on duty at two thirty in the morning.
Sleep came easily then, and even Inka realized that the disturbances were over. The cat came back to the 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’d 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. 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, local women lifting fish, inspecting them and discarding or placing them in their baskets, probably haggling over the price. The variety of shops lined the sea front. There was a grocery, a cobbler, an undertaker's sign at a joiner’s shop and a garage.
She entered the first shop and was greeted 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 newspaper section. She selected a small book and placed it in the basket; Hilda saw it was a Learn Portuguese booklet. She could not be sure whether it was meant as a gift, and paid what she was asked for her purchases. Then she opened the book.
‘Adeus e obrigado,’ she readout. 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 a book.
She glanced at the shop window as she was leaving, and saw a notice which needed 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. His thatch of black hair had avoided a comb that morning, and his razor must have been missing for a day or two. His eyes were dark green, expressive and gentle. He pointed up the hill towards her cottage on. 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 side wall 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, and he dropped it 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 when she’d go off in the Moray countryside past the distilleries in the glens. Nevertheless, she circled the garage with only a wobble or two, and 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 the owner of a bicycle.
‘Adeus e obrigado,’ she said, and swung her leg over the saddle again. 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 didn't even get to the first bend. Despite her arduous training in both Scotland and Germany, it seemed an uphill bicycle ride stretched untried muscles. 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 was enjoyed her new transport, but it was harder work than she had anticipated.
Late 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 very 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 water.
There was no need to splash around to warm herself up 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 dresses 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.
The response from Germany was pleasing.
Excellent work... more if 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 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 loyal staff, but she wasn't getting any younger. Would they ever meet again? Would Hilda herself ever see Otto again now the war was under way? Would he survive a hostile conflict? And as for Karl and Renate, oh how she wished they were with her in Portugal.
Chapter 16
She woke up shivering with 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 it 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 the same about her.
By midday, the storm had abated. The air was mountaintop fresh, and a 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 her 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 recognized the bike. Their greetings were quite cordial.
She laid the bike down on the verge at the top of the hill and proceeded down to the port, rehearsing the Portuguese she had learnt as she went. At this stage of learning, she could make herself understood, but she’d 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 till 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 which he listened to 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, his face lighting up. She didn't understand the words, but his meaning was in 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 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.
At the grocery store, her command of Portuguese improved again as the shopkeeper 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, pushing the bike up the steep hill again, and parked it by the side of the cottage. 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, 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; that 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. It was just past midday here, very early in New York, and she told him so. 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 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 and immediately followed it 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 play it well?’
‘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?’
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 which he left 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 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 she switched it off.
The war was no longer a phoney war, it seemed; 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 sea front. She put it on before she set off. 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. Her hair was loose and flew behind her, allowing her forehead to absorb the sunshine. It seemed she was appreciated by the Axis powers 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.
Suddenly a chill spread through her from her ears right down to her sand-covered toes, and her heart began to pound.
‘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 obvious. 70 degrees longitude; 40 latitude. 60 degrees longitude and 42 latitude. She knew Britain lay between zero and 10 degrees longitude and 50 and 60 degrees latitude. She had been given co-ordinates 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 had become part of the Nazi war machine. It was time to cross over as soon as possible. But how?
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