A Small Town In Germany Read online

  'Quite,' said de Lisle and they got out. The sports were just ending.

  Behind the English Church, on a wooded hill, in a semi-rural avenue away from the centre of Bad Godesberg, the Embassy has built itself a modest piece of suburban Surrey. Comfortable stockbrokers' houses, with open fireplaces and long corri­dors for servants they no longer have, hide behind the exiguous privet and laburnum of splendid isolation. The air trembles to the gentle music of the British Forces Network. Dogs of unmistakably English breed ramble in the long gar­dens; the pavements are obstructed by the runabout cars of British Counsellors' wives. In this avenue, on each Sunday throughout the warmer months, a more agreeable ritual replaces the Chancery meeting. At a few minutes before eleven o'clock, dogs are summoned indoors, cats banished to the garden, as a dozen wives in coloured hats and matching hand­bags emerge from a dozen front doors, followed by their hus­bands in Sunday suits.

  Soon a little crowd has gathered in the road; someone has made a joke; someone has laughed; they glance round anxi­ously for stragglers, and upwards at the nearer houses. Have the Crabbes overslept? Should someone give them a ring? No, here they come at last. Gently they begin the move downhill to the church, the women leading, men following, their hands deep in their pockets. Reaching the church steps they all pause, smiling invitingly at the senior wife present. She, with a little gesture of surprise, climbs the steps ahead of them and disappears through the green curtain, leaving her inferiors to follow, quite by accident, the order of succession which proto­col, had they cared about such things, would exactly have demanded.

  That Sunday morning, Rawley Bradfield, accompanied by Hazel, his beautiful wife, entered the church and sat in their customary pew beside the Tills, who by the nature of things had gone ahead of them in the procession. Bradfield, though theoretically a Roman Catholic, regarded it as his iron duty to attend the Embassy Chapel; it was a matter on which he declined to consult either his Church or his conscience. They made a handsome couple. The Irish blood had come through richly in Hazel, whose auburn hair shone where the sunbeams touched it from the leaded window; and Bradfield had a way of deferring to her in public which was both gallant and com­manding. Directly behind them, Meadowes the Registrar sat expressionless beside his blonde and very nervous daughter. She was a pretty girl, but the wives in particular were inclined to wonder how a man of her father's rectitude could tolerate such a quantity of make-up.

  Having settled into his pew, Bradfield searched the hymnal for the advertised numbers - there were certain of them which he had proscribed on the grounds of taste - then glanced round the church to check absentees. There being none, he was about to return to his hymnal when Mrs Vandelung, the Dutch Counsellor's wife, and currently Vice-President of the International Ladies, leaned over her pew to enquire in a breathy, somewhat hysterical undertone why there was no organist. Bradfield glanced at the little lighted alcove, at the empty stool with the embroidered cushion on the seat, and in the same instant he appeared to become aware of the embarrassed silence all round him which was accentuated by the creaking of the west door as Mickie Crabbe, whose turn it was to act as sidesman, closed it without benefit of a Voluntary. Rising quickly Bradfield walked down the aisle. From the front row of the choir, John Gaunt, the Chancery Guard, watched with veiled apprehension. Jenny Pargiter, upright as a bride, looked stiffly ahead of her, seeing nothing but the light of God. Janet Cork, wife of the cypher clerk, stood beside her, her mind upon her unborn child. Her husband was in the Embassy, serving a routine shift in the cypher room.

  'Where the devil's Harting?' Bradfield asked, but one glance at Crabbe's expression told him that his question was wasted. Slipping out into the road, he hastened a short way up the hill and opened a small iron gate leading to the vestry, which he entered without knocking.

  'Harting's failed to appear,' he said curtly. 'Who else plays the organ?'

  The Chaplain, who found the Embassy a challenge but believed he was making headway, was a Low Church man with a wife and four children in Wales. No one knew why they would not join him.

  'He's never missed before. Never.'

  'Who else can play?'

  'Perhaps the ferry isn't running. There's a lot of trouble about, I hear.'

  'He could come the long way by the bridge. He's done it often enough. Can no one stand in for him?'

  'Not that I know,' said the Chaplain, fingering the tip of his golden stole, his thoughts far away. 'But there's never been occasion to enquire, not really.'

  'Then what are you going to do?'

  'Perhaps someone could give a note,' the Chaplain sug­gested doubtfully, but his gaze had fixed on a baptismal post­card that was tucked behind a calendar. 'Maybe that would be the answer. Johnny Gaunt has a nice tenor, being Welsh.'

  'Very well, the choir must lead. You'd better tell them at once.'

  'Trouble is, you see, they don't know the hymns, Mr Brad­field,' the Chaplain said. 'He wasn't at Friday's choir practice either, you see. He didn't come, not really. We had to scrap it, see.'

  Stepping back into the fresh air, Bradfield found himself face to face with Meadowes, who had quietly left his place beside his daughter and followed him to the back of the church.

  'He's vanished,' Meadowes said, dreadfully quietly. 'I've checked everywhere. Sick list, the doctor; I've been to his house. His car's in the garage; he's not used his milk. No one's seen or heard of him since Friday. He didn't come to Exiles. It was a special occasion for my daughter's birthday, but he didn't come to that either. He'd got engagements but he was going to look in. He'd promised her a hair-dryer as a present; it's not like him, Mr Bradfield, it's not his way at all.' For one moment, just for one moment, Bradfield's com­posure seemed to desert him. He stared furiously at Mea­dowes, then back at the church, as if undecided which to destroy; as if either in anger or despair he would rush down the path and burst open the doors and cry out the news to those who waited so complacently within.

  'Come with me.'

  Even as they entered the main gates of the Embassy and long before the police check cleared them, they could recog­nise the signs of crisis. Two army motorcycles were parked on the front lawn. Cork, the cypher clerk on call, was waiting on the steps, an Everyman guide to investments still in his hand. A green German police van, its blue light flashing, had stationed itself beside the canteen, and they could hear the crackle of its radio.

  'Thank the Lord you've come, sir,' said Macmullen the Head Guard, 'I sent the duty driver down; he must have passed you on the carriageway.'

  All over the building bells were ringing.

  'There's a message in from Hanover, sir, from the Consulate General; I didn't hear too well. The rally's gone mad, sir; all hell's broken loose. They're storming the library and they're going to march on the Consulate; I don't know what the world's coming to; worse than Grosvenor Square. I could hear their screaming on the telephone, sir.'

  Meadowes followed Bradfield hastily up the stairs.

  'You said a hair-dryer? He was giving your daughter a hair-­dryer?'

  It was a moment of deliberate inconsequence, of deliberate slowness perhaps, a nervous gesture before battle was joined. Meadowes at least construed it thus.

  'He's ordered it specially,' he said.

  'Never mind,' said Bradfield, and was about to enter the cypher room when Meadowes addressed him once more.

  'The file's gone,' he whispered. 'The Green File for the special minutes. It's been gone since Friday.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Alan Turner

  It was a day to be nearly free; a day to stay in London and dream of the country. In St James's Park, the premature sum­mer was entering its third week. Along the lake, girls lay like cut flowers in the unnatural heat of a Sunday afternoon in May. An attendant had lit an improbable bonfire and the smell of burnt grass drifted with the echoes of the traffic. Only the pelicans, hobbling fussily round their island pavilion, seemed disposed to move; only Alan Turner, his big shoes crunch
ing on the gravel, had anywhere to go; for once, not even the girls could distract him.

  His shoes were of a heavy brown brogue and much repaired at the welts. He wore a stained tropical suit and carried a stained canvas bag. He was a big, lumbering man, fair-haired, plain-faced and pale, with the high shoulders and square fingers of an alpinist, and he walked with the thrusting slow­ness of a barge; a broad, aggressive, policeman's walk, wilfully without finesse. His age was hard to guess. Undergraduates would have found him old, but old for an undergraduate. He could alarm the young with age, and the aged with his youth. His colleagues had long ceased to speculate. It was known that he was a late entrant, never a good sign, and a former fellow of St Antony's College, Oxford, which takes all kinds of people. The official Foreign Office publications were reserved.

  While they shed a merciless light on the origin of all their other Turners, in the matter of Alan they remained tight­lipped, as if, having considered all the facts, they felt that silence was the kindest policy.

  'They've called you in too, then,' said Lambert, catching him up. 'I must say, Karfeld's really gone to town this time.'

  'What the hell do they expect us to do? Man the barricades? Knit blankets?'

  Lambert was a small, vigorous man and he liked it said of him that he could mix with anyone. He occupied a senior position in Western Department and ran a cricket team open to all grades.

  They began the ascent of Clive Steps.

  'You'll never change them,' said Lambert. 'That's my view. A nation of psychopaths. Always think they're being got at. Versailles, encirclement, stab in the back; persecution mania, that's their trouble.'

  He allowed time for Turner to agree with him.

  'We're bringing in the whole of the Department. Even the girls.'

  'Christ, that'll really frighten them. That's calling up the reserves, that is.'

  'This could put paid to Brussels, you know. Bang it clean on the nose. If the German Cabinet loses its nerve on the home front, we're all up a gum-tree.' The prospect filled him with relish. 'We shall have to find a quite different solution in that case.'

  'I thought there wasn't one.'

  'The Secretary of State has already spoken to their Ambassa­dor; I am told they have agreed full compensation.'

  'Then there's nothing to worry about, is there? We can get on with our weekend. All go back to bed.'

  They had reached the top of the steps. The founder of India, one foot casually upon a plateau of vanquished bronze, stared contentedly past them into the glades of the Park. 'They've kept the doors open.' Lambert's voice was tender with reverence. 'They're on the weekday schedule. My, they are going it. Well,' he remarked, receiving no admiring echo, 'you go your way, I go mine. Mind you,' he added shrewdly, 'it could do us a lot of good. Unite the rest of Europe behind us against the Nazi menace. Nothing like the stamp of jack­boots to stiffen the old alliances.' With a final nod of un­deterred goodwill he was assumed into the imperial darkness of the main entrance. For a moment, Turner stared after him, measuring his slight body against the Tuscan pillars of the great portico, and there was even something wistful in his expression, as if actually he would quite like to be a Lambert, small and neat and adept and unbothered. Rousing himself at last, he continued towards a smaller door at the side of the building. It was a scruffy door with brown hardboard nailed to the inside of the glass and a notice denying entrance to unauthorised persons. He had some difficulty getting through.

  'Mister Lumley's looking for you,' said the porter. 'When you can spare a minute, I'm sure.'

  He was a young, effeminate man and preferred the other side of the building. 'He was enquiring most particularly, as a matter of fact. All packed for Germany, I see.'

  His transistor radio was going all the time; someone was reporting direct from Hanover and there was a roar in the background like the roar of the sea.

  'Well, you'll get a nice reception by the sound of it. They've already done the library, and now they're having a go at the Consulate.'

  'They'd done the library by lunchtime. It was on the one o'clock. The police have cordoned off the Consulate. Three deep. There's not a hope in hell of them getting anywhere near.'

  'It's got worse since then,' the porter called after him. 'They're burning books in the market place; you wait!'

  'I will. That's just what I bloody well will do.' His voice was awfully quiet but it carried a long way; a Yorkshire voice, and common as a mongrel.

  'He's booked your passage to Germany. You ask Travel Sec­tion! Overland route and Second Class! Mr Shawn goes First!' Shoving open the door of his room he found Shawn loung­ing at the desk, his Brigade of Guards jacket draped over the back of Turner's chair. The eight buttons glinted in the stray sunbeams which, bolder than the rest, had penetrated the coloured glass. He was talking on the telephone. 'They're to put everything in one room,' he said in that soothing tone of voice which reduces the calmest of men to hysteria. He had said it several times before, apparently, but was repeating it for the benefit of simpler minds. 'With the incendiaries and the shredder. That's point one. Point two, all locally employed staff are to go home and lie low; we can't pay compensation to German citizens who get hurt on our behalf. Tell them that first, then call me back. Christ Almighty!' he screamed to Turner as he rang off, 'have you ever tried to deal with that man?'

  'What man?'

  'That bald-headed clown in E and 0. The one in charge of nuts and bolts.'

  'His name is Crosse.' He flung his bag into the corner. 'And he's not a clown.'

  'He's mental,' Shawn muttered, losing courage, 'I swear he is.'

  'Then keep quiet about it or they'll post him to Security.'

  'Lumley's looking for you.'

  'I'm not going,' Turner said. 'I'm bloody well not wasting my time. Hanover's a D post. They've no codes, no cyphers, nothing. What am I supposed to do out there? Rescue the bloody Crown Jewels?'

  'Then why did you bring your bag?'

  He picked up a sheaf of telegrams from the desk.

  'They've known about that rally for months. Everyone has, from Western Department down to us. Chancery reported it in March. For once, we saw the telegram. Why didn't they evacuate staff? Why didn't they send the kids home? No money, I suppose. No third-class seats available. Well, sod them!'

  'Lumley said immediately.'

  'Sod Lumley too,' said Turner, and sat down. 'I'm not seeing him till I've read the papers.'

  'It's policy not to send them home,' Shawn continued, taking up Turner's point. Shawn thought of himself as attached rather than posted to Security Department; as resting, as it were, between appointments, and he missed no opportunity to dem­onstrate his familiarity with the larger political world. 'Business as usual, that's the cry. We can't allow ourselves to be stam­peded by mob rule. After all, the Movement is a minority. The British lion,' he added, making an unconfident joke, 'can't allow itself to be upset by the pinpricks of a few hooligans.'

  'Oh it can not; my God it can't.'

  Turner put aside one telegram and began another. He read fast and without effort, with the confidence of an academic, arranging the papers into separate piles according to some undisclosed criterion.

  'So what's going on? What have they got to lose apart from their honour?' he demanded, still reading. 'Why the hell call us in? Compensation's Western Department's baby, right? Evacuation's E and O's baby, right? If they're worried about the lease, they can go and cry at the Ministry of Works. So why the hell can't they leave us in peace?'

  'Because it's Germany,' Shawn suggested weakly.

  'Oh roll on.'

  'Sorry if it spoilt something,' Shawn said with an unpleasant sneer, for he suspected Turner of a more colourful sex life than his own.

  The first relevant telegram was from Bradfield. It was marked Flash; it had been despatched at eleven forty and submitted to the Resident Clerk at two twenty-eight. Skardon, Consul General in Hanover, had summoned all British staff and families to the Resid
ence, and was making urgent rep­resentations to the police. The second telegram consisted of a Reuter newsflash timed at eleven fifty-three: demonstrators had broken into the British Library; police were unequal to the situation; the fate of Fräulein Eick [sic] the librarian was unknown.

  Hard upon this came a second rush telegram from Bonn: 'Norddeutscher Rundfunk reports Eick repeat Eick killed by mob.' But this was in turn immediately contradicted, for Brad­field, through the good offices of Herr Siebkron of the Minis­try of the Interior ('with whom I have a close relationship'), had by then succeeded in obtaining direct contact with the Hanover police. According to their latest assessment, the British Library had been sacked and its books burned before a large crowd. Printed posters had appeared with anti-British slogans such as 'The Farmers won't Pay for your Empire!' and 'Work for your own bread, don't steal ours!' Fräulein Gerda Eich [sic] aged fifty-one of 4 Hohenzollernweg, Hanover, had been dragged down two flights of stone steps, kicked and punched in the face and made to throw her own books into the fire. Police with horses and anti-riot equipment were being brought in from neighbouring towns.

  A marginal annotation by Shawn stated that Tracing Section had turned up a record of the unfortunate Fräulein Eich. She was a retired school teacher, sometime in British Occupational employment, sometime secretary of the Hanover Branch of the Anglo-German Society, who in 1962 had been awarded a British decoration for services to international understanding.

  'Another anglophile bites the dust,' Turner muttered.

  There followed a long if hastily compiled summary of broad­casts and bulletins. This, too, Turner studied with close appli­cation. No one, it seemed, and least of all those who had been present, was able to say precisely what had triggered off the riot, nor what had attracted the crowd towards the library in the first place. Though demonstrations were now a common­place of the German scene, a riot on this scale was not; Federal authorities had confessed themselves 'deeply concerned'. Herr Ludwig Siebkron of the Ministry of the Interior had broken his habitual silence to remark to a Press Conference that there was 'cause for very real anxiety'. An immediate decision had been taken to provide additional protection for all official and quasi-official British buildings and residences throughout the Federal Republic. The British Ambassador, after some initial hesitation, had agreed to impose a voluntary curfew on his staff.