The secrets of the Special Operations Executive came sharply into focus when Hanna left the relatively open surroundings of Briggens House for an undisclosed location on the Scottish coast. She and Dolores had made the cut, and found themselves on a small transport bus traveling at night through central England, past Manchester, Glasgow, and northward. No official orders were issued. Only six trainees from Briggens, four men and two women, had been crammed into the jouncing vehicle, along with boxes of equipment and supplies.
The driver, a military man, told them he was delivering them to “House A,” where they would be spending most of the winter crafting their identities and learning how to “become agents.” He preferred that word to “spies.” On a refueling stop in Manchester, he told them that they would most likely return here to the Ringway Aerodrome for parachute training, jumping first from a balloon and then from an Armstrong Whitworth Whitley. She had no idea what any of that meant, and, at this point, really didn’t want to know; it all sounded so foreign, so military, and devoid of any real connection with humanity, other than war and survival. She’d had enough of war and survival at the moment, and only wanted a good night’s sleep.
She looked across the narrow aisle at Dolores, who slept scrunched up in a seat, her head bouncing lightly against the window, her legs stretching over the cargo boxes in front of her. Even covered up to her neck in an army blanket, she still looked put together, Hanna thought. Her lips were the perfect shade of red, the black tresses falling against the glass looked as if they had been coiffed at a beauty salon. Her shoes, extending from underneath the blanket, were of a slightly higher heel than those suited for rough terrain—definitely not for military training.
Their warm breaths had fogged the windows, except for the windscreen. Hanna saw little of the countryside as they traveled, but when the bus veered west toward the coast the landscape blackened. Only a sliver of moon provided any light upon the terrain.
She wished for a moment that Phillip was with her. Their good-bye had been perfunctory, a quick kiss on the cheek, then a longer embrace festooned with promises to see each other when they could, along with the hope that coded messages, one way or another, could find their way to each other despite the Nazis. She’d shed no tears upon parting, and as far as she could tell, Phillip hadn’t either, both taking the practice of emotional distance to heart. Hanna believed the English “stiff upper lip” had been in play. Their separation was the way proper relationships were conducted in the SOE.
A short time after midnight, just as she was nodding off, the transport came to a stop on a gravel road. She swiped her hand over the damp glass and found that the bus had parked in front of an imposing stone mansion, nestled in the dark hills that surrounded it.
“Up and out,” the driver said.
Dolores stretched her arms, yawned, and drawled a sleepy question. “Are we there?”
“Yes,” the man shot back. “Scotland. Get packing. I have a drive back to Manchester tonight, while you make yourselves comfy in bed.”
Hanna grabbed her suitcase and purse and, bent over, shuffled her way to the door. Dolores and the men followed, dragging their luggage down the narrow aisle.
A few men in army gear near the transport jumped into action, opening the rear doors to haul out supplies.
The tang of ocean air swept past and somewhere the faint sound of water lapping against a shore sifted into her ears. The night had overtaken everything, and, thanks to the ongoing blackout, the house and the surrounding terrain appeared as a gray outline under the moon’s thin light.
However, she could see that the structure was at least the equal of Briggens in size, possibly even larger. It was constructed like buildings she’d seen in Croydon and London—not in the shape of a cross like a church, but a solid main building centered between tall wings with steep gabled roofs. Rows of windows, like dark eyes, had been cut into the stone. The mansion appeared somewhat Gothic, a bit spooky, in the middle of the night.
Hanna hauled her suitcase past one of the impressive wings toward the entrance the men had pointed out. A woman stood in the door, and, to Hanna’s surprise, she recognized the figure of Rita Wright, her face as powdered white as the first night she had met her.
Cigarette in hand, Rita looked as if she had just come from a dinner party in her form-fitting black dress. She stepped from the entrance onto the slate porch and puffed on her smoke. It flamed red in the dark, the haze encircling her head. “Congratulations. Welcome to House A.”
The six trainees dutifully followed Rita inside, where she directed them to seats in the great room. Large pine logs, at least a meter in length, crackled in the central fireplace, sending a pleasing woody fragrance throughout the room. Hanna and Dolores took their places on a plush red couch that faced the fire.
Rita paced from the middle of the room to the hearth, flicking her cigarette ash into the blaze upon each circuit. “I’ll be talking to each of you individually this evening; then you can find your way to bed for a short nap before we begin at zero-six-hundred. Your rooms are on the second floor of this wing—your names are marked on a doorplate. You each have a separate room. I discourage camaraderie during your stay.” She walked to a mahogany table bordering the wall and picked up a folder and pen. “So, let’s begin. I’ll start with the ladies.” Rita walked to the couch, stood in front of Dolores and Hanna, and opened the file.
She focused her gaze on Hanna. “What’s your name?”
“Greta Baur,” Hanna replied quickly, confident in her answer.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a typist.” Again, the correct answer.
“Your background?” Rita blew a puff of smoke over Hanna’s head.
“Volksdeutsche.”
“Husband’s name?”
The question caught her off guard. Phillip had given her the name months ago, but she had used it only a few times at Briggens House. She knew it began with an “S,” but the hesitation was killing her, figuratively and perhaps literally in Rita’s eyes. Her face burned as a thin film of sweat broke out on her brow.
A few names popped into her frantic mind and she tried the most likely. “Stefan.”
Rita’s seized upon her like a hawk on a rabbit. “Are you sure? You don’t seem certain.”
“Yes.”
Rita nodded. “Stefan—but the hesitation was clearly evident. Mistake number one.” Rita checked a page with gusto. “You’d be dead . . . or on your way to Gestapo Headquarters. Not good.”
“I’m sorry. It’s late.” The moment the words came out of her mouth she knew Rita would pounce.
“No excuse! Do you want to live or die?”
Before Hanna could answer, Rita handed her a set of documents, issued a curt, “You’re dismissed,” and moved on to Dolores.
Feeling like a fool, she gathered her things and trudged up the stairs into a dimly lit hall. She found her room at the corridor’s end and opened the door. Two candles burned on wooden stands pulled out from an old writing desk. The flickering light was weak, but provided enough illumination that she could see the room with ease as her eyes adjusted. The accommodations looked very English and ancient, as if a bedroom from a medieval castle had been transported to House A. She pulled open the heavy curtains that covered the room’s one window. As far as she could tell, it faced south looking toward low hills and an inlet that glittered in the moonlight. A small fireplace on the east wall sat cold and dark. A heavy four-poster bed wrapped in a duvet looked comforting, as the warmth from the transport and the great room evaporated.
Muted steps sent her into the hall. Dolores stood in front of her own room.
“I really made a mess of things,” Hanna said. “Not knowing my husband’s name. Rita must be furious.”
“She’ll calm down. Did you see your papers?”
“No. Having a look about the room, that’s all.”
“Best check,” Dolores said with an arch smile. “You may have a new hair color.” She stepped inside and closed the door.
A chorus of clocks, scattered throughout the house, struck one. Yawning, Hanna returned to her room and took the packet of documents off the bed. She brought it to the candles and saw her newly manufactured German passport. Even in the dim light, she could see that her hair appeared somewhat lighter in the black-and-white photo, cut shorter, and swept back from her face.
She wondered when that would happen—if Rita hadn’t counted her first mistake against her.
* * *
The kitchen clock at the Palais read fifteen minutes after six in the evening when Izreal noticed that Aaron was missing.
He tried not to panic, knowing that his fourteen-year-old son could be anywhere in the hotel, but he sensed that his son had left. Since he had witnessed the deaths at the police station, Aaron had stayed away from everyone, barely speaking, acting as if he was no longer a member of the family.
Instead of working himself into a fit, Izreal inspected the eggs for various dishes and the large slab of meat that was roasting in the oven. It bubbled in its pan, discharging blood to a satisfactory degree.
Izreal stared through the porthole glass at the Polish diners seated in groups among the palms, fairly crowded for a Thursday. His son was nowhere to be seen.
“Do you know where Aaron is?” he asked one of the chefs.
The man shook his head, wiping his hands on a towel. “I haven’t seen him in a while. He was at the sinks.”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Izreal said, fearing the worst. He took off his apron, retrieved his coat, and walked slowly to the drawer where the shochet knives were stored. The cooks used them every day, yet he had come to know them as intimately as the beautiful ones he’d saved in the move from the old apartment. His first knives—how they had shone, glinted in the sunlight, when he’d first opened their case. Now they were tucked away at the bottom of his luggage.
He found the chalaf he was looking for—an instrument forged of molten steel, polished so highly he could see his reflection and any imperfections that might mar it, an eight-inch blade with a curved handle like a pistol grip. He slipped it from its satin cover for a moment, examining it for any scratches or nicks, running a fingernail across both sides and down its cutting edge. The chalaf was perfect. No one in the kitchen seemed aware of what he was doing, so he slipped the sheathed knife inside his coat pocket. He had carried a knife every night after work since the massacre at the Police Station. A chalaf would be useless against Nazi firepower, but it gave him a small sense of security—something needed during this bleak time.
To make sure Aaron hadn’t escaped his notice, he walked through the airy dining room, passing several wealthy Poles, as well as a group of SS men and Nazi officials who sat in their usual tables near the door. His son wasn’t in the hotel lobby either.
Izreal opened the heavy doors and stepped outside, unsure where his son may have headed. The sinking feeling in his stomach suggested Aaron was on the Warsaw side of the wall, smuggling goods. He decided to walk the perimeter of the ghetto, despite the danger of being out at night. The Germans would be looking for suspicious activity. He had no concern about the Polish and Nazi guards at the gate near their apartment. They had come to know him and his odd hours, arriving late from the restaurant. Izreal had even bantered with them about this “corporal” or that “major” who loved the food at the Palais, and how they should come for a meal. The guards couldn’t afford such an extravagance, but it didn’t hurt to sow good feelings that might be useful in the future. But other Nazis and Blue Police were prowling about, soldiers who didn’t hesitate to kill or torture anyone, even children. That prospect coursed through his veins like ice.
He walked north, not fast enough to draw attention to himself, but with enough speed that he found himself at the southern ghetto wall in a few minutes. At a bleak corner, he was uncertain which way to turn, but decided east was best. After a turn northward, the route would course toward Saski Park, a likely area to transact smuggling among the barren trees.
He kept to the shadows, skirting past a pair of guards who strolled close to the wall. Absorbed in their conversation, they failed to notice him.
Turning toward the park, Izreal kept a block away from the wall, only glimpsing it when it appeared as a barrier at the end of an intersecting street. He had never seen the ghetto from this perspective and the sight filled him with dread and remorse. The prison they were locked within looked like something from the slums of Victorian London—a setting ripped from a Charles Dickens novel that someone had once described to him: dark buildings outlined against a black backdrop of clouds and stars; flashing pinpoints of yellow light occasionally bursting from the stone façades; gray smoke curling toward the heavens from a few tenement chimneys—not all, for cold was a bitter part of the ghetto’s punishment. His family lived not far away in this slum, and he was powerless to change the horrid conditions. Perhaps they could escape, but where would they go? They had no place to hide, no safe retreat.
North of Królewska Street, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye that sent a shiver through his body. At first, he wasn’t certain what he was seeing—shadows twisting, like a silent ballet, in a crook in the wall.
A German guard, possibly one from an entrance not far away, stood with a small young man he recognized as his son. There was no mistaking Aaron, as the soldier pointed a rifle at his son’s chest.
He wanted to scream—a potentially fatal mistake. Instead, he ran as quietly as he could, the knife inside his coat bumping against his ribs.
He muttered a silent prayer, wondering if killing this man in order to save his son met the conditions of pikuach nefesh—preserving the life of his son by defense. Would God forgive him for the sin he was about to commit? Surely, He would understand what he had to do. The thousands of animals he had killed in ritual slaughter flashed before him. He had taken such care when he was a shochet to make sure the knife was blessed, the killing done by a single cut across the throat between the epiglottis and trachea, severing the carotid arteries, the jugular veins, and the surrounding nerves. The prey destined for the table had died silently, bleeding to death over the ritual dirt placed on the ground. There could be no pause in the cut, no stabbing, chopping, or hacking, the chalaf expertly drawn in a single slice, the back of the knife visible to the slaughterer.
Aaron turned and dropped to his knees, his hands over his head, the rifle now pointed at the base of his neck.
Izreal couldn’t hear what the soldier was saying, but he knew his son was seconds away from death. Apparently, the answers the guard had received were not sufficient to convince him that the young man should be arrested or released. Instead, a single shot to the back of the neck, the Nazis’ preferred method of execution, would finish him. Izreal expected to hear the rifle report at any moment.
He withdrew the knife, stepped behind the guard, and looked to see if anyone else might be watching them.
“Is anything wrong?” Izreal asked in German, a phrase he knew from the restaurant.
The soldier started to turn, but Izreal snapped the man’s head back, knocking off his cap, exposing the soft flesh underneath the chin.
In one cut, from left to right, quickly and cleanly, he sliced into the throat at the precise depth to ensure the man would die.
The soldier dropped his rifle, collapsing to his knees, his hands clutching his bloody throat. Shock set in. Falling on his side on the walk, the man gurgled as his life drained away.
In the murky light, Izreal could see that the soldier was young, a boy really, no more than eighteen, a few years older than his son. What German family had forfeited their future? Was he from Berlin, Munich, or a small village near the French border? It didn’t matter.
His anger burst forth as Aaron cowered next to the wall. “Get dirt,” he hissed at his son.
“What?”
“Do as I say, quickly!”
Whatever light was left in the young soldier’s eyes faded to black. His legs and arms twitched a few times and then he lay still.
Aaron bolted to his feet, collected a handful of dirt near the wall, and brought it to his father.
Izreal closed his eyes, blessed the man who had perished in front of him, and threw the dirt upon the blood that pooled upon the stones.
He grabbed Aaron by his coat collar and forced him into the shadows.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Izreal asked. “I’ve killed a boy like you! God forgive me.”
Aaron stood silent, his body shaking against his father’s.
A man stepped into the darkness. He was Polish, dressed in a gray coat and hat, his wan face barely visible.
Izreal stopped, stunned by the sudden appearance, his hand grasping the knife.
The man looked at the soldier’s body. “Good,” he said, and walked away.
Izreal wiped the bloody knife on the dead grass and put it in his coat. They followed the Polish man as he walked south, before deserting him and turning toward the entrance near their apartment. A terrible thought struck Izreal as he stood looking at the Nazi guards and Blue Police conversing at the wire gate. More than a young soldier might die. What if the Nazis exacted revenge upon the Jews? The dirt would be a clue. So much blood would be on his hands.
Before they crossed the street, Aaron said, “God will forgive you . . . but I don’t know if He will forgive me. I was looking for my friend.”
“Tell no one about this—not even Daniel.”
Izreal told the guards, two of whom he knew, that Aaron had become ill and needed to go home. They waved them through.
When they arrived at the apartment, everyone looked at them strangely, as if they had come back from the dead. Perhaps their white faces revealed their pain.
“Keep him safe,” Izreal said to Daniel. “I must go back to work. I won’t be home until late.”
Aaron said nothing, but slumped in his corner, his face to the wall.
Wondering how he was going to clean the blood from the knife and its sheath without anyone noticing, Izreal left. He was blocks away from the dead soldier, but he knew that once the body was discovered the Nazis would be looking for a killer.