So now I have told you of my mission, which I should not have done. But I find such solace in knowing you will read this and that you will know what is happening, although I entreat you not to worry about me. It is true we are going to England, to Stephen Gilmore’s home on the east coast – it is believed this is where he is most likely to go, and we have the exact direction from the letter he wrote – but please be assured that the danger to us is very small. The journey has been meticulously planned, and I think the arrangements are safe and good.
But as to the purpose of the journey – oh, Freide, I am a loyal subject of our country and I will do what has to be done and obey all orders, but I am unhappy and more reluctant about this task than I have ever been in my entire life. There is such brutality and vindictiveness behind the Hauptmann’s actions. I know this is a time of war, but I believe, with Iskander, that Stephen Gilmore’s mind has been damaged by the horrors he has seen; I do not think he is in his right mind, and he should not be held accountable for his actions. Also, I cannot think it is right for such a senior-ranking officer (for anyone of any rank) to behave with such calculating cruelty.
This evening I bade farewell to my colleagues in the camp. They all wished me good fortune, and embraced me (in a perfectly manly and soldierly fashion, you understand).
I and two other soldiers are to be under the command of Hauptfeldwebel Barth. He is in high glee at being entrusted with such an important mission and has told me very solemnly that he is resolved to carry out Hauptmann Niemeyer’s orders to the last detail, and talks of how best to do so. I fear he has no imagination and precious little sensitivity. I should not say this – I certainly should not write it down – but if I am able to find a way of avoiding the vicious fate Niemeyer has decreed for Stephen Gilmore, I intend to do so. Even in the midst of this war, I can not believe that Niemeyer’s sentence is justified.
Hauptfeldwebel Barth has advised me on items I should pack, but since he has never travelled outside Germany in his life, and appears to regard the inclusion of a fresh consignment of bratwurst and six jars of pickled cabbage as necessities, I do not think I will pay his advice any regard. I have packed my woollen socks and also some flannel vests and bodices since England is known to be a chilly country.
We are to pose as Dutch émigrés (my own ancestry apparently suggested that to Niemeyer), although it is all very well for Niemeyer and Hauptfeldwebel Barth to say, airily, that the two languages are similar and the English will not know the difference. There is a considerable difference, I know that perfectly well from my Dutch grandfather. German and Dutch are two different tongues.
It is to be hoped the bratwurst will not go bad during the journey, because the smell will betray us to the enemy far more thoroughly than incorrect Dutch or English speech.
I have no idea when or how I will be able to write to you again – or if any letters will reach you – but I will do my very best to send you news. In the meantime, do not worry about me, for I shall be perfectly all right.
Your loving Hugbert
Dearest Freide,
This is a mad journey across Europe, and fraught with difficulties – although not, so far, with any dangers.
We are able to follow Iskander’s trail surprisingly easily, and this is because his wild story about having been a burglar appears to be true. In each town along our way, we have met stories of some great house in the area having recently been plundered. The plundering does not seem to have been done with any violence – all the burglaries have been executed with finesse and what might even be termed consideration. In Osnabruck and Munster two large houses had been broken into and various pieces of silver jewellery taken. (In both cases, the owners described the jewellery as ‘exquisite’.) In Düsseldorf, Iskander had romped through three museums, who were still mourning the loss of some seventeenth-century miniatures (described as ‘priceless’), a notebook reputed to contain original jottings of Goethe (‘unique’), and some early sketches by Theodor Hildebrandt (‘irreplaceable’).
Niemeyer and Hauptfeldwebel Barth were of the opinion that we should catch up with our escapees long before they reached England; they would have no money for travelling or food, said Niemeyer, as if this settled the matter. The Hauptfeldwebel agreed. I did not question them, but I suspected that Iskander would revert to his former profession to fund his and Gilmore’s flight, and it seems I was right. It is deplorable behaviour on Iskander’s part, but at least it is making the trail easier to follow. We have even been able to find out the trains on which the two travelled, and it is typical of Iskander’s careless arrogance that he always used the first-class services. For us, issued with carefully calculated funds, that is not possible, and jolting across the border into Holland in a third-class carriage with wooden seats, no sanitation, and a pervading smell of stale onions, I began to think much might be said in favour of burgling as a career.
We had expected them to travel in a more or less direct line east across Holland, to The Hague, and from there to cross the English Channel. We found, though, that they headed a little further north. The trail led us to a small town outside Amsterdam, and it was then I remembered Iskander’s letter, addressed to someone called Leonora. I explained this to Hauptfeldwebel Barth, who thought it more than probable that Iskander had made a frivolous detour to see a lady friend.
‘We should follow him,’ he said determinedly, so off we went again. (Trains for the relatively short journey were a little better this time.)