Miller Caldwell - A Reluctant Spy

‘Er… coffee please.’

‘So, still in Marburg?’ she asked, filling the kettle.

‘I’m not supposed to tell you.’

‘Oh, so not Marburg. You have finished there?’

Otto entered the kitchen, looking thoughtful. Surely, he could trust his mother, Hilda thought.

‘Well, soon. My unit is still there for the time being. We train in other places too though. But Marburg is the base, and I’ve been allowed five days leave.’

She turned to face him, delighted. ‘Wonderful, five days, that’s almost a week, darling.’

‘I’m afraid not, Mother. Transport to Hamburg was not easy, and I stopped in Andernach overnight. I’ve just got two days here before I return.’

‘Andernach? Between Frankfurt and Cologne?’

‘Yes, visiting a friend.’ He looked at her expectantly; clearly more questions were in order.

Thank goodness, he had not lost his old friends, she thought.

‘A friend from Hamburg? Would I know him?’ she asked, stirring sugar into his coffee.

There was a brief silence before he replied. ‘It’s a girl. Gisela,’ he said a little sheepishly.

‘A girl? You must tell me about her. Where did you meet? What does she do?’ Her little boy had certainly grown up. She carried the tray through to the sitting room with a broad smile on her face, keen to learn more about this young woman. Like all mothers, she had always harboured hopes that her son would one day settle down with a nice girl and raise a family of his own. However, what would she make of Gisela?

‘So tell me, how did you met her?’

‘You remember me telling you about my friend, Paul Huber? I think you met him once.’

‘Yes, the redheaded one?’

‘Yes, my bunkmate. We are the best of friends. Gisela is his sister. I went to visit Paul and we went out a few times together, all three of us. Then, on the last day before I came home, I took her out alone.’

‘So, Gisela Huber. How old is she?’

‘She’s eighteen, like me.’

Hilda recalled being eighteen herself. A student in the first throws of being in love.

‘And what’s her job?’

‘She’s a personal secretary.’

‘I see. In the family business in Andernach?’

Otto fell silent again for a few moments.

‘Secretary to SS-Unterscharfüher Soren Böhm of the 9 thSS Panzer Grenadier.’

That was not what Hilda was expecting. Eicke would probably approve, though. ‘So that’s where your unit is, Andernach?’ she surmised.

‘You have to promise on point of death, both mine and yours, not to tell anyone. Yes, Andernach is where we have been training when we were not in Marburg.’

Dynes and Thornton might be pleased with this information. Hilda tucked it away in her mind.

‘Is it really such a big secret?’

‘Marburg is the special training centre. We learn how to recognise the enemy within.’

It seemed they were both pupils of the dark arts. ‘The enemy within?’ she clarified.

‘Yes, traitors. You know mother, Jews, homosexuals, vagrants, gipsies. Everyone who does not support Germany’s aspirations.’

A chill ran down Hilda’s spine. ‘That’s the work of the Gestapo, surely?’

‘Yes, that’s true, but they need information from all kinds of sources,’ said Otto.

Her son had become an agent of the state. Perhaps it was inevitable, after the Hitler Youth and Eicke’s influence, but no less frightening for that.

‘You realise, your aunt Renate – her grandmother was a Jew?’

There was a moment of complete silence broken only by the grandfather clock striking the half hour. Hilda held her breath; would this make him realise how complicated reporting people might become?

Otto’s eyebrows gathered in disbelief. ‘No! Aunty Renate? She cannot be Jewish. Surely she is Lutheran like Karl?’

‘Her mother married a gentile, and Renate married your father’s brother. So not all Jews appear Jewish, do they? It’s important to remember that.’

Otto stared at her. ‘I promise I will not divulge that. I promise not to inform about her. But I wish you had not told me.’

The system had taken control over her son and she could do little about that reality. They finished their coffee in silence.

After supper she suggested a game of chess, hoping it might revive happy childhood memories for Otto. He had not forgotten the moves he learnt from his father, who had taught him this game and much else besides. Willy was a keen player, and chess was his second love. Hilda, of course, was his first as he told her often. She had never beaten him; she could not concentrate for long enough. The practice the game had given her was now proving a valuable asset; as a spy, she had to pay attention to the smallest detail and stay alert at all times, for any unsuspected move.

It was almost midnight before they turned out the light in the lounge and prepared for bed. She heard Otto linger in the hall but thought nothing of it. It was good to have him home. Soon he was in his bedroom, the lights were out and Hilda fell asleep as content as could be, with her son at home.

She made porridge the following morning, and they sat in the dining room with their steaming bowls before them. Otto spoke diffidently.

‘Last night, before going to bed, I loitered in the hall.’

‘Yes, I heard you. Looking for something in particular?’

For a moment, Otto seemed lost for words. ‘No, Mother. I opened the sideboard drawer, and guess what I found? A German Civilian Eagle medal. Is it yours? How did you come by it?’

How silly and foolish she had been. She should have hidden it more securely in her bedroom instead.

‘If I were to tell you, Otto, my life would be at risk,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye.

Otto smiled as she threw his own words back at him from the previous evening.

‘Is it something to do with your joint nationality?’ he suggested.

‘You have been well trained, Otto. Let’s leave it at that.’

Would that satisfy him? She found she was holding her breath.

‘But it’s an award. How did you earn it?’ he asked.

She stood up and moved behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders. ‘Too many questions, young man. I obviously pleased my superiors.’ She moved back around the table and raised a finger to her lips. Otto could be proud of her without knowing why. Perhaps one day he would find out. Otto prepared to leave the following morning. She hugged him tightly as they stood in the hallway; he might look like a smart army officer in training, but when she closed her eyes he was still a school pupil in his trench coat.

‘To Andernach, then?’

‘Yes, then back to base.’

‘I’d like to meet Gisela one day,’ she said recalling his fondness for her.

He smiled broadly. ‘I’d like that too. If all goes well, you will certainly get to know her.’

‘Be happy, Otto.’

‘Thanks, Mother. You know I will always love you.’ He came to hug his mother once more and kissed her left cheek.

‘I hope I’ll be your second love one day, Otto. Now off you go, and keep safe.’

She closed the door and went to the lounge window to watch him depart. Otto walked down the drive but never looked back, preoccupied with thoughts of Gisela, she hoped. She remembered that feeling from thirty years ago. First loves were so precious. Her eyes followed him until he was out of sight, and she wondered when and where they would next meet.

Otto’s visit had given her immense pleasure. He was, after all, her only son. Hilda’s main fear was that war was becoming increasingly inevitable, and she was afraid she would be unable to remain in close contact with him through such troubled times. She had no idea what would trigger the conflict, but she had no doubt that war was Hitler’s intention. All she could hope was that it would be over very quickly: the best result for everyone.