Miller Caldwell - A Reluctant Spy

She remembered a quotation from Heraclitus: ‘War was the father of all things.’ It seemed to her that the world needed to shed blood from time to time. New borders were now forged, and fathers would tell sons of their adventures so that their children could tell their children. Twice Germany had fallen to its knees, and this time it had lost its eastern border. Surely, it had learnt its lesson. Germany would not conceivably start another war. Supervision and safeguards allowing to anticipate conflict and defuse aggression were required. There was talk of even more international bodies making rules. She was optimistic about the new United Nations which was receiving frequent positive coverage in the papers. Its members would surely strive to prevent such conflict recurring.

Hilda had lived through two wars now, and she was weary. She was glad that she had survived both. Yes, but at what price? A wonderful loving family was no longer there. Yet now here she was, on the brink of a new beginning. The swelling cathedral music seemed to say to her, be at peace my child; I will give you peace.

Two weeks later, on a crisp December morning, as she sat at the embassy waiting for transport to take her to church, she felt fresh, invigorated and ready to take Sir Francis Shepherd’s hand in marriage. Colin Hunter, the deputy ambassador, a bachelor and the most handsome of Sir Francis’ staff, stood ready to accompany her to the wedding and lead her down the aisle.

‘I’ve never done this before,’ he admitted.

‘I’ve only done it once, and a long time ago. Makes us both inexperienced, I suppose.’

Colin laughed. ‘You’re one ahead of me. I only hope I let go of you at the right moment.’

They laughed again, and then looked at each other reprovingly. Marriage was a serious matter, after all.

‘That’s the car driving up. No turning back now. Let’s go, Colin.’

He stood up, set off then stopped in his tracks and swivelled round to face her.

‘Miss Campbell, or Frau Richter, whichever you prefer, Sir Francis will make a fine husband. I know he will. He will make you as happy as you make him.’

She patted his arm gently, smiling to show she agreed with him.

As they approached the cathedral, she heard the unmistakable groans of the bagpipes. The car stopped at the foot of the cathedral steps, and Colin took her arm as they proceeded up to the huge doorway, on either side of which stood a piper playing A Wee Sprig o’ Heather . Francis had clearly had a hand in the selection of the music. When she reached the top step, she turned to show her appreciation to the pipers and the Finnish crowd that had gathered outside. Then the thunderous tones of the Edvard Friedrich Walckeer organ began to play Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from A Midsummer Night’s Dream .

She walked down the aisle clinging to Colin’s arm. With his other hand he gave her a reassuring pat to calm her nerves as she saw Francis turn to watch her progress down the aisle. He looked very smart in his tails, and she hoped she would not let him down in the dress she had chosen. She assumed everyone present knew she was a widow, so would not be wearing the traditional white dress, but her powder blue long dress met with smiles as she progressed.

In the congregation were diplomats wearing their regalia and medals. It seemed Helsinki’s embassy staff felt they had something to celebrate that cold afternoon. It occurred to her that this was the first happy formal occasion they had attended since the war ended. Ladies in glittering tiaras turned and smiled as she made her way down the aisle. She looked forward to chatting with them at the reception. Women of her own age had been rare in her life over the past few years, and she needed that comradeship. Then, with a fluttering heart, she found herself standing beside the man she was about to marry.

She retained little memory of the details of the church service and even the signing the marriage certificate, but she vividly recalled leaving the church to the strains of the organ playing Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring . When they passed through the great arch at the front of the cathedral, the organ stopped and the pipes resumed their more raucous melodies as they proceeded down the steps to an open landau carriage. The horses’ clip-clopped back to the embassy under blue skies. Following a sumptuous meal with rowdy laughter at the groom’s witty speech, the couple danced till after midnight.

Their short honeymoon touring Sweden and Denmark just before Christmas made her realise just how fortunate she had become.

Francis was a caring and loving husband. He opened her mind to the wonders of the diplomatic world, and she surprised herself by how quickly she adapted to the elegant life of an ambassador’s wife. Her days as a reluctant spy were well and truly over.

One mid morning, shortly after the optimistic New Year was a few days old, she was enjoying coffee with a honey-coated waffle in the lounge. The skies were bright; but the sunshine was not present for very long at this time of year. A few unthreatening clouds could be seen through the window. A silent world lay before her as she looked out beyond the embassy grounds towards a misty far-off hillside. She should have been happy. She had found her feet and the adventure of embassy life had just begun. Perhaps, in the future, they would explore new countries still finding their feet after the war. That would give her life a renewed purpose.

However, today she was sad. Tears began to fall down her cheeks, and doubts assailed her. Had she really earned this position? Would she not be better employed translating German texts in a new Europe or, working as a teacher of modern languages at a school somewhere? A few quiet sobs accompanied her thoughts because in each scenario she saw Otto smiling at her, no longer a soldier in uniform, but a young man making his way in the world with his lovely Gisela on his arm.

She saw Karl, lost in the desert, stretching out a hand, but nobody there to help him. Her eyes were filled with tears at the thought of a naked Renate being thrown into a gas chamber’s gruesome oven, still maintaining her Aryan status. Or was that not what happened? Was she saved just in time? Or, more likely, was she raped and tortured before dying, or could she possibly have survived? These fruitless questions kept filling her mind, though she knew, at heart, there would never be answers.

Francis took a break from his work and joined her in the room. He steadied himself as he approached with a cup in his hand.

‘You’ve been crying.’

She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I have. Thoughts of how I arrived here in peaceful Finland.’

‘Peaceful indeed, so why the tears, my dear?

She placed her coffee down on a tablemat. She turned towards Francis and clutched his free hand with both of hers.

‘I have been remembering all the loved ones I’ve lost. The ones I’ll never see again. And I am determined I am not going to lose you.’

‘Hilda, I have no wish to lose you either. I could not have been happier marrying you,’ he said, placing his cup and saucer beside hers.

‘Really? You love me with all my nerve-racking experiences, my dual loyalties, my mistakes and my doubts. I keep being afraid you’ll find me out.’

‘We all have flaws. We learn from them develop and mature through such experiences. Yes, you have had a remarkable life, and against all the odds, you have survived. You deserve to be rewarded by this new life, and I feel privileged to be at your side.’

She nodded with a wide smile. ‘Thank you. I think I needed to hear that.’ She turned and closed her eyes to the sun through the window. He gulped down the last dregs of his coffee and joined her. They saw a ginger cat treading carefully across the frosted lawn. She tapped the window gently. It ran away. Not all cats liked her, it seemed. Then she recalled something she had seen during her walk to town the previous day.