Christopher Priest - The Separation

‘The Prime Minister will see you now,’ said the man who had brought me from the waiting room, holding open the door. As I limped through he said, ‘Mr Churchill, this is Group Captain J. L. Sawyer.’

After the bright unshaded lights of the office I had left, the large room I entered felt at first as if it was in darkness. Only the centrally placed desk was illuminated, by two table lamps placed at each end. In the light reflecting up from the papers I saw the famous visage of Winston Churchill leaning forward across his work. Cigar smoke shrouded the air. As I walked painfully towards the desk he did not look up but continued to read through a sheaf of papers, a thick fountain pen in one hand. He held a cigar in the other. An almost empty cut-glass tumbler was on the desk, glinting in the light - a decanter of whisky and a jug of water stood beside it. Mr Churchill was wearing half-moon reading spectacles. He read rapidly, pausing only to inscribe his initials at the bottom of each page, then turning the sheet with the hand that held the pen. On the last page he wrote a few words, signed his name and turned the sheet over.

He tossed the papers into an over-full wire basket under one of the lamps, then took another wad from his dispatch box.

‘Sawyer,’ he said, looking up at me over his spectacles. I was only a short distance away from him, but even so I wondered if he could see me properly, so deep was the shade in the room. ‘J. L. Sawyer. You’re the one named Jack, is that it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Not the other one.’

‘Do you mean my brother, Mr Churchill?’

‘Yes. What’s happened to him? My people had the two of you muddled up for a while.’

‘My brother is dead, sir. He was killed last year during the first few weeks of the Blitz.’

Churchill looked startled. ‘I hadn’t heard that dreadful news. Words are always inadequate, but let me say how appalled I am to hear it. I can only offer you my sincerest condolences.’ The Prime Minister was staring straight at me, saying nothing. For a moment he seemed genuinely lost for words. He put down his pen. Then he said, ‘This war . . . this bloody war.’

‘Joe’s death happened several months ago, sir,’ I said.

‘Even so.’ He shook his head slightly and pressed his hands flat on the desk. ‘Let me at least tell you why I have asked to see you. I’m in need of an aide-de-camp from the RAF, and your name was put forward. You won’t have much to do for a while, but I might have a more interesting job coming up for you later.

For now, when we go anywhere I would require you to walk behind me, stay visible and keep your trap shut. I see you’re on a stick. You can walk, can’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The staff here will give you the passes you need. Be at Admiralty House first thing tomorrow morning, if you will.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said again. Mr Churchill had returned to browsing through his papers, the hand and the pen moving steadily down the margin. After a few seconds of indecision I realized that the interview had ended, so I turned round painfully and went as quickly as I could towards the door.

‘Group Captain Sawyer!’

I paused and looked back. The Prime Minister had put down the papers and was now sitting more erect behind his desk. He added whisky and water to his glass, more of the former than of the latter.

‘They tell me you and your brother went to the Berlin Olympics and won a medal.’

A bronze, sir. We were in the coxless pairs.’

‘Well done. They also tell me you were introduced to Rudolf Hess afterwards.’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Was that you alone, or was your brother there too?’

‘Just me, sir.’

‘Did your brother ever meet him?’

‘Only briefly. Hess handed us our medals at the ceremony’

‘But I gather you spent some time with him after that. Did you form any kind of impression of the man?’

‘It was a few years ago, Mr Churchill. I met Herr Hess at a reception at the British Embassy. I didn’t spend long with him, but I would say that I didn’t like him.’

‘I didn’t ask if you liked him. I’m told you speak fluent German and held a long conversation with the man. What did you make of him?’

I thought before answering, because since that evening so long ago I had not dwelt on my memories of what happened. Larger and more interesting events had followed.

Mr Churchill took a sip from his glass of whisky, watching me steadily.

‘From the way he was acting I would have thought him drunk, but he was not drinking alcohol. I came to the conclusion he was used to getting his way by bullying people. He was with a crowd of other Nazis and he seemed to be showing off in front of them. It would be difficult for me to say what I really learned about him.’

‘All right. Would you recognize him again if you saw him now?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll never forget him.’

‘Good. That could be invaluable to me. As you possibly know, Herr Hess has acquired a certain notoriety in recent weeks.’

I had no idea what Mr Churchill meant by that last remark. The news of Hess’s sensational arrival in Scotland had apparently been overtaken by events. I was stunned by the realization that the Germans were seeking peace, but after the first blaze of publicity there was no follow-up in the papers and Hess was never mentioned on the wireless. I had discussed it with some of the other patients at the convalescent hospital, but none of them knew any more about it than I did.

Mr Churchill put down the drink, took up his pen and returned to the papers. I waited for a few seconds but once again it was clear that he had finished with me. I opened the door behind me and returned to the outer office. One of the secretaries was waiting and she handed me a folder containing several pieces of paper and card. She explained what they were, where I should sign them and when I would be expected to show them.

A few minutes later, reunited with Group Captain Dodman and Mr Strathy, I went back to the car waiting on the gravel drive outside the house. The WAAF driver was asleep, hunched forward uncomfortably over the steering wheel.

Joe was tense and silent as he drove away from Berlin. He checked the rear-view mirror constantly and reacted nervously if any other vehicle overtook us. Of course I asked him what the matter was. As before, he would say nothing.

We left the huge sprawl of the city behind us and were driving along the autobahn through the dark countryside when I heard a muffled knocking from the back of the van. It sounded like a mechanical problem to me, but Joe shrugged it off.

‘Hold on, will you?’ he said to me harshly.

A few minutes later we approached a turn-off, signposted to a place called Kremmen, and after further checking in the mirror Joe slowed the van. There was no traffic around. We left the autobahn and joined a narrow road, leading across hilly country and through tall trees. Joe drove for another two or three minutes before he spotted a narrow lane that led off to the side. He pulled into it, switched off the engine and doused all lights.

I said into the sudden silence, ‘Joe, what’s going on?’

‘I sometimes think you must be blind, when so much occurs around you that you don’t see. Come and give me a hand.’

Outside the van we were in almost total darkness. Whatever light there might have been from what remained of the dusk was blotted out by the canopy of trees. There were no sounds of traffic, no lights from houses, no sign of anything happening anywhere. A warm, piny smell embraced us. Over our heads we could hear the branches brushing lightly against each other as the breeze soughed through the forest. Our feet crunched on dried needles. Joe opened the rear double doors of the van. He reached in, felt around for a moment, then located what he was looking for. It was our torch, which he switched on and passed to me.