Hitler's Secret (4 page)

Training began in earnest straight after lunch. MacPherson had certainly meant it when he said time was short.

They had been taken out for a long run with backpacks filled with rocks before being put through their paces on an assault course. Twice. They were nearly at the end of it now.

Otto just found the strength to climb the next obstacle in front of him, a fifteen-foot wall, hauling himself up the rope before sitting astride the top to catch his breath. He glanced down. Leni was struggling to follow him. She had easily kept pace on the run, but now looked to be in trouble. Her face was flushed, but her lips were strangely bloodless. The instructor, a stocky Royal Marine sergeant, yelled at them to keep moving.

“Take my hand,” Otto said, reaching down. He was, as instructed by MacPherson, speaking in German to Leni.

“I can do it,” Leni replied hoarsely. She finally managed to pull herself onto the top of the wall, and lay on it, gasping for breath.

“You should have let me help,” said Otto.

He could see Leni was done in, but she wasn’t going to give up, either.

“What are you waiting for? Tea and biscuits?” the instructor snapped up at them.

They looked at the last obstacle: a long pit filled with watery mud over which a lattice of barbed wire had been strung. Leni grabbed hold of the rope to slide down. But the strength in her arms gave, and instead she half slid, half fell to the ground, landing with a thud. Otto grabbed the rope and followed her down. He reached out to help her up, but she pushed him away and staggered to her feet.

“Leave me alone,” she wheezed, and started wading through the mud.

Otto followed her. He was reminded of Dunkirk, of wading out to the boat, then the sodden rope in his hand and the water closing over his head. He lost his footing and stumbled forward, plunging headfirst into the mud. It seemed to pull on him, sucking him down, and for a moment he felt blind panic and terror. Fighting the instinct to breathe in, he struggled to his feet. The barbed wire caught the top of his head. He yelled in pain and ducked down again.

“Get a move on, you lazy idiot!” the instructor barked.

Up ahead Leni had crawled out of the pit and was waiting for him.

“You all right?”

Otto nodded. They were both covered from head to foot in stinking mud.

“Right! Time for a little swim,” bellowed the instructor, pointing to the lake at the edge of the woods. “At the double!”

Otto looked at the dark water of the lake, surrounded by tall bulrushes. He was still fighting the panic and knew he couldn’t do it. He was going to have to fake an injury, like he had done back at school when he was trying to get out of class in the gymnasium.

Trying to make it look real, he stumbled and fell to the ground, yelling out in pain and clutching his ankle.

Tutting, the instructor jogged towards them, then knelt down and examined Otto’s ankle.

“I think it’s broken,” Otto groaned.

“Only sprained — if that.” He stared at Otto, his eyes narrowed, trying to figure out whether he was faking or not. “All right, you pathetic little oik, let’s call it a day. Get in the jeep. Both of you.”

Leni sank to her knees, tears of relief rolling down her mud-stained cheeks. Otto slowly got to his feet. He would have to pretend to limp till they got back to the manor, but it was worth it.

After supper that night, which was dominated by MacPherson drilling them about their cover family, Otto and Leni climbed slowly and wearily up to their rooms at the top of the manor house. They were too tired even to talk until they reached their bedroom doors.

“You’re not limping anymore,” said Leni.

“Er … no,” replied Otto. “It’s feeling much better.”

Leni shook her head. “You know, you didn’t have to pretend to give up for me. I could have swum that lake.”

“I wasn’t pretending, I sprained my ankle,” Otto lied, then added, truthfully, “Don’t worry, it had nothing to do with you.”

Leni shrugged. “Well, if I’m being truthful, you did help me really. I would have tried the lake, but it might have killed me.”

Otto managed a tired smile. She returned it, then went to open her door. Otto saw there was a raw channel across her palm where the rope had burned her.

“Does it hurt a lot?” he said.

Leni put her hand behind her back. “It’s fine.”

But he knew it must be agonizing. She was obviously made of strong stuff.

“Good night, Leni,” he said.

But he stood outside her door for a few moments after she had closed it, wondering who this girl really was and what had driven her to volunteer. All he knew for certain was that she was from Bavaria like him, or perhaps even farther west. He thought he detected a Viennese accent.

The next day they spent the morning at the lake. Not swimming it, to Otto’s great relief, but being taught the rudiments of handling a motor launch by another instructor. Otto didn’t like the sway of the boat on the water, and found landing the launch really difficult. He was delighted when, after lunch, they were taken to the shooting ranges instead of back to the water. This was much more his scene.

Otto pressed the butt of his Lee-Enfield rifle into his shoulder and tried to line up the sights on the paper target of a charging soldier one hundred yards away.

“Commence fire!” yelled their instructor.

Otto squeezed the trigger and the rifle kicked into his shoulder like a sharp punch. He couldn’t believe how loud it sounded. He dropped it down from his shoulder and worked the bolt, expelling the spent cartridge and sliding a fresh bullet into the breach. Then he brought the gun back up and fired again. He and Leni both kept up a steady rate of fire until their magazines were empty.

They walked down to inspect their targets. Of their eleven shots each, Otto’s paper soldier had nine neat holes drilled into the middle of his chest.

“Outstanding! I believe we have a budding marksman,” proclaimed the instructor.

Otto couldn’t help smiling. He was better at this than landing the boat.

When they inspected Leni’s target, it was a different story. Only five hits, and most of them towards the edge.

The instructor shook his head.

“Probably just flesh wounds,” he sniffed. “Maybe you’ll be better with handguns.”

But it was similar story: Otto’s eight rounds from his Walther PPK in the bull’s-eye; Leni’s wide of the mark.

“Let’s try grenades,” sighed the instructor. “Nothing to them.”

“All you need is some practice,” said Otto as they jogged after the instructor to the grenade pit.

“It’s not that,” huffed Leni.

“I understand …” Otto nodded. “… you don’t like guns.”

“What?” said Leni. “Oh, that’s so typical, thinking a girl wouldn’t like a gun. It isn’t that at all. It’s just the target is so far away!”

But Otto wasn’t convinced. It seemed to him that Leni’s eyesight might be a problem.

The routine hardly varied: physical training in the morning, weapons training in the afternoon, interspersed with learning to parachute, to sail, and to find their way to a rendezvous point with map and compass. They even had some training with vehicles and motorbikes, and Otto was surprised how good Leni was with machines. They talked little, the long physical hours of training and the evenings spent with
MacPherson going over the mission’s details draining them of all their energy. By the time their heads hit the pillow they were asleep.

But come the day of the mission they had developed, if not a friendship, then at least an understanding.

Otto found Leni sitting on the veranda outside the dining room after their last lunch. A car was coming in an hour to take them to the airfield. It was very warm, and swarms of mayflies were fizzing in the air. Leni was sitting in the shade. He could see there were freckles on the bridge of her nose that hadn’t been there two weeks ago. They both stared across the lawn in silence.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Otto said.

“Why are you saying that now?” asked Leni. The two of them were speaking in German, as they always did when they were alone together.

Otto looked across at her. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you? From Vienna, I think?”

For a moment, Leni looked taken aback. She tucked a strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear and gazed at Otto with her blue eyes.

“Is it so obvious?” she said.

“Not at all,” replied Otto, “but you said you’d come to England in 1938. Why else would someone want to leave Austria when their savior, Adolf Hitler, was just marching in?”

“Very clever,” said Leni.

“If we get captured and they find out who you are …” Otto stopped. “Look, it’s too dangerous.”

“It’s my decision, Otto,” replied Leni. “And what about you? Do you think you’ll get special treatment?”

Otto shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said flatly. In fact, he’d spent half the night lying in his bed wondering exactly that. His sheet had been soaked with perspiration when he’d woken that morning.

“Anyway, why did
you
leave?” asked Leni.

Otto sighed. “My father was a Communist — before I was born, I mean. My mother, too. That’s how they met. When the Nazis came to power they went underground, tried to hide their past. He was a chemistry professor, so he was of some use to them. But eventually someone must have talked, and the Gestapo came and took him away. My mother and brother, too. I don’t know where they are now.” He stopped for a moment, felt his eyes pricking. “
Undermining the war effort
, that’s what the Gestapo said when they arrested him.”

“I’m sorry,” said Leni. Her voice was soft. At that moment, MacPherson marched out of the double doors leading from the drawing room onto the veranda.

“Well, I’m afraid there’s rather a lot of weather over southern Germany,” he said cheerily.

Leni and Otto exchanged an anxious glance. It was easy for him to be in good spirits; he wasn’t parachuting into enemy territory that night.

“But don’t fret,” he went on. “I’ve pulled some strings, managed to get hold of a prototype plane. It’s being flown down from the factory this afternoon. It’s called a Mosquito, and it can fly higher and faster than anything we’ve got at the moment. Even has Rolls-Royce engines. It’ll get you there, safe as houses. Now, come along.”

Leni stood up. “Do I have time to write a letter?” she asked.

“Of course. We won’t set off for the airfield for half an hour, so take your time.”

As Otto got up to follow Leni, MacPherson tapped him on the shoulder.

“Otto, a quick word, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Leni gave them a curious glance as she left the veranda. Otto sat back down again.

“She’s a great girl, isn’t she?” MacPherson said, looking after Leni.

“Yes, she is,” said Otto.

“Nothing she can’t do, eh?” continued MacPherson.

Otto began to feel on his guard. “I’d say so.”

“But here’s the thing, Otto. At the end of the day, she’s still a girl and, well, girls, women, whatever you like, sometimes they can get emotional about things, I think you’ll agree?”

Otto didn’t want to agree. After all, he’d been the one who
panicked in the water. Besides, what was wrong with being emotional when something was important?