Opposite Sides

Opposite
Sides

By Susan Firman

Copyright 2014 Susan
Firman

Smashwords
Edition

Smashwords Edition,
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TABLE of
CONTENTS

PART
I

CHAPTER 1
England

CHAPTER 2 Minus Times
Plus

CHAPTER 3 Intricate
Shakes

CHAPTER 4 The
Turners

CHAPTER 5
Friends

CHAPTER 6 In the
Millions

CHAPTER 7
Privilege

CHAPTER 8
Acceptance

CHAPTER 9 The
Picnic

CHAPTER 10 Something
Important

CHAPTER 11
Confrontation

CHAPTER 12 Tea at the
Turners

CHAPTER 13 The Rising
Storm

CHAPTER 14
Prelude

PART
II

CHAPTER 15 The
Meeting

CHAPTER 16 North
Africa

CHAPTER 17 To catch a
Bear

CHAPTER 18 The
Desert

CHAPTER 19
Captured

CHAPTER 20
Camp

CHAPTER 21 The Last
Christmas

CHAPTER 22 Last
Days

CHAPTER 23 Jan

CHAPTER 24
Germany

CHAPTER 25
Hunting

Other Books by Susan
Firman

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Firman

Opposite
Sides

PART
I

CHAPTER
1

England

It is always difficult
making a new life in a new land, especially when the two countries
had been on opposite sides only six years before. Friendship
bridges that were so difficult to build, were destined to be broken
again through a series of events that would sweep across Europe and
involve most of the world.

Thursday 22nd May, 1924.
A warm English spring morning. Lindbergh had just completed his
solo flight across the Atlantic the day before so today was one
full of life and anticipation. A restless call of a cuckoo
resonated somewhere high in the tree tops. It seemed to be
following the line of old beech trees from the gateway towards the
stone building at the end of the long driveway. A solitary figure
was slowly walking in the shade that spread halfway across the wide
driveway. Above him was the spreading canopy of new burgundy-wine
foliage and beneath his feet, the small white angular stones that
defined the path. The figure hesitated, resting his two bags on the
ground as he thought about what had taken place during the previous
two hours.

The young man had finally
arrived at Prince Albert College, a private finishing school on the
outskirts of a small English town, fifteen miles inland from the
coast in Sussex. How would this sixteen year old son of a German
military officer fit into a society that was still trying to
understand how and why they had been dragged into a most
devastating war. He was not sure how well he would cope for, even
though he had some knowledge of English, he had already had a few
days in England, long enough to realise his limitations in the
language. It made him feel strange and a little on edge.

Since the
death of his mother, he and his two brothers, Renard and Axel, had
been looked after by his father’s sister Laura and her husband Karl
Kl
ö
n. They had
not been fortunate enough to have had children of their own. After
an enduring ferry trip of many hours across the North Sea and after
following directions about which train to catch, he had finally
arrived at his destination. He remembered how nervous he had been,
standing there in the middle of the platform, his two large
travelling bags at his feet and some English pounds in his pocket,
watching the rear of the guard’s van recede into the tree-lined
distance. He had waited for what seemed like hours for his contact
person to arrive. He had had to look for the man in the white
hat.

The Germany he had left
behind was struggling to build a new republic, for when the war
ended, the Kaiser had abdicated and fled to Holland, leaving his
country to pull itself out of the mess left by its defeat. Uncle
Karl had a profitable knife-making business, so as the boys were
growing up, many of the post-war difficulties passed them by and
the boys, together with their uncle and aunt, were able to spend
many of their holidays either hiking somewhere in the southern
forests or splashing around in one of the numerous lakes dotted
across the landscape, just north of Berlin.

But that world was not
his any more. His world lay ahead, an untrodden pathway filled with
the mysteries of a new country, the thrill of learning another
language and meeting new people. He wondered how he would manage
with all the subjects he had chosen, especially as he was not yet
fluent in English. Yes, he already knew just enough English to get
by, for he had studied the language for almost four years, yet he
had now found that when people spoke to him, it was far too quick
and so he did not understand much at all. He had managed to ask a
few simple questions at the station but when the man answered,
everything became a jumble. He had been left feeling confused and
helpless. Just as well someone would be there to meet him. Ah, yes,
the man in the white hat.

He had stood on the
platform watching all the other passengers leave. They all knew
exactly where they were going. He had watched the line at the
ticket collector grew shorter and shorter until he was the only one
left standing on an empty platform. At least it had been easier to
find each other: the man in the white hat and the younger one in
the dark trousers, school jacket and cap.

The young man picked up
his heavy suitcases and made his way over to his
contact.

“
Mornin’
young man!”

The white hat was removed
and a driver’s hat took its place.

“
Good
morning.”

“
I’ve ‘ad
instructions t’take you to the school. Main gate be
fine?”

“
Bitte
?”

“
Main gate,
young man?”

“
Gate?”

“
Gate.
Entrance. Where the school is. I’ll take you there.”

Finally, he
understood.

“
Thank you,
mister driver.”

The driver had first
loaded the bags into the back and then he had held the rear door
open. He remembered how he had stepped up on to the running board
and into the vehicle and how his tired body had sunk into the soft
upholstery and how he had spread himself out most comfortably in
the middle of the back seat. Then, as the car drove through the
town Hans had reminded himself of the expectations his family. He
hoped he would be good enough to gain a certificate at the
completion of his studies. Such a certificate, an English
certificate, would give him an entrance into a very good job either
here, or in Germany, or anywhere. It could be his ticket to see the
world. What a prospect for a young man!

As these
thoughts churned over in his mind, he became aware that the car had
stopped by a gate and sign which read:
Prince Albert College: modern education for young men and
women
. The driver unloaded the two
suitcases, touched the peak of his hat and announced with a
cheerful manner,

“ ’
ere you
are, young man. Good luck with your lessons!” With no more to say,
the driver pocketed his fare and drove away.

Hans had picked up his
bags and he had began walking. The thoughts of travelling surged
through his mind and he walked automatically, hardly aware of the
huge trees or of the cuckoo hiding high above. He did not notice
the wide expanse of grass that spread out from both sides of the
driveway until it met the high stone wall of the school ground
perimeter. All he heard was a cornflakes-crunch beneath his shoes,
like the monotonous breaking of sea shells when one walks over them
on the beach. He had stopped half way up the drive to give his
aching shoulders a respite from the heavy load which he was
carrying. The bags were far heavier than he had expected. His arms
felt like over-stretched elastic and he needed time before they
could snap back into his arm sockets. The weight of his bags had
not impinged on him until now. The pinching pain had came on
suddenly. He stood and stretched and looked up the driveway. It was
awfully long.

Finally, he reached the
dark grey-blue stone flint school building with its narrow angular
windows and steep roof. The stones had been split so that their
broken surfaces formed the façade. Each one had been randomly set
into dark-grey mortar and each corner and each window was edged
with dark coloured bricks which gave the building and air of
permanency and authority. There was no hint of welcome in its
presence. Even the plain concrete steps leading up to the twin
solid, oak main doors did not appear inviting. The stone motto
above the door lintel, in Latin, bared down on him, demanding
obedience and respect from all those who passed beneath its
arch.

The youth
hesitated at the foot of the steps for a while. In his mind he went
over the instructions that had been sent to him a few weeks before
he had left home. He gripped his fingers together tightly enough
for his nails to pinch the sweaty flesh of his palms. He focused on
the heavy wooden doors within his reach. One had a large iron ring
on it and he decided that that was the one to open. Inside,
stretched a long hall from which countless doors, both to the right
and left broke the walls into a hundred segments. Old photographs
of past pupils and staff sized him up: was he good enough to be
admitted to
their
school?

The hallway smelt of
fresh polish and well-matured timber, together with a mustiness
that goes with old scholarly books. He walked hesitantly across the
polished floorboards, trying to muffle his squeaky footsteps until
he located the door he had been told to find. It was very clearly
and formidably marked: ‘MATRON’.

Doubts flooded his brain
and he began to feel dizzy and somewhat sick in his stomach which,
in turn, made the muscles in his thighs begin to twitch. He checked
the letter he had stuffed in his top pocket to reassure himself
that it was the matron he was to report to; and not the principal.
Would ‘she’ even be pleased to see him? He paused while he steadied
himself, and using his thumb, he rubbed his little finger up and
down in time to his breathing, slower and slower until he felt
calmer. Then, he knocked, a light, unsure tap which seemed to be
absorbed right into the wood and did not go any further.

Matron would
never hear that knock
, he thought.
She would never know he had arrived and he might
still be standing there until the end of the day.

He knocked again, this
time louder. An authoritative educated English woman’s voice
answered from the other side of the door.

“
Enter!”

There was no going back,
now. He pushed the door a little, took a gulp and bit his finger so
violently that a small drop of blood crept out of the small wound
and turned his fingernail red. He rubbed it away on the back of his
trouser leg. Then, with a deep breath, head high and back straight,
he stepped inside.

His eyes immediately
scanned the book shelves. There were so many books, stacked or
squeezed together until no more could be accommodated. The ceiling
was high with dark-stained timber beams criss-crossing in a
chequer-board pattern from which dangled a single light, switched
on as the single window only cast narrow daylight into the
shadowed, dim room. He was somewhat relieved to see another young
person already in the room, standing slightly to one side of a
large desk, behind which sat the commanding ‘Voice.’ The other
student . . . he presumed the girl was a student . . . still wore
her coat and had short auburn-hair. She seemed to be about his own
age, maybe a year younger was his first impression. Never-the-less,
she smiled at him and then her green-blue eyes turned back to the
middle-aged woman behind the table who was now standing.