“This way,” the English sergeant said and led him off to where the group of wives was waiting.
Liesl was wearing a white high-necked blouse and a long grey skirt. On her head she had a man’s sun helmet. The first thing von Bishop noticed was that she was much thinner. For the first time in years she bore some resemblance to the woman he had seen off on the boat to Germany in 1913. For some reason the change seemed to him an indication of new hope.
She took the clothes from him. “You were meant to be here yesterday,” she said. “What happened?”
“A delay at Morogoro,” he said. He bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
“Liesl,” he said. “You look wonderful. Very well.”
“I’ve been sick,” she said, her voice sharp with irritation. “A month of fever.”
Von Bishop felt his heart brim with love at her retort. Now everything, he was sure, would be fine.
They took a rickshaw back to the quarter of the town that was reserved for German civilians. Formerly a temporary development for junior officials on the railways, it lay behind the marshalling yards and was composed of small corrugated iron bungalows raised two or three feet off the ground on brick piles. German civilians were permitted to move freely around the town during the day, but after dark a curfew was imposed and they were obliged to stay indoors.
It was a curious sensation to be riding through Dar again. Von Bishop looked about him. English soldiers were every-where, union jacks flying from the highest buildings, English street signs at road junctions. German East Africa didn’t exist any more.
Their bungalow was mean and unprepossessing, smaller even than their house in Nanda. The streets in the neighbour-hood were rutted and narrow, pie dogs and skinny hens sniffed and picked at piles of rubbish which mouldered at the side of the road, shade trees were few and far between.
Liesl’s house boasted a ravaged hibiscus hedge and a cinder path to the front door marked by freshly whitewashed stones. Inside there was a sitting room, separated from the single bedroom by a narrow hallway. A kitchen shack and privy stood a few yards from the back door. The Germans were allowed only one servant per household. Kimi, Liesl’s maid from Nanda, welcomed them at the front door.
Inside it was fetid and warm. Von Bishop sat down on a wooden upright chair.
Liesl stood by the window, fanning herself with a piece of card.
“It gets cooler at night,” she said non-committally.
“I suppose it’s better than being herded in a camp.”
“Oh, the English are very fair.”
The maid brought von Bishop a glass of beer.
“My God, beer!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t had it for years.” In fact he’d drunk bottles at Morogoro.
Liesl looked pleased. “I saved it for you.”
Von Bishop got to his feet, went over to her and kissed her on the cheek. Then he stood awkwardly at her side staring through the open shutters at the spindly hibiscus hedge and the cinder path with its whitewashed stones.
“Erich,” Liesl said, still looking outside. “I have to ask you. What happened to Gabriel Cobb?”
“You don’t know?”
“I heard nothing. They moved us here almost immediately. After those men set off after you.”
Von Bishop almost dropped his glass of beer. He forced himself to relax.
“We found him,” he said gravely. “On the Makonde plateau. He was dead, from starvation, weakness…”
Liesl looked at her left hand which rested on the window sill. She prised up a splinter from the dried and cracking wood.
“I knew it,” she said sadly. “When I heard nothing I knew he was dead.” She paused. “Erich, I—”
“We found him quite alone,” von Bishop went on quickly. “His clothes were rags. He had nothing with him. No food, no water. “Unaccommodated man,” as Shakespeare says. A brave but foolish attempt.”
Liesl looked round at him sharply. Von Bishop shrugged his shoulders. “We buried him there. I went on to the Ludjenda confluence, rejoined von Lettow. You never heard anything from, ah, the men following me?”
Liesl opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, then she closed it. Her shoulders relaxed.
“No,” she said, exhaling. “Nothing. But I saw one of them yesterday. He reminded me of it all.”
“Here? In Dar?” Common sense stilled his alarm. He’d been in captivity a month. If he had been accused of anything he would have learnt of it by now.
“Yes,” Liesl said looking round with mild curiosity.
“Did he see you?”
“I think so. He must have.”
“But he didn’t say anything?”
“No, nothing. I don’t think he recognized me.”
Von Bishop cleared his throat to hide the relief. “They couldn’t have found the grave then.”
“No.” Liesl took her bottom lip between her teeth. “I suppose not.”
Von Bishop set his beer glass down and put his arms around his wife and pulled her to him. She was thinner but her body was still soft. He felt a sense of happiness wash through him. He squeezed her shoulders.
“Soon we’ll be in Germany,” he said. “But perhaps one day they’ll let us come back.”
5: 9 December 1918, Dar-es-Salaam, German East Africa
Felix stood in the dappled moon-shadow beneath a cotton tree looking at the von Bishops’ house. He cursed his luck. How typical of the way everything had gone that within two days of arriving in Dar he should practically fall over von Bishop’s wife outside the Kaiserhof. He had looked right through her, pretending not to recognize her face and had turned and walked off quickly. He couldn’t tell if she recognized him, however, and to allay any possible suspicions he had not stirred from the hotel for the next few days.
Now he pulled the collar of his linen jacket up above his ears. He was wearing civilian clothes. A cool breeze was coming off the sea. He seemed to have been standing under this tree for hours. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling as he did so the barrel of his service revolver scrape across his pelvis. The gun was too large to go inconspicuously into his jacket pocket so he had thrust it into the waist of his trousers. He took the gun out now and opened it, catching the moon’s gleam on the six brass cartridges. He wondered if the time was right for him to make his move but decided to wait a few more minutes. One of the rooms of the tin bungalow was lit, the other was completely dark. He looked up and down the dusty streets. They were deserted. The moonlight had turned the dust an ash colour and despite the balminess of the night the scène looked cold and chilly. Felix decided to wait a few more minutes. Just in case.
Getting official permission to come to Dar-es-Salaam had presented few problems. He had telegraphed to the Provost Marshal in Dar, saying he had information about the death of his brother, Captain Gabriel Cobb, that might constitute it a war crime. Permission was promptly granted and he went by train to Mombasa, and from there by coastal steamer to Dar. At the Provost Marshal’s office they had been most helpful. He told them the story of Gabriel’s death, leaving nothing out except von Bishop’s name. The harassed and overworked young lieutenant appointed to investigate the case had provided all manner of information about the surviving German officers. Securing von Bishop’s address had not been difficult.
He had set wheels in motion, but he knew they would move very slowly, such was the clutter and chronic disorganization of Dar-es-Salaam. Other cases of alleged German brutality were also pending, let alone the myriad of usual disciplinary matters attending a large and idle occupying army. Felix’s accusations would just have to wait their turn.