There was a pause and then his hand was shaken.
‘Perhaps now we can become friends. The German government does not wish to inconvenience Belgian citizens any more than the needs of the occupation require. But in times like these we must be ever vigilant, heh?
‘Now.’ There was the sound of turning pages again. ‘You were seen in the gardens of the Place Emile-Dupon yesterday, about midday? Is that correct?’
The man’s French pronunciation had a curiously guttural flavour, overlaid with the intonations of the south. He was clearly a German speaking French in the accents of that area. The only German he had spoken, the name of his police organisation, carried a singsong lilt that suggested the Schwarzwald.
‘I asked if that was correct, Herr Diecker?’
‘Uh… yes,’ Memling mumbled, trying to sound dazed even though his mind was working now. The blow that followed was as sudden and unexpected as the first. The man seemed to have mastered the technique of striking high on the spine, just below the shoulders, while kicking the victim’s legs away so that he landed head first. Half-conscious, head lolling from side to side, he was yanked to his feet and slapped hard.
‘Herr Diecker’ – the voice was annoyed – ‘I must ask you once more not to provoke my associate. You must speak up immediately and clearly when I ask a question. Please repeat your answer.’
‘Yes…. he managed to force out.
‘Yes what?’ the man prompted.
‘I was in the Place Emile-Dupon… yesterday.’
‘Was it not rather an unpleasant day for taking the air?’
‘Yes… but Sunday is the only day I have, otherwise…’
‘I see. And while you were at the Place Emile-Dupon did you meet anyone?’
Christ, Memling thought, they know. The bastards were playing a game with him.
His vision was clearing as his eyes adapted to the glare, and the faces were beginning to take on detail.
‘Yes.’
‘And who would that have been?’
Memling twisted his hands together as if embarrassed, and drew a deep breath. Dissemble, they had told him in the all-too-brief training classes. Confirm enough of their story that they may believe your lies.
‘I… met’ – he took a deep breath – ‘a girl.’
‘Ah. And why should you be shy? Certainly you are a normal, healthy young man. Tell me, please, what you and this young lady talked about? By the way, what is her name?’
The Gestapo officer was watching him closely now, and Memling realised with a shock that he had seen that gaunt, skull-like face before: the man on the train! My God, he thought, as fresh waves of fear coursed through him, turning every muscle in his body to water. Do they know who I am?
He struggled against the panic, knowing that if he gave way now he would lapse into grovelling terror, and the thought brought such intense shame and self-loathing that he stopped wringing his hands and tried to stand straight.
As if to encourage him, Walsch chuckled. ‘Herr Diecker, whatever you tell me remains in the strictest confidence. Now, what was her name?’
‘Maria… Kluensenayer,’ he choked. There was nothing to be lost by telling him. Walsch was certain to know anyway, probably had known the instant she sat down beside him. He could anticipate the next question, and the answer was beginning to form in his mind as it was asked.
‘My my, the secretary to the director of production. Now, what would you two find to talk about?’
Memling took a deep breath. ‘We did not talk very long, sir. I…. asked -I asked her to come to my room,’ he finished with a rush.
‘And?’
‘She left.’
‘Left? Just like that?’
Memling let his head droop a little more. ‘Yes… no. She slapped me.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder. Whatever possessed you, young man? Do you know her very well? Did you have reason to believe that she might agree? What a dog you are! And so hasty. Don’t you know you must first court a young woman? They are all prostitutes and whores at heart, and so you must go about it correctly. First a present, then the theatre, and perhaps a meal in a fine restaurant.’ There was a dry chuckle. ‘Then you take the lady to your bed. Not before – and never, never ask.’
‘I… I do not have the money for that sir.’
‘Not enough money!’ Walsch shook his head in exasperation. ‘Why, you have an excellent job, a responsible job. Surely you are not complaining about the salary paid you by the Reich?’
‘Oh no, sir,’ Memling replied hastily, already weary of the game. ‘It is not that, only… I…’ He shuffled his feet and rubbed his nose. ‘I… I am quite shy. You see, I am an orphan—’
‘Yes, yes, I know all that.’ For the first time Walsch had departed from the gentle chiding tone. ‘Where did you go after the whore rejected your advances?’
Memling took a step towards him. ‘She is not a… a… ’ He stopped as if unable to pronounce the word. Walsch raised a hand to stay the other man.
‘You treated her like a whore, so obviously you must think her one. Answer my question.’
‘I did… I went to the Parc de la Citadelle. I go there sometimes, to be alone.’
‘To the park? I see.’ More pages turned. ‘This woman, Maria, have you met her before, outside the works?’
‘No. No, sir,’ Memling answered, astonished that Walsch had not asked about the park and who it was he had met there. Didn’t he know?
‘But you have met her, spoken to her, inside the works?’ Bemused, Memling did not see where the trap was leading. ‘Yes, I have spoken to her… in her office.’
Walsch tapped the notebook. ‘In violation of the law forbidding personal intercourse during work hours?’
‘Ye – yes.’
‘Are you not aware that such violations are considered sabotage by the occupation authorities? And that sabotage is punished by hanging?’ Walsch’s voice had become cold.
‘Yes… but I… thought perhaps a word….’ What is he doing? Memling wondered. Didn’t they follow me to the citadel?
‘A word? Just a word? And next time it will be two words, and then several, and perhaps a long conversation will follow while your work suffers and the weapons needed by our front-line troops are not delivered on time and they are killed because you were compelled to speak to a whore,’ Walsch shouted.
Memling could only remain silent. He had walked directly into the trap. His mind was in total confusion now. What was Walsch really after? If he had been followed to the citadel, they would surely have seen him with Paul.
Walsch uttered the next words with no hint of threat. ‘You do realise that I could have you before a court-martial immediately and hanged before this evening? I can assure you the execution is most unpleasant. Perhaps you would be interested to know the procedure? One’s last moments should be meaningful, their significance understood. As sabotage is the worst crime one can commit, the government has decreed that the method of execution should be made a deterrent to others. Therefore the prisoner is stripped to the waist and paraded before his fellows who are assembled to watch. The gallows bar is placed some three metres above the ground, so the victim’s struggles are plainly visible to all.’ Walsch’s voice had taken on a grotesque humour.
‘The prisoner is mounted on a footboard. A wire noose is placed about his neck and snugged up so that there is no slack. At a signal the footboard is withdrawn leaving the prisoner to strangle. It can take as long as ten minutes to die if the hangman places the noose correctly. As you might imagine, it is very unpleasant. And that, my friend, by your own admission, is the penalty which awaits you, this very afternoon.’
Even through the intense fear that seemed to have shut out everything else, it was becoming clear to Memling what was happening. The Gestapo knew who he was. The files had disgorged his name in response to his fingerprints. But Walsch could not possibly admit to having overlooked a British spy in a most sensitive position all these months, particularly one who had escaped him once before. So Walsch had waited to see where he would lead them. Somehow the meeting with Paul had been missed, but not the one with Maria, and that meant she was now under Gestapo suspicion as well. Now that they had a connection, there was no further need for him. He could be eliminated and at the same time provide a cheap lesson in continued obedience. The floor shifted and he staggered, nauseated by fear. The thought of strangling to death from a wire noose…