Chapter 2

“So you’re the girl sent by Matthews?” said the officer, dressed immaculately in a crisp khaki uniform, standing broad and tall, his eyes peering down at her from their lofty post. Lizzie wondered why officers always stood on soldierly ceremony even when in a decidedly un-soldierly situation, their backs straight, goose-stepping around even the smallest of rooms. This was such an example. A tiny, cell-like interview room somewhere in Kent, she hadn’t had the energy to pay much attention on the way over. She was sure that this gentleman, as tall as he was, would have no problem extending a leg across the entire length of the room should he have wished to.

“I am, Sir. Yes.”

She wished he would relax. The formal stance was discomforting for her. She had been travelling for five days and had experienced, by her standards at least, a fairly traumatic series of events before that. She longed for a casual conversation with a civilised human being. Not a reserved-looking soldier with a clipboard and fountain pen.

They had treated her well when she arrived, as soon as they found out who she was, of course. They had fed her sandwiches, water, and wrapped her in plentiful layers of woollen blankets to warm her. She could not remember much of the journey to the military base before that. Dehydration, exhaustion and hunger had sent her mind somersaulting into other places, other times.

She saw her home in Wales, that beautiful stone farmhouse she had shared with her brother and father deep in the lush green Brecknockshire countryside; the boarding school in Oxfordshire, of which she was not quite so fond; and Germany. Germany. Reels of faded images shot past her eyes. Images of beautiful European streets lined with mature trees; men marching determinedly through sunshine-filled town squares; scarlet-red flags, the prominent, ominous emblem of a black spider; a dark-haired man in a green-grey uniform gracefully and elegantly conducting a choir in a warmly-lit church; the image of a lone black figure standing motionless in an archway, distorted by a grainy pane of falling snow.

She was relieved when the officer finally sat down at the table, opposite her. He rifled through a dishevelled stack of official-looking documents as he spoke to her.

“So, your name is Elizabeth Jane Protheroe? Born in Brecon on the fourth of February 1919?”

“That’s correct, Sir.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t sound Welsh.”

“The benefits of an Oxfordshire boarding school,” she replied, and he nodded with acknowledgement.

“My name is Lieutenant Gray, with the Intelligence Corps,” he smiled. “We had been expecting you to arrive in Suffolk.”

“Yes I know, we had a few problems on the way over and had to re-route ourselves a bit further north. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it wasn’t a problem at all, Miss Protheroe. You did, however, give the Norfolk Home Guard a bit of a fright...I think they may have thought they were being invaded by Germans!” he joked, smiling.

Lizzie laughed lightly. She was pleased that the tone of the conversation had loosened.

“Now then,” he continued. “Let’s get to the nitty-gritty, Miss Protheroe. You’re a bit of a mysterious one, if I’m honest with you! You came totally out-of-the-blue. We usually know far more about the subjects we have sent over before they arrive. You were sent by our spy Philip Matthews, why was that? What were his reasons for helping you?”

She felt an overwhelming sense of dread at the prospect that she may have to explain everything to this man, to revisit it all again after she had been trying so desperately to ram it into the back of her mind.

“He saw I needed to leave as soon as possible, so he offered to help me.”

“Was your life in danger?”

She hesitated.

“Um, no...well, maybe. It might have been in time.”

The Lieutenant studied her face closely. Lizzie felt very conscious that she was being examined. She imagined that he knew, that he had guessed everything, even though she knew this was improbable. The questioning continued.

“Why were you in Germany?”

“I arrived there as a student in ‘37, at the University of Berlin to study German and French. And after I graduated I started teaching at a boys’ school in the city.”

“So you’re a fluent German speaker, presumably?”

“Yes Sir.”

“And how did you know Matthews?”

“He worked at some offices used by the military near the school I worked at. We met through a mutual friend at a party in...’39, I think it was. The school I worked at was attended by many German officers’ sons, German officers from the military establishment where he works. I came to know a number of them because of this.”

“Why would you arrive wearing those jackboots?”

He gestured below the table towards her feet.

“They’re Mr. Matthews’s. My shoes were unsuitable for walking, and he knew I would have at least a few miles to do when I got to France, so he gave them to me.”

“A bit risky to arrive in England wearing German issue footwear, is it not? The poor young fellow who found you nearly had a heart-attack!”

“Yes I suppose it was rather thoughtless, but we knew you would be expecting me, so we didn’t think it would present a problem.”

Lieutenant Gray nodded, writing furiously as she spoke. He then put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms.

“So...you say you didn’t think your life was necessarily in danger, so why would you leave in such a hurry?”

Lizzie paused to gather her thoughts. She had rehearsed her lines many times in her head, but she was still overly wary of dropping too much information into the officer’s hands.

“Miss Protheroe? What happened to cause Matthews to believe you needed to leave immediately?”

“Sorry, I’m trying to work out how best to phrase it, Sir.”

Gray nodded and smiled. “Take your time, Miss Protheroe.”

Feeling that this was more a prompt for her to hurry up than an acceptance of the delay, she spoke immediately.

“I knew too much...I mean, I had seen too much. I didn’t feel comfortable being there anymore”.

“What did you see?”

“I saw violence. More than once, and it didn’t feel like the Germany I thought I knew anymore.”

“How did you see violence? Surely as a school-teacher you wouldn’t have been in a position where you would be exposed to such things.”

His expression was a knowing one. She knew he was probing for a particular answer.

“There’s a labour camp, Sir, in Berlin. Not many people know of its existence. Even some of the local residents don’t know exactly what goes on behind its walls. I believe you know of this camp, as Matthews said it was why he had been stationed so close to it.”

“Sachsenhausen,” Gray replied immediately.

“That’s right, yes. Because of my proximity to the camp in terms of location, and in terms of relations with the officers who worked there...”

“Whose sons attended your school”, Gray interrupted.

“Yes. Because of that, I on occasion caught glimpses of the activities within the camp, as has Matthews.”

“Well I understand how Matthews has caught glimpses, as you say. He’s a spy. It’s what we put him there for. What I can’t understand is how a teacher in a nearby school managed it...moreover, a British teacher. Surely they would have been very wary of letting a Briton become aware of such a sensitive and secretive operation.”

Lizzie began to feel anxious and tried to phrase her words as carefully as possible.

“Well...I was on good terms with the officers socially, Sir. They trusted me, they’d known me for a long time. I’m not sure many of them knew I was British anyway, Sir. My accent when speaking German is more or less flawless. I’m sure most assumed I was simply a young teacher from Berlin.”

“How did you become on good terms with them socially?”

“I met many of them through their sons, my pupils. I used to organise music concerts, using not only those who were musically able, but also those who weren’t. It involved all the boys and involved a lot of communication and input from the parents as well. So through doing this several times a year, I formed friendships with many of the boys’ parents, most of whom were officers who worked at Sachsenhausen and in other offices nearby. I got invited to lots of social gatherings and parties.”

“It sounds as though you were rather popular, Miss Protheroe.”

She laughed uncomfortably. She could not work out, in studying his manner, whether or not he believed her, and whether or not his last statement had been sarcastic or genuine. She restlessly rubbed her hands together under the table. Her palms were clammy. She nervously awaited his response, dreading any more potential questions. He prolonged her anguish by taking hold of his pen and writing, in silence, without a word, for at least two minutes. She tried not to appear as agitated as she was. She felt like shuffling in her seat, wiping her brow, drumming her fingers on the wooden table, all the trademark gesticulations that one subconsciously lapses into performing when on edge. Lieutenant Gray set his pen down next to his meticulously scripted recordings of their conversation. He kept his eyes down, proof-reading certain passages while Lizzie anticipated his next movement. Then, he looked up.

“So you’re a musician, Miss Protheroe? Do you sing?”

Lizzie was used to this question. Everyone in England always assumed everyone in Wales sang. Operatically. With flamboyant vibrato and dramatic gusto. But she was so relieved he had diverted from the previous subject that she delightedly answered his question.

“No, I don’t really sing much. I’m a violinist, and an occasional harpist.”

The Lieutenant seemed fascinated with the notion of the harp, another common experience she had with the English. She would perform in concerts and ceremonies at her school as a girl, and would hardly be noticed at all beforehand when in possession of a violin. But upon her entrance with her harp, everyone would suddenly flock. Rather like frenzied moths would to a six-foot tall lamp. She would then have to assume the role of crowd-control as she fought off children and adults alike, plucking, poking and prodding with pencils and dirty fingernails. This both amazed and amused her. In Wales, most households would have a harp in the corner of the living room; they were considered an essential commodity. In England, they were an awe-inspiring, magnetic source of attraction that would have people talking incessantly for hours.

The Lieutenant began recounting his brother’s experience with a blind harpist he met in London three years ago. Lizzie feigned interest and smiled politely, but the entrance of another officer into the room cut the one-sided conversation short. This officer seemed somewhat sterner. He looked at Lizzie tentatively and then beckoned Lieutenant Gray out of the room.

“Excuse me for a moment, Miss Protheroe,” said the Lieutenant courteously, before following the other officer out of view.

The two men returned after a few minutes. Lizzie was semi-certain she had been rumbled and terrifying visions of firing squads flashed through her mind. This fear was exacerbated by their saying she could not “simply be released to roam Britain freely”, but they continued to explain this was simply a measure they would take resulting from her lack of proof that she had indeed been a teacher. She could just as easily have been a German spy, of course. They reassured her, however, that because Matthews had vouched for her unconditionally, they did not think she posed any particular risk.

She felt relieved by this. The tension in her hands loosened and her posture relaxed. They explained that she would be sent to a military station owned by the Intelligence Corps. Here, she would provide the army with valuable information from her significant knowledge of Sachsenhausen Labour Camp and of its officers, as well as acting as a secretary to one of the resident officers. Her language skills would be useful. She would be kept there to be made use of “as would be required” by the Corps, as well as, in principle, so that the army could “keep an eye on her”.

Lizzie was not particularly overjoyed at the prospect of being conscripted into military employment, especially as it seemed this “station” was in fact situated miles from anywhere – hidden in the rural depths of Northamptonshire, as it happened. Isolated, secluded and cut-off from the rest of civilisation.

It dawned on her that she may well have lost the rest of her life to the strict confinement of the British army, and although it was infinitely preferable to many of the other possible outcomes of her predicament, the thought of it depressed her.