How Ian Met Audrey
Berlin, June 1944
The sound of hammering at the door woke me from a fitful sleep, and was enough to send a chill down my spine. I suppose I'd been expecting the 'three o'clock knock' ever since my first meeting with Oskar the year before. When I'd made up my mind to do what I could to try to help get certain individuals who were under grave threat out of the Greater German Reich, before they were captured and murdered. But I'd foolishly hoped that my position as part of the British Treaty Delegation would protect me when the inevitable came. The splintering of the door and the sound of booted feet stomping through the living room seemed to indicate otherwise.
I made a grab for the clothes I'd been wearing the evening before, wondering if there was any way I could get out of the room before they arrived, but was disabused of that notion as two uniformed figures stormed into my bedroom, weapons pointed at me, followed by a third man. Although he was wearing civilian clothing, he had the insignia of a Sturmbannführer on the collar of the obligatory leather greatcoat.
"Ian Michael Cushing...?" the officer said, in a clipped voice. He was a good inch or so taller than myself and more heavily built, his close cropped hair was blond and his slate grey eyes were cold. I paused a moment, trying to decide what to say, but felt a backhanded slap across my face when I didn't answer immediately. The soldier had moved faster than I'd anticipated. Angry, I reached for the soldier's wrist and twisted it downwards, hearing a crack as I did so, and his weapon clattered to the ground. However, before I could do anything else, the muzzle of his companion's rifle was digging into my cheek.
"Are you Ian Michael Cushing?" the officer asked, again, the outward patience of his expression underlined by annoyance at my actions.
Was there any point denying it? On balance, probably not. After all, the apartment I was living in had been provided by our government hosts - along with those of other members of the delegation in the same apartment block - and they knew exactly who was in which unit.
"I am," I said, finally, "what is this about, Herr Sturmbannführer? I am a member of a diplomatic mission. You have no right to burst in on me like this."
All that gained me was another backhanded slap, which left my jaw ringing and the taste of blood in my mouth where I had bitten the inside of my cheek.
"You are under arrest. Get dressed and come with us," the officer ordered.
"I demand to speak with my commanding officer," I answered, angrily.
"Get dressed and come with us now," he repeated, drawing his service weapon from its holster, "or I will shoot you where you stand. Carry on arguing, and I will shoot you where you stand. Ask for your commanding officer again..."
He didn't need to repeat it a third time. Slowly, I began to comply, pacing my actions as I weighed up the distance to the window. I was on the first floor and the drop probably wouldn't kill me, if I landed right, which would be helped by the parachute training I'd received in the SOE. Moreover, outside, through the shattered doors, I was beginning to hear voices. Other members of the delegation who had been awakened by the noise were beginning to move sleepily out of their own quarters, and I could hear rumbles of discontent at the disturbance.
"Captain Cushing. What is going on?" demanded a voice which I recognised as that of my immediate superior, Major Laurence Rathbone. He was a clever, if somewhat old school officer with a decided lack of sense of humour, who was nonetheless one of the best intelligence analysts in the BTD. He had taught me a lot in the time I'd been serving with him in Berlin, and we had a decent working relationship.
The Gestapo officer barked at the remaining man whose gun was trained on me, ordering him to watch me, and then went out into the living room to speak with Rathbone. As I finished dressed, I heard the officer informing my superior that I was being detained for "activities incompatible with my position". This led to a storm of protest from Rathbone, which stopped abruptly.
Startled, I decided I didn't want to wait to find out what happened next. Instead, I dived for the window, smashing through and tucking myself up as I hit the air, and hoping I wouldn't break anything too major when I landed. I hit hard, scraping my arm on the fallen glass, but otherwise landing unscathed. The soldier in my bedroom opened fire, nearly hitting me as I rolled back onto my feet and began to run down the alley at the back of the building. However, the bastards had done this before, and as I reached the exit of the alley, a bullet caught me in the thigh from one of the waiting squad of SS guards. I went down hard, and the last thing I remembered was the butt of a rifle hitting me on the temple.
When I awoke, I was in an eight by ten cell, the walls lined with white tiles, presumably so that they would wipe clean easily. My guess was that I was currently a guest in the basement of Prinz Albrecht Strasse 8, and I could see no way how that could end well. Apart from a hard platform which served as a bed - no sheets or blankets of course - and a hole in the floor which was presumably supposed to serve as a privy, the only thing in the room was me. What little light there was came from a small, high window in the back wall and a six-inch square grille in the cell door.
I felt bruised all over, had a splitting headache and could see blood still oozing slowly from the bullet wound in the meat of my left thigh. I ripped one of the sleeves off the shirt I was wearing, and bound it around the wound, then sat back against the wall to wait. I have no idea how long I sat there for - watch, belt, shoes and other such personal possessions had all been taken from me, and I was slipping in and out of consciousness from what was probably a mild concussion - but eventually there was a rattling at the door. A guard came in first, weapon at the ready, followed by the officer who had led the arrest party. He indicated for the guard to haul me to my feet, and as I stood, I could feel how weak my injured leg was. I wondered if the bullet had nicked the bone.
"Who the Hell are you, and what is this about?" I demanded, determined not to fall down in front of them, although it took quite an effort of will to stay standing.
"My name is Kasimir Ritter, Herr Cushing," he replied, in clipped but excellent English, barely marked by an accent. The lack of my rank as he addressed me gave me cause for concern, though. "You are charged with treason against the Fatherland, and it is my duty to investigate those charges."
"You can't do this," I answered, "I am a member of the British Treaty Delegation. This is illegal."
"Ah, falling back on your background as a lawyer," he said, his tone matter of fact, "I was told that might happen. The trouble is that you forget you do not have diplomatic immunity. Moreover, protests of innocence will not work, given that you obviously felt guilty enough to try to run, and that you injured a soldier of the SS in the commission of his duty."
"I demand to see a representative of the British Embassy."
"Alas, that will not be possible. Major Rathbone has given his permission for us to pursue our enquiries without interruption from the British authorities."
What the Hell? And then I remembered the angry words he and Ritter had exchanged the previous night - presumably it was the previous night - and the sudden silence.
"What have you done to him?"
"Why, nothing," he answered, mildly, "after all, why would we wish to damage relations with our British Allies in that way? No, when I informed him of your numerous breaches of our internal security protocols, and the abuse of your position in which you have been engaged for some months, the good Major was persuaded that there were other battles to fight. Especially given that trying to evade capture is invariably the mark of a guilty man. Perhaps, if you had stood your ground..."
To say I was shocked would be an understatement. Yes Rathbone was old school, but I wouldn't have expected him to hang me out to dry with the Gestapo.
"Oh, and before you fall back on the old staple of name, rank and serial number, let me inform you that such obstinacy will only cause you a great deal of pain."
I'm sure the devil made me say it.
"Cushing, Ian. Captain. 5378985."
Almost instantly, the soldier smashed me in the right hand side of the face with the butt of his rifle. My legs buckled and I fell to my knees. I felt my cheekbone crack, and was lucky not to lose any teeth.
"As wilful as I had been led to believe," Ritter said, with a chuckle, "I'm going to enjoy showing you the error of your ways.
I lapsed into a sullen silence, and still chuckling, he turned on his heel and left, the soldier trailing behind him. As I sat myself down, leaning against the wall once more, I could feel the side of my face swelling up, and I closed my eyes to try to force myself to ignore the pain. Who the Hell was Ritter, anyway? I'd not come across him before, even at Joint Intelligence Taskforce meetings at the RSHA or the Abwehr, and he seemed to know far more about me than I either expected or liked.
A couple of hours later, a slot in the bottom of the door opened, and a tray holding bread and water was passed through. However, when I tried to eat, the pain was too much, and in the end I just took a few sips of water. The tray was removed by an armed guard some time later. I sat, dozing when I could make myself comfortable, and eventually I saw the light fading from the window, to be replaced by the dark of night. I got to my feet slowly, stretching and trying to pace the cell, but the bullet which was still lodged in my thigh seemed to be grating against the bone. I removed the makeshift bandage and gingerly felt around the area: it was tender and hot, probably infected. At a loss what to do next, I made use of the privy hole and then hauled myself over to the bench and lay down in a fitful sleep.
When next I woke, I felt light headed, sick and hot, and called out for help. I wasn't really expecting a response, but to my surprise the door opened. Ritter (complete with guard) walked in, accompanied by a man in a white coat with a medical bag.
"It would seem that a small matter was forgotten when you were brought here, Herr Cushing," Ritter said, pleasantly, "I suggest you lie still, and let Doktor Leitz see to that bullet wound."
Feeling too sick to argue, I did as I was bid, while Leitz set to work - none too gently - to remove the bullet. He then cleaned and disinfected the wound, before binding it.
"Not that I object to the help," I said, quietly, "but why bother?"
"It behoves me to make sure you don't lose the leg," Ritter answered, "you'd look so very silly hopping out to meet the firing squad."
"No interrogation? No appeal?"
"Of course there will be an interrogation. We want to know who your compatriots are. But there is really only one punishment for the crimes you have committed, Jew lover."
"You aren't going to get away with this," I answered.
"Me personally? Or the Fatherland?"
"Either...both."
"If you wish to keep believing that, then go ahead. But ultimately, the Allies need us to fight the Russians too badly to worry that much about the fate of an inferior race, or a single officer who let his morals get the better of his common sense. And as for myself, I feel confident that you will be unable to bring me to task for doing my duty. On which note...can he be moved, Herr Doktor?"
"Yes, Sturmbannführer Ritter."
"Good."
He snapped his fingers and a pair of guards came to drag me out of my cell and down the corridor to one of the interrogation rooms, and thus began the most painful fortnight of my life.
The pattern was similar every day. I was dragged out of my cell as it was just getting light, taken down the corridor and subjected to enthusiastic questioning for hours at a time. Then, once the interrogation was over for the day, I would be returned to my cell, fed a crust of bread and a little water, and left to my own devices until the cycle repeated the following morning.
Initially, the questions were what I would have expected. How did I get involved in the Jewish underground railroad? Who were my associates? Why did I think I would ever get away with it? How much use was my legal training now? Then after a few days, the focus of them changed. How long was I in France, working with the Resistance? Was I involved in this act of sabotage or that act of terrorism? How did I meet the officers who had been behind the plot to assassinate Hitler? Had I provided the bomb they had used? Ritter had made the connection back to my work with the SOE, which if anything was more damning than my activities since I had been with the BTD: back then I had been genuinely out of uniform, and therefore could potentially be shot as a spy. I tried to remember the officer in charge of Gestapo headquarters in Reims, where I had a narrow escape in March 1940, but was reasonably sure that it wasn't the same man.
I did my best to hold my peace despite the pain, or if I did say anything, I tried to make it either as unspecific as I could, or deliberately misleading if I could muster the wit to come up with a decent story. But after a fortnight I felt so broken, inside and out, that I imagine I was saying more than I intended. In fact, to be honest, I was a bit surprised that I was still capable of saying anything at all.
And then there finally came a day when I was left alone. I lay on the bench in my quarters, unable to find a single position where I didn't hurt. My face was bruised and swollen, and my breathing was ragged, not helped by the ribs I knew were broken or cracked. Moreover, my wounded leg was hot and tight: after all, it had been a favourite place for Ritter's men to apply pressure, and the bandage hadn't been changed for over a week. My left arm was also broken in two places, which added to my discomfort. I tried to concentrate, to mentally climb above the pain, but in the end, the only release I could find was in unconsciousness.
When my eyes opened once more it was dusk, which for June made it about nine-thirty in the evening and while I still felt like I'd been run over by a steam roller, the pain seemed a little less. Either that, or I was just going numb. I lay on my back for a moment, trying to get my bearings, and quickly became aware that what had awoken me was the sound of the key in the door. I sighed as Ritter came in once more. He appeared to be alone this time, obviously confident that I was no longer any form of threat to him.
"Good evening, Herr Cushing," he said, pleasantly, "the order has come through for your transfer."
"Transfer to where?" I asked, my voice croaking with a lack of water.
"Plötzensee Prison, for your execution," he answered. The statement was delivered with absolutely no emotion. No pleasure. No gloating. Nothing. It was merely the final chapter in an assignment which Ritter had diligently carried out for his superiors.
"Be content that your suffering will soon be at an end," he added, his tone surprisingly gentle. What was frightening, was that I almost was.
He snapped his fingers, and the guards came in. They hauled me up, forced my hands behind my back and fastened them with handcuffs. However, as they did, I realised that once first blast of agony from my broken arm had subsided, leaving me trembling and sick, I was actually more stable on my feet than I had for several days. I was walked from the cell, favouring the leg with the bullet wound to be sure, but still basically mobile, and led down the corridor, up a flight of stairs and out into the night. The summer drizzle felt unbelievably refreshing after the stinking atmosphere of my cell, but I didn't have long to enjoy it. I was all but picked up and thrown into the back of a truck, the guards climbing in behind me, and the driver set off.
Through the gap above the backboard I could see the buildings of Berlin going by, and eventually, after half an hour or so of bumping around, the city began to thin and we were out in the countryside. We reached our destination maybe fifteen minutes later. I was unceremoniously dumped out of the back of the truck, then dragged to my feet and taken into the prison, to a cell which looked surprisingly similar to the one I had just vacated. Maybe the Nazis only had one interior designer.
"No doubt you will wish to spend your last few hours contemplating the futility of your situation," Ritter said, quietly, "and making your peace with whichever god you follow. I will return shortly before dawn."
And then he was gone. I sat on the bench in the cell and waited for the inevitable, although as I considered my plight, I came to the conclusion that the only thing I regretted was getting caught. And sitting there, I made one last resolution: that I would try to die with as much dignity as I could muster. Damned if I was going to let them kill me without showing some backbone. A few hours later, the door opened and I was once again forced to stand. The ragged clothing I was wearing was stripped off me, and a bucket of cold water was tipped over my head. Then Ritter snapped his fingers and one of his men brought in a semi-clean shirt and pair of trousers.
"Dress, Herr Cushing. After all, I'm sure you want to look a little more civilised to meet your death."
Too tired to argue, I did as I was bid, fighting down the pain as I worked through the normally straightforward process of dressing myself, and then stood up to my full height. As I did so, Ritter smiled, almost as if he was pleased with my efforts to show my best face.
"I'm impressed," he said, sotto voce but directly to me, "but then, your resilience has been...surprising. And walking to your death is certainly more honourable than crawling out to meet it on your belly. Shall we go?"
"Damn you, Ritter," I hissed in reply, and to my surprise his response was to chuckle.
"Nice try, but your words will fall on deaf ears," he answered, obviously amused at some kind of private joke, "you are too young, too inexperienced and alas will not live long enough for such a curse to matter."
I suppose it was an odd comment for him to make, but at the time I was processing everything too slowly to really realise what he was saying. Instead I mustered what saliva I still had left in my dry mouth and spat at him. One of the guards reacted angrily and moved to smash me in the face once more, but Ritter stayed his hand.
"Let him have his little victory," he said in German, the guard subsided, and we set off down the corridor.
All too soon, we were in the execution yard, and I was being stood up against a wall riddled with bullet holes. The ground beneath my feet was beaten down earth and stained in places with blood. It was really going to happen, and for a moment I actually regretted the fact that I didn't have any strong beliefs in the life hereafter. My tied hands were hooked into a metal loop behind me, to keep me upright - sending daggers of pain down my broken arm again - and the firing party formed up about twenty feet in front of me, Ritter to the side.
"Any last words, Herr Cushing?" Ritter asked.
"Rot in Hell, Ritter," I answered, making sure that I looked him straight in the face, and he indicated for the men to bring their weapons to bear.
"Drei...zwei..."
And then another voice split the quiet of the yard with a commanding tone which even led me to want to snap to attention.
"Halt!"
I slowly looked to towards the voice, and saw a man in the uniform of an Oberführer, with the unit patch of the SD on the sleeve. More surprisingly, he was accompanied by a small brunette in a British uniform which accentuated every one of her perfect curves. Ritter also turned towards him, obviously annoyed at being interrupted, but when he identified a superior officer, he managed into an appropriately respectful salute. Then he ruined the effect by launching into a burst of affronted German, which his superior countered in a tone that brooked no argument. I didn't catch all of the exchange, my usual competence at simultaneous translation having rather deserted me since I had been taken into custody, but the gist seemed to be that orders had come from on high to stop my execution. The young woman then crossed to Ritter, drew herself up to her full 5'2"and presented him with an official looking piece of paper.
"This is a signed order from the Interior Ministry, for the release of Captain Cushing," she said to him, somehow looking him directly in the eye, despite the fact that he was the best part of a foot taller than she was, "you will release him into my charge immediately."
"And who are you?" Ritter asked, his voice quiet but with a distinct underlying tone of danger.
"I am Lieutenant Rose, an appointed representative of the British Embassy, and this man has been detained illegally. Please comply with the order immediately, Sturmbannführer Ritter."
"Not until I have verified that this is genuine," he answered, much to the annoyance of the Oberführer, and he barked orders to the guards, his tone angry. Two of them came over to me, unhooked me from the wall, and marched me back inside.
"You'll find the document is completely in order," Lt Rose said to Ritter as they followed us inside.
"We shall see," he answered, though gritted teeth, and stalked off to join his superior officer.
Lt Rose and I were taken to a small, grey-painted room which smelt rather too strongly of disinfectant, and I was pushed down into a chair. One of the guards then withdrew through the doorway, while the other one took up a position just inside. Rose sat in the chair opposite me and looked at me, as I leaned back in the chair and looked at her. She looked to be in her late-twenties, with deep blue eyes that I could fall into, light brown hair cut in the height of fashion, and a presence about her which belied her apparent youth. And just then, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"Well you're in a bloody awful way, Captain," she said, her voice matter of fact.
"You're not seeing me at my best," I croaked, "usually I'm quite charming."
"I can't deny that the boyish good looks from the picture in your file are lacking at the moment, but I won't hold that against you" she replied, with a wry smile, then introduced herself, "Audrey Rose."
She moved to offer me her hand, but then realised that there was no point, given that I was still tied, and opted to smile at me instead.
"Ian Cushing," I answered, "and you have no idea how pleased I am to meet you."
"Actually, I probably have a better idea than you think," she replied, her expression more serious, "how badly hurt are you?"
"Pretty badly...from what I can still feel."
"Maybe I can help you. Can you lean forward?"
I leant towards her slowly, but as I did, the guard crossed the distance between us, all but pointing the weapon he was carrying in my face. Lt Rose looked up at him, her eyes flashing angrily, and I'd swear he took a step back.
"No physical contact with the prisoner," he growled in German.
She looked as if she was going to argue, but I shook my head and sat back again. That fight wasn't worth it.
"How did you find me?" I asked, quietly.
"Major Rathbone reported your arrest to the Embassy. Since then, we've been trying to get them to admit that they were even holding you. What on earth did you do?"
"If it's all the same to you, I'd like leave another interrogation until I know whether I'm going to survive the morning."
"The release order is genuine."
"Who signed it?"
"A Dr Wilhelm Stuckart. I believe you know him. He obviously knows you."
"We met about eighteen months ago...we're friends of a sort, if we avoid the subject of politics."
"Friends enough that he was willing to sign your release."
"Either that or his legal sensibilities were offended by the irregular nature of my arrest."
"It would make him unique in the Interior Ministry if they were," she answered, her tone a studied neutral, "he claims he heard of your plight through channels - the specific details of which he chose not to share with us, incidentally - and he approached the Embassy yesterday morning, offering to help. I'm sorry that we ran things quite so close, but you know what the Nazi bureaucracy is like."
"So what happens now?"
"I doubt you'll be surprised to learn that you're being thrown out of Germany and being declared persona non gratia. I will escort you from here to the airport, and then accompany you back to England."
"And after that?"
"Let's cross each bridge when we come to it, shall we?"
I was going to say something else, when the door opened, and Ritter came in, accompanied by the Oberführer who had arrived with Lt Rose and gestured for the guard to release my hands.
"It would seem that our acquaintance is at an end, Hauptman Cushing," Ritter said, coldly, and I noted idly that it was the first time he had addressed me by rank, "Oberführer Alstötter will escort you and Oberleutnant Rose to Tempelhof, where you will be put on a plane back to London. The British Embassy will deal with packing up your possessions and sending them on to you in due course."
And then he clicked his heels together, bowed his head in mock salute, and left us. The guard followed him, and soon just ourselves and Alstötter remained in the room.
"Shall we go, Hauptman Cushing," Alstötter said, as Lt Rose helped me to my feet, and we walked back down the corridor and out into the fresh air. A Mercedes staff car was waiting outside, the driver leaning casually against the bonnet, although as soon as he saw us coming out of the prison, he snapped sharply to attention. I paused for a few moments, just drinking in the taste of freedom, and then Lt Rose nudged me in the direction of the car. Turning a completely blind eye to my beaten-up appearance, the driver opened the doors for us, then got behind the wheel and began to drive.
At least the suspension was better than the truck's had been, and I didn't feel every jolt of the road in my abused body. But I was tense and uncomfortable, all the while waiting for the revelation that this was all a cruel trick to get my hopes up, and that I was going to be shot anyway. Lt Rose seemed to sense this, and gently rested her hand on my good arm, in a calming gesture. It worked, too, and I let myself lean back into the leather seat. About half an hour later, we turned into the environs of Tempelhof, driving through a private access gate and directly onto the tarmac. We stopped beside a small passenger plane with RAF markings, and Lt Rose helped me out of the car and over to the steps.
"The German Government apologises to you for any inconvenience which may have been caused over this misunderstanding, Hauptman Cushing," Alstötter said, as we paused by the steps, "however, I'm sure you will understand, when I say that you will not be welcome in the Fatherland in the future and advise you never to return. Have a safe flight."
I gaped at him in disbelief, but before I could say anything Lt Rose gently took my arm, and propelled me up the steps and into the plane. She then sat me down in a seat near the doorway, and buckled the safety belt around me, before sitting beside me. As soon as she was safely belted in as well, the door was closed and the pilot fired up the engines, and a short while later we began taxiing towards the runway.
"Look at me, Captain," she said, quietly, and I did so, "you need to sleep. Let me help you. Watch me closely. Watch my finger...that's right...now lay aside your fear. Concentrate only on my finger and my voice, and soon you will begin to feel very relaxed. Then the pain will become less and you will be able to rest."
I didn't protest, but instead did as she asked, and after a few moments I felt the pain receding. My body began to feel heavy, as if after a day's healthy exercise, and above all, it felt good not to be afraid.
"Now close your eyes and sleep," she said, quietly, and almost before I knew what was happening, I drifted away.
On arrival back at RAF Northolt our plane was met by an ambulance, and Lt Rose steered me into the waiting arms of the corps-men, then rode in the back of the ambulance with me. Her strong, quiet presence comforted me more than even the relief of being back in Blighty. Initially I was taken to the base infirmary, where an efficient young doctor named Matthews assessed my various injuries. As he recited the litany of what he found, I wondered again how I'd survived as long as I had in the Gestapo's tender care. Of course, I wasn't a doctor, but I couldn't believe that it was good that various of my internal organs were either bruised or outright ruptured. And that ignored the broken bones, the gunshot wound and the all-over damage from the beatings.
"So am I going to live?" I asked, once he'd finished and stepped back to take a good look at me. I could only imagine what he saw as he did.
"I'll be honest, Captain," he answered, "I'm not sure how you aren't dead already. But on the theory that you've lasted this long, I'd say that you probably are."
"That sounds good...I think."
"I'm worried about that thigh wound, though. There's considerable damage to the muscle and probably the underlying bone, and that, combined with a persistent infection and an obvious attempt at healing followed by multiple re-injuries, means that, at this point, I can't guarantee that you'll have full use of that leg again."
"That sounds less good."
"We'll see. However, in the meantime I'm going to need to take you into surgery. God knows what else I might have missed at this point."
And he called for an orderly to prepare me for surgery.
"I'd better be going," Lt Rose said.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," I said quietly, "I owe you my life."
"Just doing my duty, Captain," she answered, formally, but I thought I detected a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.
"Will I see you again?"
"Do you want to?"
"Actually, I rather think I do."
"Then we'll have to see what can be arranged. However, given that I'm due to go back to Berlin with the plane, and you most definitely aren't, I'm not sure when we will get another opportunity."
"Then I'll look forward to the possibility," I answered, and she smiled.
"Get well, Captain Cushing," she said, quietly, and planted a light kiss on my forehead, before turning on her heel and walking away. I watched her go with a sigh, before giving myself into the charge of the orderly so he could prepare me for surgery.