Chapter 20

September 1964 – August 1970

I spent some of my Premium Bond money on proper framing. Lili’s pencil and crayon portrait of Col then adorned my bedroom wall, along with the FDJ poster. I often found myself sitting on my bed, sharing her gaze. The fear it had been something I had done to betray then to Oberstleutnant Schmidt grew in me. I sat there, sifting my memories of our time in East Germany trying to identify my mistake. At times, Col’s eyes filled with subtle accusation.

When we restarted our homework meetings in September, I found Lili had a smaller version of the portrait which she had kept for herself – apparently the final essay before the larger version she had given me.

Our relationship had changed with the loss of Col. She had been the glue holding us together and we had to search for a different way of relating. Lili was an artist of growing confidence and ability, but she had none of Col’s curiosity for science. We still shared our languages and the literature they allowed us to access, but Lili was striking out on her own path, where I was stumbling into growing darkness. Early in the autumn term, she called off our homework club a couple of times, perhaps to be with her boyfriend. I sensed a growing distance between us, caused by my need for her support while I gave her gloom in return.

Every day, I fought with the dark sea threatening to engulf me. My mother knew I was struggling and watched, unsure how to help. Trapped in my misery, I did not notice her suffering.

One October afternoon, for some reason my feet took me the long way round from Lili’s house – up the Downs and along Sea View Road past Col’s house. During the summer I had checked the house with decreasing frequency as it became clear they were not returning. Today it remained still and empty, the garden unkempt. I pulled myself away and my feet traced the path back to my house. They had learned each crack in the pavement, each uneven surface intimately in the twenty months Col and Mutti Frida had lived there.

I was surprised to find my mother in the kitchen. “No evening surgery?” I asked.

“Come and sit down, Will. We need to have a talk.”

I hung up my coat and sat down opposite her.

“Will...” She took a breath and started again. “Will, your father and I are separating.”

My eyes searched her face; this was not a surprise. I was glad to have him out of my life, but it must be hard for her.

“I have decided I ... we ... all need a clean break.” She paused, her eyes in turn searching mine for ... something, almost afraid of what she might find. “We are selling the house. I am leaving the surgery here and have found a position in Leicester. Your father is moving into a flat in London...”

“And...?”

“We – you, me and Hilary – are moving in two weeks.”

My stomach flipped – another break. This had been my childhood home until I left at seventeen. My parents had continued to live here even after they retired in the 1980s, sharing an uneasy peace.

“What about school?”

“I’ve arranged for you to stay with a friend in Canterbury.”

I sat there, thinking about how my life was being turned upside down.

My mother reached across the table, taking my hand. “I’m sorry, Will, I know this comes at a bad time for you.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “Please try not to let it disrupt your studies.”

In bed night I realised once we moved it would be difficult for Col to find me; if, despite my betrayal, she wanted to. She would contact Lili; I’d have to tell Lili where I was.

Our homework club and my Herne Bay life ended precipitously. My mother and Hilary moved to Leicester one weekend, dropping me at Dr Cassidy’s house beyond the Westgate in Canterbury. When Lili and I parted, she gave me a fierce hug and we promised to stay in touch, which we did by letters every week or two; Lili’s usually included a sketch of Rupert, her cat, or a view around Herne Bay. Beneath everything she wrote and drew, she shared her strength.

Leafing through the local newspaper a week before Christmas, I found a picture of a wrecked car on page three. I would not normally read such depressing material, but a name leapt off the page at me. A Ford Prefect was smashed by a truck which lost control on the Thanet Way, killing the entire Wiśniewski family – mother, father and two children. My fingers didn’t have the strength to turn the page but soon the awful photograph was hidden in my tears.

Beautiful, talented Lili with sparkling blue eyes and indomitable strength was gone. It felt as if every part of my life was being shredded – and every link with Col erased, one by one.

Somehow, I found the will to keep on keeping on. Perhaps it was so a part of Col’s life remained in my memories of her and perhaps I was keeping my promise to her. I had no-one I could talk with about the darkness raging at the shores of my mind; I would lie on my bed and converse silently with Col’s portrait. This helped but on occasion the accusation in her eyes became too hard and I turned her face to the wall.

Nothing had come from our attempts to involve Mrs Wiśniewski. After Christmas I tried writing to MI6 in the hope I could find out what had happened to them, perhaps speak to Mr. Watling, but after two unanswered attempts I gave up.

My habit of reading the newspaper continued – but now in the school library where I went through The Times before morning assembly. The race to the moon was heating up and I followed the press coverage, ticking off events as they coincided with my memories. One morning shortly before the Easter term ended, I read Ladbrokes were offering odds of 1000:1 on who would get to the moon first – Russia or America – and when. I had an opportunity to make some money using my foreknowledge – provided the Apollo program was as successful in this world as it had been in mine and the Russian N1 rocket the same unmitigated disaster. Laying a bet was also a statement to my future self: a bit like nailing my colours to the mast.

I knew this world differed from my old life, but the space program seemed to be following the track I recalled. The reward of a bet seemed worth the risk, with its commitment to my future strengthening the case. I took one hundred pounds out of my Post Office account and went to the Ladbrokes shop in Canterbury High Street, having disguised my school uniform. They could see I was underage, but I explained I was placing the bet for my dad. The size of the bet helped convince them of this and I walked away with the betting slip made out to Mr William Johnstone at odds of 950:1 for a moon landing and safe return to earth before the end of 1969. The odds quoted in the newspaper had shortened. I lodged the ticket in the frame behind Col’s portrait.

The habit of burying myself in my studies carried me though the rest of my ‘A’ level year and I won a scholarship to study Physics at Cambridge. Col’s portrait accompanied me there, along with the FDJ poster, both of which elicited nosy questions, which I ignored, from the infrequent visitors I allowed into my room.

As my first term at Cambridge drew to a close, I screwed up my courage and headed to London. I was determined to get somewhere with MI6. Entering the building, I was expecting the sort of security arrangements seen in 2000 era Bond films, but in 1965 MI6 seemed almost comically relaxed. Summoning my courage, I walked up to the reception desk, which was shielded behind what I suspected was bullet proof glass.

The man behind the desk had a friendly smile. “Yes?”

I spoke through the grill. “I’d like to speak to Mr Watling, please.”

“And you are?”

“I’m William Johnstone.”

I didn’t suppose many teenagers came into MI6; he gazed at me, deciding what to do.

“Okay.” It was drawn out as he continued to decide what to do with me. “Let me check.” He turned to a table behind him and rifled through what I took to be a directory.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t find such a person.”

I had been prepared for this as we had suspected Watling was a false name. “Well then, I need to speak to someone about a defector from east Germany.”

The man frowned at me. “And what would you know about a defector from east Germany?”

“I know she has evidence a senior Stasi officer is guilty of Nazi war crimes.”

The man scrutinised me and then reached for a phone. His hand came up and flicked the grill closed, excluding me from his conversation. After a minute, he put down the phone and opened the grill. “Wait there a minute, please.” He gestured at a hard bench to one side of the reception counter. I sat and watched the sparse traffic in the foyer, trying to prevent hope from burgeoning.

“William Johnstone, would you come with me please?”

I glanced up. He was a non-descript man in a grey suit. “You’re not Mr Watling,” I accused him.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “Perhaps we can talk about this somewhere more private than the foyer?” He raised an eyebrow, gesturing towards the security gate. “Come with me.”

I followed him. At the gate, he showed an ID card and gestured towards me. The guard nodded and we entered the interior of the building. Following a ride in a lift and a short walk down a corridor, we arrived in a small room that reminded me of an old-fashioned interview room from a 60s TV police show.

“Please sit down, William. I am Mr Pritchard.”

As I took my seat. A moment later, the door opened and a woman carrying a file walked in, her grey hair pulled back into a tight bun. I stood up again, as I had been trained to by my mother.

The woman paused, her hand on the doorknob staring past me at Mr Pritchard with a wry smile on her face. “Well, Geoffrey, someone has some manners.”

Mr Pritchard stared back at her but remained seated. The woman pushed the door closed, walking with a slight limp to sit opposite me. She placed the slim folder on the table and surveyed me. The scrutiny was intense and left me feeling I was lacking ... something.

A finger tapped on the file. “Well, William Johnstone, you’re young to be up at Cambridge.” She paused, continuing to watch me. “But it’s clear from your file you are ... special.” There was derision in her tone.

Mr Pritchard pulled the file closer and flipped it open, leafing through the pages.

“Why would you have a file on me?”

The woman gave me a condescending smile and responded in perfectly accented German. “How many fourteen-year-olds visit east Germany, do you think? In particular, youngsters who speak multiple languages and go on to win scholarships to read Physics at Cambridge?”

She wanted to try out my German?

Mr Pritchard glanced sideways. As he closed the file, I caught a glimpse of one of the letters I had written: they had chosen not to answer me. I suppressed a surge of anger.

“What’s this about a defector from East Germany?” he asked in English.

I stared him in the eye and replied in German. “If you have a file on me, it file would tell you – or MI6 must be even less efficient than the CIA believes.”

Mr Pritchard leaned back in his chair, his face hardening. “Now...”

The woman put a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Geoffrey.” Her tone was commanding, and she was back in English. She acknowledged the barb and language competition as a draw with a slight nod. “If you know what’s in your file, why are you here?”

“Because I want to know where they are. I want to know what happened to them.” I heard an edge of panic in my voice. I had to hold things together.

“What happened to whom?”

Was she being deliberately evasive?

I closed my eyes for a moment. “To Colette Schmidt and her mother Frida Schmidt, who until early May last year lived in Sea View Avenue, Herne Bay, Kent. Frau Schmidt, whose husband is Oberstleutnant Axel Schmidt, second in command of the Leipzig Stasi office.” I paused, seeking a reaction I did not get. “Returning from east Germany in April, I unwittingly couriered back Frau Schmidt’s evidence proving Oberstleutnant Schmidt was a Nazi war criminal.”

A stony silence was the only reaction. “On the train home from London I gave the evidence to Mr Watling, Mutti Frida’s MI6 contact.” I gave a cynical laugh. “A better description would be Mr Watling took it from me.”

There was still no reaction and we sat staring at one another. The woman’s harsh demeanour scared me, but my need to find out what had happened stopped me wilting under her gaze.

Were they going to ignore me? Why had they brought me up here?

The woman gave me a crooked smile and spoke in German. “You knew Frau Schmidt well enough to call her Mutti Frida – you were close to her?”

“Yes.” I stared into her hard eyes. “And to her daughter.”

“I see.” She raised an eyebrow. “You knew Col was not a boy, then.”

It was a statement not a question. I remained silent.

The woman studied me across the table and I fought not to fidget in my discomfort. She leant back in her chair, distancing herself from me and returned to speaking English. “We don’t know what happened to them.” Her voice was hard and flat – a steel door slamming on my hope.

“I...” My voice choked. I started again, croaking though my tight throat was. “I betrayed them.” The black tide of guilt and shame roared in and I collapsed, my forehead banging on the table.

“William?” A hand grabbed my hair, jerking me up to stare into my face. “What makes you think you betrayed them?” The woman’s eyes held danger.

“I don’t know,” I almost wailed. “I must have let something slip. Why else would they disappear so soon after my return?” My voice came from a distance, my chest heaving.

She released my hair, but when my head dropped back on to the table, she grabbed it again, forcing my head back up. “William, we have the barest information.” She paused, deciding what to tell me. “Colette – or her alter-ego the boy Col – was collected from her school by a perfectly normal taxi. It took her to meet her mother outside Canterbury. There were two men with Frau Schmidt and the taxi driver left as they were all getting into a large black car – a Humber, he thinks. There was no sign of force being used, according to the taxi driver.” She stopped, letting the implications sink in. “After that, we have no trace of them.” Her face was flat and hard, devoid of sympathy. “We have to assume they were smuggled from the country – willingly or unwillingly – and are back behind the iron curtain.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to control my emotions, sensing she had not finished.

The voice was matter of fact as her eyes pierced me, searching for truth. “It is, possible you said or did something whilst in east Germany leading to their discovery. But we know that Oberstleutnant Schmidt was searching for them and...” her eyes flicked towards Mr Pritchard, “there might have been a leak.”

Using my hair, she tossed me backwards into my chair. Standing up, she gave me a cold stare. “Whatever happened, they’re gone.” Her eyes were full of ice: no empathy, no compassion. “Get on with your life and forget about them.” She picked up my file and walked out, a slight hitch to her gait.

Mr Pritchard’s face declared his distaste for her demeanour. He watched the door close behind her. “Her ... experiences ... in the war cauterised her humanity.” I caught the apologetic tone in his voice.

I sat there, trying to take on board what had been said, but all I could think of was Col and Mutti Frida had disappeared behind the Iron Curtain.

I would never see them again.

Mr Pritchard stood up. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Some minutes later, I was standing on the Embankment, dazed by the emotions running through me. I walked up on to Vauxhall Bridge and stood there, leaning against the balustrade, staring at the river as it flowed away towards its end in the sea. The temptation was there, skittering across my thoughts, whispered in my ears by the breeze, flicked into my eyes by the water’s coruscations; but I ... stood.

I dragged myself away and returned to Cambridge, where Col’s eyes were accusing, yet full of compassion. The MI6 woman had intimated Col and Mutti Frida had returned to east Germany willingly, implying they had lied to me – and Lili.

The thought haunted me for days.

Could they have so misled me?

The longer I thought about this, the less I believed it. Whoever the MI6 woman was, she was a masterful player, and her seed of doubt had come close to germinating. But now it lay sterile. I was certain Col and Mutti Frida were who they said they were, not agents from the Eastern Bloc.

And my promise to Col remained, wherever she was.

At Cambridge, I was younger than everyone else in first year Physics and I stood out, though I should have been used to this by now. To appear a bit older, I tried to grow a beard, but all I managed was a laughable straggle of patchy hairs.

My tutor, Dr Finlay, tried to involve me in things beyond my studies, trying to help me fit into university society. There were departmental staff-student gatherings, but these centred around a keg of beer which, because I was under eighteen, I was not allowed to drink. I did join the German and French clubs, which allowed me to practice some of my languages. With my fellow students, I gained a reputation as a hard worker, someone to have in your lab group, someone who had the answers to the difficult questions on the tutorial worksheets, but the age gap, my intolerance of stupidity and my morose nature kept me from forming any real relationships.

I ended my first year with A’s across the board – and I started to feel the eyes of some of my lecturers on me.

The summer vacation was a dangerous expanse of time. I knew no-one in Leicester except my mother and sister – and she, as usual, would have nothing to do with me. It seemed I was to blame for the family break up which had removed her from her circle of friends.

I scouted around and found a part-time job washing cars at a local garage. I had picked up my textbooks for second year before I left, another use for the Premium Bond winnings, and I worked my way through these with my mother’s FM radio at my side, giving me access to classical music on the BBC. By early September I had finished the textbooks and my part time work had replenished my finances. Sitting around left time to think, which could lead in a dangerous direction. I realised I knew the centres of Dresden and Leipzig better than my country’s capital and, after a discussion with my mother, I booked myself into the central London Youth Hostel for a week.

I did the usual tourist things – Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and down to Kew Gardens, but then the weather turned cold and wet and I resorted to the Museum strip in South Kensington. My first port of call was the Science Museum: the old steam engines were fascinating, gleaming in polished brass with red and green paint. I lingered on the top floor which was the aviation section: standing beneath a suspended Spitfire.

I was waiting for the Foucault’s pendulum to be re-swung when I noticed a head of red hair joining the crowd: something about the way the head moved seemed familiar, so I sidled through the gathered people until the face was clear. Once the pendulum was set in motion and the explanation of the pendulum’s motion was complete, people started to move away, and I could get close enough to speak.

“Hello, Ginnie.”

Her head turned towards me and after a moment her puzzled face broke into a smile. “Will, long time, no see.”

I smiled in return. “Likewise. How are things going? Are you studying medicine?”

“I’m well, thank you. I made it into St Thomas Hospital. I’m about to start my third year. It’s terrifying in a way but quite amazing. What are you doing?”

“I’m studying Physics.”

Ginnie nodded. “Of course you are.” She glanced around. “Hmm, I think there’s a cafe here, shall we get a pot of tea and catch up?”

“Okay ... but it’ll be coffee for me.”

She laughed. “You got over the terrible cup in Leipzig, then?”

I smiled at the shared memory. “Yes.”

We found our way to the cafe and ordered a pot of Earl Grey tea for one. When I realised the coffee would be instant, I settled on an orange juice and we found a table.

“You never replied to my letter.” Ginnie accused me.

I blinked. “What letter?”

“I wrote to you once I had settled into St Thomas, in the October after the trip to east Germany. I meant to write sooner, but things got on top of me, what with exams, the farm and organising myself up to London.”

“Well ... my parents separated, and we moved to Leicester in mid-October. Your letter should have been forwarded, but I never got it. I’m sorry, Ginnie.”

“Oh well. Meeting you like this was lucky then.” She gave me a smile. “Are you keeping your languages up?” She asked, pouring her tea and changing the subject.

“There’s French and German clubs at Cambridge, but Polish is a problem. What about your German?”

“I’m afraid I don’t get to use it enough now I don’t get home much.” Her head was cocked to one side. “You’re studying ... Physics ... at Cambridge?”

“I’m about to start my second year.”

“Well done, Will. You’ve kept ahead of the pack then ... is it still causing problems?”

“Well, I haven’t met another Peter Farquar recently.” I pulled a face at the memory. “But I don’t fit in.”

Ginnie appeared a little flustered, remembering the attention she had inadvertently drawn to me in Leipzig. She changed the subject again. “Do you still have that German girlfriend ... umm ... Lili was it?” She picked up her teacup, sipping the hot tea.

I couldn’t control the tension that stiffened my body.

Ginnie’s eyes widened. “Will, what is it?” The teacup paused, suspended in its return to the saucer.

“It’s ... complicated, Ginnie.” I closed my eyes, clinging to the cliff-face of control.

The teacup clinked on the saucer, a hand landed on mine and I heard a caring voice in my ear. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

Ginnie had been my companion and became a supportive friend during our trip and she was owed the truth.

“Lili wasn’t my girlfriend, and she wasn’t German.”

“What? ... Wasn’t?”

“I’m sorry.” I stared at her face, seeking forgiveness for the lie. “Lili was my – our – friend. She was Polish and it was her who was teaching Col and I Polish.” I almost shivered at the memory. “She was killed in a car crash with the rest of her family before Christmas two years ago.”

“Oh, Willi. That’s terrible.” Her eyes filled with questions.

“Col was my German girlfriend. She was from Leipzig – she and her mother had defected.”

“Was ... not her too?” Ginnie’s face twisted in horror.

“No, n. At least I don’t think so.” I breathed for a moment. “Ten days after I returned from Germany, both Col and her mother disappeared. MI6 think they were kidnapped back to east Germany. Col’s father is a senior officer in the Stasi – the east German secret police.”

Ginnie sat there, her tea forgotten.

My old brain fought for control. “And I think I somehow betrayed her when we were in east Germany.” My voice cracked with the anguish I was feeling.

“Betrayed her? How?” Her voice held disbelief.

I shook my head. “I don’t know – I’ve been over everything we did, everything I talked about and I can’t think of anything ... except...” I dribbled to a halt, my throat constricting.

Ginnie stroked my hand. “Except?”

“At the opera reception in Leipzig, do you remember a tall, greying man talking to me?”

“Um – vaguely.”

“He is Col’s father – Oberstleutnant Schmidt, second in command of the Leipzig Stasi office.” I fought for a breath against the constriction in my chest. “Fräulein Hartmann introduced us, I think because of my interest in the Physics department of the University. He must have had me investigated and found Col and Mutti Frida.”

I watched Ginnie’s face change from concern to horror as realisation struck her. “Oh, no. Fräulein Hartmann was there at lunch, when I drew all that attention to you.” She slumped back in her chair. “It’s my fault she introduced you to him.”

“I don’t think so.” I shook my head, trying to convince her she had no blame in this. “I think me showing off my knowledge of Physics at the university was the reason. After ... after they disappeared, I received a package of information from the Institute for Theoretical Physics.”

Ginnie peered across at me for a moment and then dropped her eyes, fiddling with her teacup. “And ... you were in love with her, weren’t you?”

Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes. “I still am.”

Ginnie gazed at me before standing, “Come on, Will. We’ll go for a walk in Hyde Park ... like in the Tiergarten.”

The rain had stopped but it could start again at any time. Ginnie retrieved a folding umbrella from her bag and we smiled at the similarity with our walk in West Berlin. As we walked along the wet paths, Ginnie told me about her desire to qualify and then specialise in obstetrics and I invited her to come and visit us in Leicester and meet my mother. We exchanged student addresses.

“Are you coping, Will?”

I gave her a grim smile. “When it gets difficult, I concentrate harder on my studies.”

“Stay in touch, please Will.” She gave me a gentle hug.

I nodded, finding no words. As I walked back down to South Kensington tube station, I realised I had spread my guilt about Col and Mutti Frida to Ginnie.

What sort of a friend was I?

For the rest of my time in London I drifted, memories of our trip to east Germany assailed my dreams and waking thoughts. I spent those days in a fog, not experiencing the capital at all. I returned to Cambridge for my second year of studies to find a chatty letter from Ginnie which helped me settle back into the life I had to live.

Everyone had said the second year of the degree program was heavy going – and it proved correct. I was glad I’d been through the textbooks during the vacation as it kept the workload reasonable. The help I gave to some of my peers as the struggled with the load earned me grudging respect.

I found Christmas itself difficult – my best Christmas memories were the two celebrations I had enjoyed at Col’s house. But their soft glow cast long shadows of pain and guilt as the faces of Col, Mutti Frida and Lili peopled my dreams and waking thoughts; there were so many ‘if only’ thoughts. I escaped back to Cambridge and buried myself in study.

The catastrophic capsule fire of Apollo 1 in January 1967 occurred as I remembered, so I decided to risk another hundred pounds on a bet things would turn out in this world as they had in my old one. The odds had shortened to 500:1, despite the recent tragedy. But that restatement of a belief in my future helped provide some continued direction beyond study. I didn’t know what direction, but it was a commitment to be there.

Ginnie and I had exchanged letters and she invited me to stay at their farm for a week over Easter. We both had a heavy load of work, revising for the end of year exams, so our forays amongst the cows were punctuations in the time we spent sitting at her parents dining room table studying, talking in German. The memories this evoked were challenging and Ginnie sensed this. During a longer walk around the farm, she teased from me the story of the homework club I had shared with Col and Lili.

By the time we wound our way back to the farmhouse after one such foray, I was less tense. I complemented her on her bedside manner, and she blushed. The green shoots of confidence I had seen during our trip to east Germany were growing. We travelled up to London on the train, talking German, which caused sideways glances from people around us and parted at Paddington, Ginnie heading for her shared house and me across London for a Cambridge train.

I ended my second undergraduate year with excellent results and left for Leicester carrying the books I would need for my final year. These occupied me - along with picking up a part time job cleaning four days a week in the canteen of a shoe factory. I hated the job, but it was all I could find. I was there at eight o’clock in the morning to clean up after breakfast, then help set up for lunch; then get set up for tea if the factory was working overtime on a rush job or for breakfast if not. The canteen was redolent with the aroma of boiled cabbage and no matter how hard I scrubbed; every surface retained a patina of grease, making my skin crawl. I needed a bath every day when I returned home. My old brain would have preferred a shower, but they were uncommon in English houses. Still, the work replenished my finances for my final undergraduate year, a most important consideration which allowed me to preserve my Premium Bond winnings.

In late October 1967, my tutor inquired of my future intentions. He intimated there might be a place for me as a graduate student at the Cavendish Laboratory, should I maintain my current high undergraduate standing.

I went home for Christmas pondering this offer, trying to decide what I wanted for the rest of my life from this, my second time, around. I had left my world in 2020, a year which had seen Australia savaged by the effects of climate change: widespread coral bleaching, a ferocious drought, horrific bushfires and floods. Perhaps I could use my growing expertise in Physics to work on ways to reduce emissions: I would take up the Cavendish post if it were offered or find somewhere else to commence postgraduate studies.

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70 year old Will wakes in 1962 crouched beside a railway track about to suicide...

Through my Eyes. Again.

Robert Hart

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Through my Eyes. Again.

Robert Hart

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