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 sat on my bed, sharing her gaze. The feeling it had been something I had done that had resulted in their betrayal to Oberstleutnant Schmidt grew in me. I sat there, Col’s eyes filled with subtle accusation, sifting through my memories of our time in East Germany, trying to identify my mistake.

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

Our relationship had changed with the loss of Col. Col had been much of the glue holding us together. Now 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 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 once or twice, perhaps to be with her boyfriend. There was a growing distance between us, caused by my need for her support, while I had little to offer her.

Every day, my old brain fought with the roiling sea threatening to engulf my young brain. My mother knew I struggled and watched, unsure how to help. Bound up in my misery, I did not notice her suffering.

One October afternoon, 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 evermore clear they were not returning. Today it remained still and empty, the garden unkempt. My feet traced the path back to my house. They had grown to know each crack in the pavement, each uneven surface in the time Col and Mutti Frida had lived there.

I found 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.

“Will...” she petered out, then started again. “Will, your father and I are separating.”

I nodded, my eyes searching her face. This was not a surprise. I was glad to have him out of my life, but it was hard for her.

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

“And...?”

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

My stomach flipped – another break with my past. This had been my childhood home until I broke free at age 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 of mine in Canterbury.”

I sat there, thinking about how my life was turning 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. Please try not to let it disrupt your studies.”

In bed that night, I realised once we moved it would be more difficult for Col to find me – if, despite my betrayal, she was going to do so. I was sure she’d try to contact Lili, though; I would make sure Lili knew where I was.

Our homework club and my Herne Bay life ended in a sharp break. 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 included a sketch of Rupert, her cat, or a view of Herne Bay. Beneath everything she wrote and drew, she still shared her strength across the distance that had opened in our relationship.

Leafing through the local newspaper a week before Christmas, there was 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 truck lost control on the Thanet Way and flattened a Ford Prefect. It killed the entire Wiśniewski family – mother, father and two children. I found my fingers lacked the strength to turn the page, but soon the awful photograph faded behind my tears. Beautiful, talented Lili with sparkling blue eyes and an indomitable strength was gone.

Every part of my life was being shredded. Every link with Col erased, piece by piece.

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 swirling on the shores of my mind; I would lie on my bed and converse with Col’s portrait. This helped, but at times 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 and that option was now forever closed. After Christmas, fuelled by naivety, I wrote to MI6. I hoped perhaps to 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 scanned 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 from my previous life. One morning before the Easter term ended, I read Ladbrokes were offering odds on who would get to the moon first – Russia or America – and when. This was 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 also made a statement about having a future, a bit like nailing my colours to the mast.

I knew well enough this world differed from that of my old life, but the space program seemed to follow the track I recalled. The more I thought about it, the more the reward 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 found the Ladbrokes shop in Canterbury High Street. I disguised my school uniform as best I could. 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. I walked away with the betting slip made out to Mr. William Johnstone at odds of 950:1 for an American moon landing and safe return to earth before the end of 1969. This was less than the odds quoted in the newspaper, but I suppose I wasn’t the only one having a flutter and the odds had shortened. I put 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, along with the FDJ poster. Both elicited nosy questions, which I ignored, from the infrequent visitors I allowed into my room.

As my first term at Cambridge ended, I screwed up my courage and headed to London to see if I could get anywhere with MI6. I was expecting the sort of security arrangements seen in 2000 era Bond films, but in 1965 MI6 seemed almost comically relaxed when I walked up the steps and into the foyer. There was a reception desk and a guarded security gate. Summoning my courage, I walked up to the reception desk, shielded behind what I suspected was bulletproof glass.

The young 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 looked at me, deciding what to do.

“Okay.” He drew it out. “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. We had thought Watling was a false name. “Well then, I need to speak to someone about a defector from the DDR – East Germany.”

The young man smiled at me, still unsure about me. “And what would you know about a defector from East Germany?”

“I know where she lived in Kent until recently, and she had evidence proving a senior Stasi officer was guilty of war crimes.”

The young man scrutinised me for a few more seconds, then reached for a phone. His other 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 down and watched the sparse traffic in the foyer, trying to squash any hope I was getting somewhere.

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

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

“You’re right there,” he said, smiling down at me. “But perhaps we can talk about this somewhere more private?” He raised an eyebrow, gesturing towards the security gate. “Please come with me.”

Perhaps I was getting somewhere. I stood up and followed him. At the gate, he pulled out an ID card and gestured towards me. The guard nodded and we entered the interior of the building. A ride in a lift and a short walk down a corridor took us to 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, the door opened and a woman, her grey hair pulled back into a tight bun, walked in. I stood up again, well trained by my mother.

The lady paused, her hand on the doorknob, staring past me at Mr. Pritchard. “Well, Geoffrey, at least someone has good manners.”

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

She sniffed, looking down her nose. “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 quite a special young man.”

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

“You have a file on me? Why?”

The lady gave me a condescending smile and responded in German. “How many fourteen-year-olds visit East Germany, do you think? Boys who speak multiple languages and win scholarships to read physics at Cambridge?”

She wanted to try out my German?

Mr. Pritchard glanced sideways at her. Before he closed the file, I glimpsed one of the letters I had written: they had chosen not to answer me; I contained a surge of anger.

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

I stared him in the eye and replied in German. “Your file would tell you the information you need to know – or MI6 must be even more inefficient 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. “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.” My voice held an edge of panic, but I had to hold things together.

“What happened to whom?”

Was this deliberate evasion?

I took another deep breath. “To Colette Schmidt and her mother, Frida Schmidt. Until early May last year, they lived in Sea View Avenue, Herne Bay, Kent. Frau Schmidt’s husband is Oberstleutnant Schmidt, second in command of the Leipzig Staatssicherheitsdienst office.” I sought a reaction I did not get. “Returning from the DDR in April last year, I unwittingly couriered back Mutti Frida’s assembled evidence that Oberstleutnant Schmidt was a Nazi war criminal.”

They listened in stony silence.

I waited a moment and then continued, “On the train home from London, I gave the evidence to Mr. Watling, Mutti Frida’s MI6 contact.” I snorted at the memory. “Perhaps a more accurate description was Mr. Watling took it from me.”

We sat staring at one another. The woman was imposing and my need to find out what had happened stopped me from wilting under her harsh gaze. After several seconds, she spoke again in German.

“You knew Frau Schmidt well enough to call her Mutti Frida – you were close to her?”

“Yes.” I stared her hard in the eye. “And to her daughter.”

“I see.” She paused, raising an eyebrow. “You knew Colette was not a boy.”

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

The lady studied me across the table. Long seconds dragged past. She leant back in her chair, distancing herself from me and returned to speaking in English. “We don’t know what happened to them.” Her voice was hard and flat, a steel plate.

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

“William?” A hand grabbed my hair, jerking me up so the lady could see my face. “What makes you think you betrayed them?” Her eyes held danger.

“I don’t know,” I wailed. “I must have let something slip. Why else would they disappear so soon after my return?” My voice seemed to come 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. “We only have the barest information.” I saw her decide how much – or how little – to tell me. “Colette – or rather 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. The taxi driver told us there was no sign of force.” She stopped, letting the implications sink in. “From there, we have no trace of them, or the car.” Her face was flat and hard, devoid of sympathy. “We assume they were smuggled out of the country – willingly or unwillingly – and are now back in the DDR.”

I held tight to my emotions, sensing she had more to say.

Her voice was matter of fact as her eyes scanned me, a strange radar searching for truth. “It is possible you said or did something in the DDR that led to their discovery. But we know Oberstleutnant Schmidt was searching for them and...” her eyes flicked towards Mr. Pritchard, “we think there might have been a leak.”

She tossed me backwards into my chair using my hair and gave me a cold stare. “Whatever happened, they’re gone.” Her eyes were ice: no empathy, no compassion. “Best you get on with your life and forget about them.” She picked up my file and walked out of the room, her gait displaying the same slight hitch.

Mr. Pritchard’s face declared his distaste for her demeanour. He watched the door close behind her. “She’s terrific at her job, but her ... experiences in the war cauterised her humanity.” I caught an apologetic tone in his voice.

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

I would never see them again.

Mr. Pritchard stood up. “Right, let’s get you out of here.”

A few 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 down 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 managed to ... stand.

I dragged myself away and returned to Cambridge, where Col’s eyes were accusing, yet full of compassion. The MI6 woman had intimated they had perhaps returned willingly to the DDR – implying they had lied to me – to everyone.

The thought haunted me for a few days.

Could they have so misled me?

The longer I thought, the more ridiculous it was. Whoever that woman was, she was a masterful player: her seed of doubt came 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.

But life goes on – and my promise to Col remained, wherever she was.

At Cambridge, I was much younger than everyone else in first year physics and it made me different, which always led to problems. I should have been used to it, but I wasn’t. I stopped shaving, growing a laughable straggle of patchy hair, shaved it off and kept trying.

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

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

The summer vacation was another expanse of time to fill. 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 breakup, 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 my textbooks for the second year; another use for the Premium Bond winnings. I worked my way through these with my mother’s FM radio at my side, playing classical music. By early September, I had finished the textbooks and my part-time work had replenished my finances. Sitting around left far too much time to think and I was scared where that might lead. I knew the centres of Dresden and Leipzig better than my country’s capital. After a bit of to and fro with my mother, I booked myself into the central London Youth Hostel for a week.

For a couple of days I did the usual tourist things – Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and down to Kew Gardens. 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 fascinated me, gleaming in polished brass and bright red and green paint. The top floor held the aviation collection. I lingered beneath a hanging Spitfire, amazed at its size – much bigger than expected.

I was standing waiting for the Foucault’s pendulum to be re-swung when I noticed a head of red hair joining the crowd. Something about it triggered a memory. I sidled through the crowd until the face was clear. Once they swung pendulum and the explanation of the pendulum’s motion was complete, people moved 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, but amazing. What are you doing?”

“I’m studying physics.”

“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 that 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. But the coffee would be instant, so 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 that October after the DDR trip. I meant to write sooner, but I was so busy after we got back, what with exams, the farm and organising myself up to London.”

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

“Oh, Willi.” She smiled. “Are you keeping your languages up?” She asked, pouring her tea and changing the subject to something safer.

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

“I’m afraid I don’t get to use it enough, only when I go home.” Her head cocked to one side. “You’re studying ... Physics ... at Cambridge?”

“I’m about to start my second year.”

“Well done, Willi. You’ve kept ahead of the pack then.” She frowned at the thought. “Is that still causing problems?”

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

Ginnie appeared a little flustered, remembering the attention she had drawn on me in Leipzig. She changed the subject again. “Do you still have a 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. “Willi, what is it?” The teacup paused, suspended in its return to the saucer.

“It’s ... complicated, Ginnie.” I clung to the cliff face of control.

The teacup clinked on the saucer and a hand stroked mine. Then a soft, caring voice spoke in my ear. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Ginnie had been my companion and a supportive friend during our trip. She deserved the truth.

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

“What? ... Wasn’t?”

“I’m sorry, but I had to lie.” I stared at her face, seeking forgiveness. “Lili was my – our – friend. She was Polish and it was her teaching Col and I Polish.” My shoulders slumped. “She was killed in a car crash with the rest of her family before Christmas a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, Willi. That’s terrible.” I saw the questions behind her eyes.

“Col was my German girlfriend. She was from Leipzig – she and her mother had defected when she discovered her husband was a Nazi war criminal.”

“Was ... not her too?” I saw the horror on Ginnie’s face.

“No – at least I don’t think so.” I grabbed my glass and gulped down some juice, crushing the surge of emotion. “Ten days after we got back from Germany, both she and her mother disappeared. MI6 think they were kidnapped back to the DDR. Col’s father is a senior officer in the Stasi – the east German secret police.”

Ginnie sat, her tea forgotten.

My old brain struggled for control. “I think I somehow betrayed her when I was in the DDR.” My voice cracked with the anguish I was feeling.

“Betrayed her? How?” Her disbelief apparent in her voice.

“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, do you remember a tall, greying man talking to me?”

“Um – vaguely.”

“That was Col’s father – Oberstleutnant Schmidt, 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 had to convince her she had no blame. “It was me showing off my knowledge of physics at the university. After ... after they disappeared, I received a package of information about the Institut für Theoretische Physik.”

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 thought for a few seconds before saying, “Come on, Will. We’ll go for a walk in Hyde Park ... like we did in the Tiergarten.”

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

“Are you all right, Will?”

“Mostly. When it gets difficult, I concentrate harder on my studies.”

“Stay in touch, please Will.” We hugged in parting.

As I walked back down to South Kensington tube station, I realised I had spread my guilt about onto Ginnie.

What sort of friend was I?

For the rest of my time in London, I drifted, memories of our trip to the DDR assailing my dreams and waking thoughts. I spent those days in a fog, not experiencing the capital at all. After a couple of days back in Leicester, I returned to Cambridge for my second year of studies. There I found a chatty letter from Ginnie, which helped me settle back into the life I was living.

Everyone said the second year of the degree program was heavy going – and they were right. I was glad I’d been through the textbooks during the vacation, as it helped keep the workload reasonable. That was not true for everyone and I could help to some of my peers. By Christmas, this earned me grudging respect and envy in about equal proportions.

Christmas was 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; there were so many ‘if only’ thoughts. I escaped back to Cambridge as quickly as possible and buried myself in study, the only worthwhile thing in my life.

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

Ginnie and I exchanged a few 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. Our forays amongst the cows were punctuations in the time we spent sitting at her parents’ dining room table studying, talking in German. I found the memories this evoked challenging and Ginnie sensed this. During a longer walk around the farm, she encouraged me to talk, extracting the story of the homework club I had shared with Col and Lili. By the time we wound our way back to the farmhouse, 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 the DDR had burgeoned and blossomed. We travelled back to London together on the train, talking in German for practice, which caused a few sideways glances from people around us. We 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 with the books I would need for my final year’s study. These kept me occupied along with a part-time job cleaning four days a week in the canteen of a shoe factory.

I hated that job, but it was all I could find. I had to be there at eight o’clock in the morning to clean up after breakfast, then help set up for lunch and clean after that; 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; no matter how hard I scrubbed, every surface retained a patina of grease, making my skin crawl with revulsion. 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.