Chapter 4

4

POOLE, DORSET – MAY 1940

Hans Meyers peered at the white cliffs on the horizon and watched England drawing closer with every passing minute. The ache inside his chest was spreading like a cancer to his sore gut and up into his throat, which was as dry as the dust he'd breathed as he'd fled Rotterdam. He'd spent much of the journey with his teeth clenched shut to stop the anger and tears and fear from erupting.

Klaus had talked non-stop from when he'd jumped onto the boat until Hans had finally taken him by the shoulder and told him to shut up and listen to what had just happened to him. What he'd just lost. Why his life was over. Klaus had stayed silent then, until they'd joined the other refugees at the river's mouth and headed out to sea and he had others to talk to – shout to – across the water. The launch was meant for rivers and harbours, not the open sea, but thankfully the weather had been calm, and they had been kept safe by the sheer number of other vessels travelling with them. Hans had thought their small boat was not much use to anyone else, but when they saw the mass of humanity trying to get onto boats, he felt he had to offer space to any who wanted to brave the trip in his little open launch. Instead of just the two men as he'd imagined, his boat took twelve men, women, and children safely away from Holland's shores.

And in the end, Hans was glad that Klaus was there. He became the go-between with the other refugees. Hans held firm at the helm for most of the trip, and Klaus did all the communicating about where they were headed, how much water was left, and if there was room aboard for any others as some of the boats were far too crowded. Hans was able to stay locked inside the dark cavern of his grief, his eyes set on the prize of escaping the hell that Rotterdam now represented to him.

Every now and then, he heard the call of a woman's voice or the cry of a baby and he pictured them, his own wife and child, there with him, where they should have been. Katrijn and Anika: his life, his world. Why he hadn't thought to take them away with him earlier, he would never know, and he knew now he'd never stop regretting his foolish mistake.

But now he and Klaus were simply single men travelling together. None of the others knew his history, his family, the trajectory his life had been on until just days ago. The two young men were understood to be friends, or brothers even. And regardless how the others saw them, they were all Dutch refugees – simple fishermen and their families – fleeing the Nazi onslaught. Hans gripped the wheel and bile rose in his throat as he remembered his plan to simply give up on Holland and become German. The idea of siding with the monster that had killed his girls was now so disgusting that he hated himself for ever thinking of claiming his German heritage. He harboured a niggling worry about Klaus and what he intended to do, with his German nationality and the contact he claimed to have made with the German Army. But Hans had neither the heart nor the headspace to deal with that problem.

And it was all such a mashed-together mess anyway, he mused as the blur of the English coastline gradually morphed to reveal the detail in the limestone cliffs, the trees, the beach. When a man is born in Düsseldorf, with a Dutch mother and a German father, the lines between Germany and Holland become blurred, and it is only the tragedy of war that makes the borders real.

Klaus, it seemed, was determined to offer the victors something useful to keep himself safe, and certain that German invasion would become a reality for England within days or weeks.

But the idea of claiming his German heritage now repulsed Hans to his core. And all he could see in his mind's eye when he thought of Germany was blood: the blood-red flare smoke that had hung over Rotterdam on the day Germany had destroyed the beautiful city and everything he loved with it; the dried trickle of blood that stained the head of his precious baby girl; the blood that had drained away from Katrijn's face; the red of the Nazi flags that had hung from the Panzer tanks.

The fleet of a hundred or so little boats, overcrowded with terrified Dutch families, had taken two days to journey here to the south coast of England from Holland, and others were now on their way from Belgium too. The horrors of Nazi attack and the swiftly gained occupation, and the threat of Hitler's plan of total control over Europe, had become clear to every man, woman, and child swept up in the debris. Those desperate enough to escape by sea who had the means, and the contacts, had taken to the little boats with only the scantest of belongings. Yet although these folks were headed for England, what they'd seen of the speed of Hitler's attacking armies and the lack of mercy shown to any who stood in their way told them this was no place to hide. America was their only hope and plans on how to get there occupied most of the men along the journey. England would soon be occupied by Germany as well; that was a certainty.

There was nothing but this tiny strip of water between the English coastline and the most powerful and determined army the world had ever seen, and these humble Dutch fisherfolk intended to get far, far away. Hitler was surely coming soon.

‘Do you have all the papers ready?' asked a red-faced and exhausted-looking woman, holding a toddler on her hip as she stood on the starboard side of Hans's launch. As she turned around to face the shore again, her heavily pregnant belly loomed before her. Her husband tapped his coat pocket and spoke soothingly to her. Her features relaxed a little and she took deep breaths as she lightly swayed along with the motion of the boat, slowly chugging towards the harbour entrance.

There was a small boat belonging to the British Royal Navy ahead of them, and another not far behind the fleet of refugees, who'd been guiding them along the coast towards Poole Harbour ever since they were first intercepted in the east, off the coast of Kent.

The sound of the water splashing the side of the boat had been the constant companion to the noise from the motors for the whole journey, and although the passengers had often scanned the skies for enemy planes, they had – so far – heard none. So, when the distant deep drone of a plane now hit the airwaves around them, a quickening, animal-like sense of mild panic stirred them all at once. Hans's heartbeat skipped one or two beats faster as he frowned into the skies, looking for the planes. He crouched, as did the others, ready to duck and hide, though that would have been utterly fruitless in the event of an attack. But there was just one plane, and it didn't look to be any kind of fighter.

Hans relaxed a little as the plane flew overhead on its descent towards the vast, shallow harbour beyond. The plane was an unusual shape, with a much larger belly than any he'd seen before, and the wings seemed to be attached too high, rather than central to the main body of the plane as they were more used to seeing.

At the harbour entrance, a small gap between two long, sandy beaches, Hans took in the sight of an imposing white hotel building, three storeys high with a red-tiled roof, and dozens of windows looking straight out to sea. Between the two sides of the harbour entrance a long, low barge ran on chains that made a rhythmic chug, chug, chug sound as the ferry pulled itself on the chains across the stretch of water. Steam chuffed from the chimney stacks on either side of the ferry and it was packed with cars, army trucks, and even a bus being taken from one side of the harbour entrance to the other.

A navy guide boat signalled to the flotilla to slow their speed and they were led into a calm, expansive natural harbour, so vast it was more like an inland lake that followed the curve of a varying and mostly unseen landscape. There were several islands in the harbour, the main and most central one appearing to be over a mile long, and almost as wide, with a number of ancient buildings and even a castle at its eastern point.

Almost every direction the refugees looked, they saw the vessels with wings like the strange plane they had seen earlier, moored in channels near the islands, or taxiing across the calm waters. Hans followed the instructions to take his boat alongside the largest island, towards a mooring in a channel further along. As they passed the island with the castle, he saw there were tents and huts being erected, and a small army of people in various uniforms – both men and women – milling about, unloading crates onto the short jetty, setting up small tents and tables, carrying baskets of food. Klaus caught the mooring line that was offered to him and tied the boat securely to it.

And now they waited. They were safely nestled within a calm British harbour, unoccupied by the Germans and yet, they were not allowed to land. Alarm ran through the body of refugees who feared being sent away, back into the English Channel.

Patiently, the thousands of refugees stayed on their moored boats while the naval officers moved, one boat to another, with painfully slow, meticulous attention to detail, checking the identity documents and credentials of all the boat owners and pilots. And although it was plain for all to see the Dutch were relieved to be there, their terror of what they believed to be coming close behind them was palpable to all the navy and army staff who greeted them.

After hours of waiting, and a full day since all their food had gone, the turn came for Hans's boat to be checked. As the small navy launch pulled up beside them, Hans helped tie the two boats together.

‘Good afternoon,' the naval officer greeted them with a stiff smile. ‘Who's in charge here?'

Hans stepped forward and doffed his cap, reaching instinctively to his pocket for the identity papers. His hand froze mid-way to his chest as he remembered that both the German and the Dutch papers were still there together. In his stupor of grief, he had forgotten to separate them on the journey. He would never be able to sort through them now, unseen. His palms began to sweat, and he licked his lips nervously at the thought of being considered German. He would not make it on to British soil before they shot him, surely? Hans dropped his hand to his trouser leg, wiping it there and waiting for their next instruction.

‘Papers?' the naval officer asked curtly, looking to both Hans and Klaus, who had come to stand beside him.

‘Good day to you,' Klaus offered. ‘I am Klaus Schmidt, and I work with my friend, Hans Meyers,' he said in remarkably good English, and holding out his papers as he did so. ‘Hans, you should get your papers from the cabin,' he said with a look in his eye that only Hans could read.

Of course. Hans recalled how, one quiet hour on their journey, between his grieving and his worry, Klaus had talked more of his plan once he reached England, and had asked to see Hans's two sets of papers. He knew now that Klaus was giving him a way to step down into the cabin and separate the papers, hiding the German ones there. Hans nodded to Klaus and ducked down into the clammy darkness of his small cuddy cabin. His hands shook as he unbuttoned the pocket, keeping his back to the hatch. He took the German papers and spread them open, then unbuttoned the cover on the cushion he kept in there as a pillow. This was the pillow that Katrijn had used to rest her head, that day of their picnic.

He paused to lift it to his face, hoping to sense some aroma of her still lingering there. But now it just smelled of salty sea water and engine oil. He sighed deeply and slipped the German papers inside, smoothed them flat, and rebuttoned the cover, throwing the cushion into the very front of the cabin. He held his Dutch papers in his hand and, taking three deep breaths to calm himself, climbed back up into the warm May sunshine.

The naval officer stared at his papers for an age while time stood still. He compared them to Klaus's, and then handed both sets to another officer to study while he began his questioning. Where had they come from? Why were they here? Who were the others in the boat with them? What work did they do? Where were their families?

At this last question, Hans's patience and resolve to remain calm exploded. His tolerance for the ‘normalness' of this standard processing had reached its end.

‘My family is dead,' he spat with bitterness. ‘The German bombs have killed my wife – she was beautiful, and kind, and talented – and my baby girl with her. Anika was just three weeks old. Three weeks! She had barely breathed a lungful of fresh air, only seen the sun a few times, and the Germans have killed her in the bed where I left her safely in her mother's arms!' he shrieked at them now, tears pouring down their well-worn rivulets in his face.

The naval officers looked at one another, quietly clearing their throats and wiping their brows. The first one held out a hand to quiet Hans, and spoke a few words to placate him, and offer his brief and polite condolences.

An hour later, they were delivered to the shores of the large island, weary past the point of being able to think any more.

‘Welcome to Brownsea Island,' called a cheery young woman in a uniform that wasn't quite military. She gave them water and hot tea to drink and then beckoned them to cold-water troughs and showed them the basic washing set-up that had been made ready for them. The mothers washed their children and then themselves, and the men poured the fresh water over their heads, faces and hands, and the life began to return to their bones.

A chubby-legged little boy with a round face and dark, curly locks tugged at his mother's hand, demanding that she look to the imposing castle they'd seen as they first arrived in the harbour.

Hans had wondered himself about this ancient-looking castle, but realised it was in prime position to protect the harbour entrance from advancing foes. He wondered if it would be used soon as a defence against the Germans. But now he was too exhausted to think any more, and the pain in his injured leg was immense. They had walked, and he had hobbled, for what seemed far too long to such weary people, up a hill and over to the southern side of the island, to a clearing not far from the beach, where the welcome aroma of hot soup wafted on the warm summer afternoon air. The tents were all erected here, and Hans recognised the site that they'd passed on the way to their moorings.

‘One bowl of soup and a bread roll each,' called out a stern, stout woman overseeing the distribution of a thick, hot vegetable broth from a camp kitchen. She wore a long, dark coat, and a woollen hat, even though the summer weather was mild and sunny. ‘There will be more later,' she enunciated slowly and loudly, as if the Dutch might be a little bit deaf and stupid as well as foreign. ‘This will have to do for tonight, but more supplies will be here by morning.'

The expectant mother took her place in the queue for soup, and when the broth was ladled into the dish she'd been given to hold, she made a point of searching out the eyes of the bossy lady serving her.

‘ Ontzettend bedankt ,' she said earnestly. ‘Thank you, thank you so much.'

In response, the English lady nodded curtly but gave no hint of a smile.

‘My name is Lotte,' the Dutch woman tried again. ‘And you?'

The ladle hung still for a moment as the older woman seemed to battle with herself about how to respond. She sighed and, glancing down at the little boy beside the woman, she answered, ‘Mary. My name is Mary. This is my island. I'm not used to people. I don't allow anyone to visit, you see. The island is just for the animals and the birds. For me, and the trees.'

‘But it is a very beautiful place,' said Lotte with the warmth of hot Dutch chocolate in her voice. ‘Thank you.'

Tents were being set up by soldiers and others sat at temporary desks rechecking papers and handing out basic supplies. The queue of refugees snaked forever and as they stood in line, waiting to be processed through the next stage of bureaucracy, all were amazed at the activity in the harbour around them. The sound of a thousand bumble bees thrumming around a massive hive signalled to the refugees that another of the strange planes was coming into the harbour and they turned as one to watch in awe as it came down so low, they thought it might crash-land, but it splashed onto the water beside the island, sea spray shooting into the air behind it, apparently quite deliberately.

The more watchful of the refugees could see that others like this were being towed about all over the harbour, closer to the town beyond. These weren't just strangely shaped planes. They were planes that were built to float on the water. Flying boats.

After almost a week of tense waiting, Hans had successfully passed the processing station, and been accepted by the British security forces who were manning this camp. He was granted refuge in the United Kingdom until such time as it was safe for him to return to Holland. He walked away from the first processing desk and on to the next where he was handed a small bag of food supplies to take with him to the mainland. The soldier then pointed in the direction of the large tent that had been home since his arrival.

‘Go and get your things, son,' said the soldier. Hans understood him perfectly, but simply shook his head.

‘Bags? Clothes?' asked the soldier. Hans held up his small bag, the one containing everything he needed for his new life: a change of clothes and the photos of his beloved wife and mother. He'd kept it close to him the entire trip and hadn't let it out of his hands once since he landed on this island.

‘This is my bag,' said Hans in his thick Dutch accent. ‘I have other things on the boat. My boat,' he said, pointing in the direction he knew the channel lay where his boat was moored.

‘The boats will remain where they are for now. There is a possibility the Royal Navy might require the use of them for a military operation in the next few weeks. Check in with officials on Poole Quay in the next week, and there might be more information,' the officer told him.

Hans had no power to do anything but nod and accept what he'd been told. He glanced around him, wondering where in the system Klaus was. In the blur of his vision to one side, he noticed a small group of men stood around another desk, and then he saw Klaus, following not far behind. But he chose not to see him. He'd never asked for Klaus's company, and didn't welcome his strange allegiance to Germany. The sooner he could get away from him, the better.

‘Take the walk across the island and down to the quay please, young man, and a ferry will be along soon to take you into Poole. The nice ladies from the Wrens are along the way to guide you, so as you don't get lost,' said a kindly Englishman wearing a uniform that wasn't quite the same as the English soldier. Perhaps this was the costume of a member of the reserves.

The German identity papers grew so large in his mind, he imagined them swelling up and spilling over the side of the boat. How he would ever get to them, he couldn't imagine, but he could not raise the issue now. Getting off this island was the most important thing for now. Hans nodded and smiled his response, muttering a ‘thank you'. He limped away from the clearing where they'd been camped, leaving the hubbub of the processing station behind him, trying not to look back to Klaus.

A peacock called in the distance and Hans stopped to rest his aching leg and looked up to see him stretching his tail feathers, chasing a hen across the open field. He rubbed his knee and studied his leg again, as he'd been doing these last few days. There was no sign of an injury, no cut or bruise, but something seemed to have happened inside his leg, to his knee, that continued to cause him pain. It simply wasn't healing. He gritted his teeth and walked on, passing the church that had become familiar in these last few days and took in a deep breath of the pine-fresh air of the island. A cheeky little red squirrel ran across his path, then paused at the base of a tree, looking back at Hans as if to say, Catch me if you can .

When Hans reached the island quayside, he found a place to sit down along with the others being released today, in the warmth of the evening sun, and he hoped that Klaus was far behind and would not get onto the same ferry as him. The ferry arrived and Hans, along with around thirty others, was guided aboard for the short trip to the town quay. He sighed with relief. His connection with Klaus Schmidt was over forever.

Eager to take in all he could see of the harbour and the flying boats, he took a seat on the top deck of the ferry. There might be good work here for a boatman, he realised. There were dozens of those flying boats moored in different places around the harbour and, hearing the roar of its engines before he saw the plane, he turned his head back towards the harbour entrance and watched one taking off as his ferry boat approached Poole Quay. The big-bellied plane lifted itself off the water as gracefully as any seabird Hans had seen, despite the fact it was built like a pregnant whale. It flew off into the setting sun over the top of Brownsea Island and into the hills on the far side of the harbour. West, then.

He heard the familiar sound of a motor launch not unlike his own and watched to see it leaving from where the flying boat had taken off. He peered closely to see the pilot and felt sure it was a woman, with curly, blonde hair tucked underneath her cap, strange as it seemed.

Hans saw that the ferry's deckhand was eyeing him with a smile as he watched the activity. His face warmed as their eyes connected.

‘I like these seaplanes,' Hans offered pointing to the flying boat.

‘Not a seaplane, matey – that there's a flying boat. See this one over this way?' the deckhand asked, pointing towards the inside of the peninsula where several smaller planes were moored on the water, seeming to stand up on stilts. ‘The bigguns are called a flying boat because they're technically a boat that flies, rather than a plane that can land on the water like these tiddlers, which is called a seaplane, by rights,' he added in his thick Dorset accent. Hans nodded and thanked the man for his help.

The journey from the island to the surprisingly industrial quayside took almost half an hour. At the quay, a man in uniform was waiting to greet them. Standing beside this gentleman who wore a major's stripes on his shoulders was a striking young woman, with dark, wavy hair and a smile that lit up her face like the sun when she laughed at whatever it was the major was saying to her. But the sense of delight in this young woman's carefree laugh soon turned to bitter guilt in his throat as he compared it with that of Katrijn. He knew then that he would never stop missing her. This hole in his heart could not heal.

‘Up you come then, miss,' Hans heard the local ferryman say to a young girl as he helped her off the boat. Hans and the other refugees on this ferry were guided a little way along the quay towards another officer who, they were told, would help them with travel arrangements or accommodation here in the town.

The welcoming committee here appeared calm, and genial even, compared to the intensity of the arrival on the island, and in the midst of his pain and grief, something warm sparked in him, a little like the feeling of coming home on a cold night.