Hesitantly, I knocked on the door. There was a brief delay until a short, stocky man of about fifty with thinning hair answered. He was wearing dungarees over an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled up displaying very muscular forearms and hands like shovels.
“Herr Schumacher?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you at the moment, I’m fully booked until Tuesday next. You could try Gus Köhler on Spiekermann Strasse, near the Engelhardt Brewery. He may be able to help, but I know he’s fairly busy too.”
As he started to close the door, I spoke quickly. “Herr Schumacher, let me tell you who I am and why I’m here.”
I have never seen a man change his demeanour so quickly. Suddenly he was alert, his body tense, his penetrating gaze scrutinising me closely.
“Who sent you?”
“Your son, Bern—” I didn’t get any further as I was unceremoniously yanked into the house. He gazed around the yard for a moment, then slammed the door closed.
“How do you know Berni?” he asked peremptorily.
“We served together in Crete and Africa,” I explained. “My name is Horst Manteu—”
“You are Feldwebel Manteufel?” he asked, his face alight with joy.
I nodded. “It’s now Stab—” Again I didn’t get the chance to finish as he threw his arms about me, embracing me warmly. A woman flew out of a room which I later discovered was the kitchen and threw her arms around me and the builder, sobbing on my shoulder. I wondered idly if I would ever get the chance to finish a sentence.
“Berni wrote to us often when he was in Crete and in Africa and always mentioned you. I think you were his hero,” said the woman.
“I don’t know about hero, but we were great friends,” I responded as the woman embraced me again, sobbing.
“Please,” said the man, indicating a seat.
“Would you like coffee, Horst?” asked the woman, who was already on her way into the kitchen before I could answer.
Once we were settled, each with a cup of surprisingly good coffee, the couple introduced themselves as Karl and Lieselotte—or Lottie, as she preferred to be called—and I told them about my journey, first to find Gudrun and Hellie and then, because of Berni’s advice, to seek out themselves.
“You were right to do so, I may be able to fix something,” said Karl with a knowing look towards Lottie. I smiled inwardly as I remembered Berni’s words. This, then, was Karl ‘the fixer’.
They insisted that I tell them about Berni’s capture. I told them how we became separated when I was ordered to drive a captured British Bedford carrying a dozen or more officers. I assumed I was taking them on a recce, but our guide took us to an improvised runway where we found four transport planes and two Messerschmitt escort fighters. Waiting to board were several dozen more officers. A captain met us and flagged me down.
“Park up then join the queue,” he told me.
“I’m just the driver,” I explained. “Should I return the vehicle to the depot?”
“No, it’ll be picked up later. What rank are you?”
“Feldwebel, Herr Hauptman.”
He considered for a moment then said, “That’s in order, join the queue with the others. They will need NCOs as well as officers.”
Half an hour later I was in the air heading for Italy, and from there back to Germany where we were used to form the nucleus of a new Fallschirmjäger division. To the everlasting shame of the general staff, the remains of the division in North Africa were left to their own devices. Shortly after that, they were cornered in Tunisia by the British and captured, Berni among them.
“Our only consolation is that Berni was captured by the British,” said Lottie sadly. “We get letters from him occasionally. They have taken him to England, somewhere in the north, but of course he is not allowed to say where. There are a number of Fallschirmjäger with him in the camp. He tells me they have a good football team.” She smiled wanly. “At least he has survived the war. I wonder how long it will be before the British release him?”
“I don’t suppose it will be very long,” I said without any real conviction.
After a pause Karl said, “I have to say that I am astounded you managed to come all this way in that disguise. Even Granny Schumacher would have seen through that, and she only had one eye. It’s a good thing you weren’t stopped by a Russian patrol.”
“I was!” I said and told him about the granite guardsman.
“My God, you were lucky. Either that soldier is seriously in need of an optician, or you found the only Russian in the entire world with a soft heart.”
I agreed. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that it was the latter. The granite guardsman with the soft centre.
“Right!” said Karl decisively. “You can put aside any thoughts of walking back that way. If you’re bumped again by a Russian patrol, you won’t get away with it. Even if it’s your Russian fairy godfather again, he will turn you in. He told you to register with the police. If you had, you would have a temporary pass. As you don’t have one, it’s clear that you have disregarded his order, so you will present him with an easy decision.
“I have to go out to see some friends, but before I go, I need to take your photograph for use on a pass. You need to shave and do something with your hair, lose the overcoat but the suit will do for the photo, then we need to lose that as well. I will get you some proper clothes that fit.”
After washing and shaving—blessed relief—I put on my suit jacket while Lottie pinned a white sheet against the wall. Karl then appeared with what looked like a brand new Praktiflex camera. Pointing to the lens, he boasted, “Carl Zeiss, 1.5, the
