“By the way,” continued Kelly, “what was the bold Freiherr talking to you about at the door?”
“Oh, he just said that he wasn’t entirely sure about you, that I was to watch you like a hawk and if I had any doubts, I was to shoot you,” said Manteufel sounding very matter-of-fact.
“Oh, that’s comforting,” said Kelly, “I just thought it might be something important.”
In the event, they weren’t held up at the farm for any length of time and departed the following morning, transported in a trailer containing several barrels of pigswill, pulled by a tractor. They eventually reached their destination—another farm—after nearly four gruelling hours of country roads, though Kelly guessed they had travelled no great distance. Manteufel confirmed later, after a chat to one of the farmhands, that they were about six kilometres outside the town of Wendisch Rietz.
They continued their journey in this vein for many days and in a variety of transports: one day a car—what luxury—the next, an animal transporter and, on one occasion, albeit for a short journey, a horse-drawn wain. Sometimes their stay was overnight only, at other times they were held up for a number of days. At one of their stops near Borsdorf, fifteen kilometres or so east of Leipzig, they were delayed for over a week. Eventually they by-passed the city, travelling south through the town of Großpösna before stopping for the night at an abandoned brickworks just outside Böhlen. The waypoints were quite varied. Near Berlin they had been farms, but as they moved further south, they had hidden in warehouses, Gasthäuser and, on one occasion, they overnighted at an undertaker’s. Each time they stopped, Manteufel lost no time in engaging with the drivers, escorts and property owners, regaling them with stories of his time as a Fallschirmjäger and, after making it ‘safe’, allowing them to handle his faithful Luger Automatic. Not all of the men and women he encountered responded, but many did and slowly, little by little, piece by piece, he collected information.
The last stop before Jena was Zöllnitz, a small village just outside the city, where they were accommodated in a warehouse. The owner of the warehouse was a woman of about thirty, Gerda Busch, tall and with a strapping physique. She was often to be seen carrying and stacking boxes and crates. She wore very short corduroy pants and would be stripped to her blouse with her sleeves rolled up, displaying sturdy bronze legs and forearms with a muscularity that many a man would have been proud of. However, her brown hair and hazel eyes prevented her from being the female German ‘ideal’. She had two assistants, young men, pleasant enough but not very communicative. All three of them were clearly ‘in the know’. Manteufel did his usual bonhomie act, which seemed to be having little effect on the men, however the woman took a particular interest in Horst, often seeking him out and engaging him in conversation.
On the day of their arrival, she explained that her brother Wilhelm owned the haulage company, a sub-contractor of the Carl Zeiss organisation, that would be providing the transport for the next leg of their journey. She would travel to see him that afternoon to confirm details. When she returned a few hours later, she brought the news that there would be a delay of several days while they waited for suitable transport. It was not just a matter of a vehicle going in the right direction, but it also had to be the ‘right’ driver.
However, their time was not wasted. Gerda provided them each with a dustcoat and set them to work in what turned out to be a busy warehouse. All day vehicles were coming and going, some delivering, others loading up. It was with some relief, after their first full day, when they were able to climb to the mezzanine floor which served as the temporary depository for small packages and also as their bedroom—complete with bunks, a small table and two chairs—hidden behind stacks of boxes.
They were just pulling off their boots when Gerda appeared at the top of the stairs. She was carrying a huge tray on which balanced a tureen of what turned out to be a delicious goulash, a loaf of bread, three plates, cutlery and a serving ladle. Having deposited the tray on the floor alongside the table, there being insufficient room on the table, she removed the small bergen she was carrying on her back. With a huge smile, she opened it and produced six bottles of Pils and a bottle opener. Taking out one of the bottles, she held it against Horst’s cheek, who gave a sigh of ecstasy. Ice cold!
As they ate their food, the two men at the table, Gerda sitting on the floor, Kelly observed the woman carefully. There was something appealing about her. She sat cross-legged eating her food and drinking her beer from the bottle, now and again tearing huge chunks from the bread, and chatting to them as if they were old friends. She reminded Kelly of a squaddie on exercise on Lüneburg Heath, talking with his mates, eating his scran and having a crafty sneck-lifter when the sergeant major wasn’t watching. Her conversation was mainly directed at Horst, though she was careful to include Kelly. He concluded that here was a tough lady with a heart of gold, but lonely. He felt sure that one day she would make some lucky man a loving wife, and some fortunate child a wonderful mother—always providing her association with the Thule Society didn’t bring it all crashing down around her feet.
On the fourth afternoon after their arrival, activity in the warehouse had slowed and they were quiet for a while. Gerda and Horst sat on a packing case together, sipping coffee, when Gerda, espying Kelly sorting shelves across the warehouse and perhaps feeling a
