The Separation

i

I remember exactly the moment when I came to my senses after the accident. Memory reappears like a scene in the middle of a film, an abrupt jump from blankness. I was inside a Red Cross ambulance, shocked into reality when the vehicle jolted over an uneven patch of road. I braced myself defensively against the knocks and bumps I was receiving, but my waist and legs were held gently in place with restraining straps. I was alone in the compartment with an orderly, a young Red Cross worker I knew was called Ken Wilson. It was difficult to talk in the noisy, unventilated compartment. Ken braced his arms against the overhead shelves as the vehicle swung about. He said we were well on our way in the journey, not to worry. But I was worried. Where were we going?

As awareness dawned on me, something must have changed in my manner, because Ken raised his voice over the racket of the ambulance’s engine and tyres. ‘Joe, how are you feeling? Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ I said, realizing that I was indeed feeling all right, whereas until a few seconds before I had not been feeling anything. The world was suddenly in focus. ‘Yes, it’s starting to make sense again.’

‘You had a nasty shock, old man. Do you remember anything about that?’

‘A bang on the head, was it?’ I reached up and gently felt the top of my skull, but I could feel no sensitive areas where a wound might have been.

‘You took quite a knock,’ Ken said. ‘We’re not sure exactly what happened to you. We think you were a bit too close to a bomb going off. Blast can knock someone out without causing any obvious physical damage. The doctor said we needed to get you to a hospital.’

‘The doctor said . . . ? I’m not ill, am I? When did this happen?’

‘A week or so ago. You were down in Bermondsey. In fact, a lot of us were there that night. A big raid, one of the worst so far. At the end, when we reported back to the Wandsworth yard, we did a head count and you hadn’t returned. You were posted as missing, but the police didn’t find you until three days ago. You don’t seem to have suffered any physical damage, but the doctor who examined you said they had already come across several similar cases. Blast can cause internal damage without visible wounds. You need a proper check-up, but the hospitals in London are stretched to the limit. We thought it would be safe to take you home, so you can see your own doctor, go to your local hospital. Things aren’t too bad yet in Manchester’

After the shock of renewed self-awareness faded, I began to orientate myself. It seemed to me that my memory, as I prodded experimentally at it, was not too badly affected: I could remember the weeks in London, the endless anxious hours driving the ambulance, the scores of injured people we picked up. I vividly remembered the hundreds of fires in the narrow London streets, the ruined, gaping-windowed buildings on each side, the piles of wreckage, the flooded craters and snaking fire-hoses. I remembered Ken Wilson, too. Ken and I had always rubbed along well together. As the ambulance continued on its way, he told me more about what the people at the Red Cross thought might have happened to me, where I could have been until I managed to find my way to the men’s hostel.

Although my memory was already starting to piece itself together, behind the calm appearance I was trying to project to Ken I was terrified. Concussion creates a sense of unfilled blankness behind you, one you know in reality must have been made up of experiences which at the time were perfectly normal, but which have since become unreachable by memory. Discovering what is there in your memory, and what might not be, is a painful process.

I want to emphasize the reawakening in the ambulance (why did it occur there?, why at that exact moment?) because it is a point of certainty. My conscious life began again, there and then. What was to follow is the crucial period of my life and I want to record it in my notebook, but much of what I can say is less certain than I would like. I can only describe what happened to me in the way it seemed to happen. I am sure about that moment of awakening. It is certain and it is a sort of beginning.

Some time after midnight we took a short break from the journey in Birmingham, where there was another main Red Cross depot. I tried taking some steps without using the sticks Ken gave me. It came quite naturally, but I felt nervous without their support and was quickly short of breath. We carried on to the canteen and sat at a table with the young woman who had been driving our ambulance, Phyllida Simpson. We huddled together in the cold canteen, getting to know one another.

When we returned to the ambulance, Ken took over the driving, while Phyllida loosely secured my legs and waist with the straps in case I wanted to sleep. Soon we had passed through the heavily bombed centre and inner suburbs of the city, and were striking northwards into the countryside. Phyllida lay back on the stretcher shelf on her side and began to doze.

I too was exhausted, but the exhilaration of having an identity was coursing through me. I settled down to pass the rest of the night on the uncomfortable ledge, wrapped in a couple of blankets, bracing myself with my elbows and staring up at the van’s ceiling. It was cream-painted, made of metal, held in place by a line of tiny painted-over rivets. There were few comforts in the vehicle. How many damaged lives had expired on a hard shelf like this, with a similar dreary view? I knew of some of those people myself. I could not forget the feeling of despair and regret that arose whenever we arrived at a hospital casualty bay, only to find that the injured person must have died as we were driving frantically through the blacked-out streets.

ii

We arrived in Manchester as dawn was breaking. Someone unlocked the door of our building and we went inside. Ken and Phyllida went to the kitchen and one of them put on a kettle to make tea while I walked around the deserted floors, familiarizing myself with the place once again. I knew it had been some time since I worked in the building, but my faulty memory was imprecise about details. I was anxious to go home to see Birgit again. The first train out to Macclesfield did not leave until after 8 a.m. but as we drove into the centre of Manchester Phyllida told me she thought there might be someone who could give me a lift home before then.

In the end, after hanging around in the centre of Manchester, I caught the train. I left Macclesfield Station, walked through the tunnel, crossed the Silk Road and began the climb up the hill towards Rainow. It was a long walk, with many reminders of the times I had laboured home the same way, pedalling my old bicycle.

I took a shortcut across the fields on the slopes below our house. It was a lovely autumnal morning, with mist shrouding the hills, but the thin sunlight was already on my face and the view across the plain was coming into focus as the day moved on. I could see our house ahead of me, outlined against the pale blue sky. I thought of Birgit in there somewhere, not suspecting that I was almost home. Because we had no telephone in the house I had not been able to send a message ahead. I briefly imagined her sitting alone at our kitchen table, perhaps drinking milk or tea, reading the morning newspaper.

I had been away so long - I no longer knew how many weeks it had been since I left. Birgit was living by herself for all that time, alone in a house and in a country where she never really-felt she belonged. I had hardly been able to contact her: no telephone conversations except short ones by arrangement in public call-boxes, our letters delayed by the disruption the bombing caused. She was so young, so beautiful. I had left her alone, neglecting her for the sake of trying to do something about the war.

I broke my stride. For the first time ever, I was stricken by doubts about my wife. Could she have turned to someone else for comfort in my absence? While I was in London I had met so many other people whose lives had been disrupted by the war, whose minds were full of anxious thoughts about sexual betrayals and jealousies. Separation, loneliness, mistrust, infidelities, these were the real consequences of war for most people. The marriages of at least two of the men in the small group I worked with in London had already collapsed under the strain of war.

I realized I was panicking, a reaction usually alien to me, and I decided at that last moment to send out a warning. In those few seconds I had convinced myself that if I marched unannounced into my house I might interrupt something that I would rather not see. I was less than fifty yards away from the house.

I cupped a hand around my mouth.

‘Birgit!’ I shouted. ‘Can you hear me? I’m home!’

My voice sounded to me like an explosion in the quiet morning. It seemed that my words echoed across the slopes, back from the tranquil hills, loud enough to make people miles away turn their faces and crane their necks. I glanced around at the misty, sunlit view. I called again and continued to climb up the uneven grassy slope.

‘I’m home, Birgit!’ I yelled again.

Then there was movement. I saw one of the curtains in the main living-room twitch quickly to one side. Had it been Birgit?

The front door opened, the one that led out to the muddy lane running past the house. I stumbled forward, tripping, pressing my hands briefly on the dew-cold grass for balance, then levering myself up again. I saw someone step out of the house.

It was not Birgit. It was, in a terrible fulfilment of my worst fantasy, a young man. He was in uniform, in RAF uniform: smart blue trousers and tunic, pale-blue shirt and dark tie, a peaked cap. He looked across the muddy ground towards me, the shock in his face reflecting the shock that I myself felt.

It was my brother Jack, there at my house.

I half crawled, half climbed up the slippery grass towards him. He was standing stiffly with his hand stretched out towards me. I kept stumbling and sliding, pushing myself desperately towards him, but somehow I was unable to make any more progress. Birgit came through the door behind Jack and stood peering past his shoulder as, like a fool, I blundered and slithered on the muddy slope.

iii

I opened my eyes and the cream-painted metal ceiling of the ambulance was there above me. The noise and vibration of the engine, rattled through me. My back was stiff from straining for balance against the lurching of the van.

Phyllida was standing in the aisle with her legs braced, leaning down over me. She was holding my wrist in one hand; the other pressed coolly on my forehead. I tried to sit up, deeply confused by the suddenness of the transition. She pushed me down again, gently but not allowing me to resist. I realized how physically weak I was feeling.

‘You were shouting,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t catch what you said.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. In my mind’s eye I could still see the steep slope, the bright morning sunshine, the figures of my brother and my wife, high and unreachable above me. ‘I wasn’t asleep! Was I shouting?’

‘Joe, try to relax. We’ll get you to Manchester as soon as we can. Let me give you something to drink.’

She held out to me one of the lidded cups we gave the patients when the ambulance was moving at speed. What had been going on in my house? Jack and Birgit together? I took the cup from Phyllida and sucked at the metal mouthpiece. Cold water ran pleasantly into my mouth. I took two or three gulps and passed the cup back to her.

‘Better?’ she said.

‘Better than what? I can’t imagine what’s happened to me! I thought we had arrived. We went to the building in Irlam Street, where we work! You were there and so was Ken Wilson. Just now! Isn’t that right?’

‘Joe, make yourself comfortable.’

She rapped her heel sharply three times against the metal bulkhead dividing the back of the van from the driving cab. In a moment I felt the vehicle slowing down. Eventually it came to a halt and the engine fell silent. I heard the driver’s door open and close. Ken Wilson walked round and let himself in through the main doors at the rear. There was nothing but darkness outside.

‘What’s the problem? Is everything OK with you, Joe?’

‘Yes-’

‘He suddenly started shouting,’ Phyllida said. ‘You must have heard.’

‘I think I was dreaming,’ I said, as I realized how unexpectedly seriously they were treating my outburst. ‘A nightmare, something like that.’

The words sounded unconvincing as I spoke them. It had not felt like a dream at all, but flowed seamlessly from the same reality in which I now inexplicably found myself for a second time. Dreams are odd but concise, but that had been different. I remembered lying for long, empty hours on this hard shelf while we drove through the night, halfway between sleep and awareness, bored and restless, anxious to be home. It had been so unexceptional that it had not occurred to me to question it. When we reached Manchester - as I thought I was numb with exhaustion, but relieved to be there. I took a second wind, walking slowly to the main station to catch the first train out to Macclesfield. It had been dull, everyday, with a background of lucid thoughts, not concise, not at all odd, not dreamlike in any way that I usually experienced dreams. Had I dreamt the cold train with the dirty windows? Had I imagined walking up the long hill of Buxton Road, in that revitalizing autumnal morning?

It was as if I had slipped suddenly back in time, out of one reality into another. But which reality, now, was the one I should believe in?

Ken and Phyllida were watching me, concerned. They made me feel as if I were a patient in a hospital bed, called upon to describe mysterious symptoms. I tried to make myself sound as ordinary and conversational as possible.

‘How far have we travelled?’ I said. ‘I mean, since we stopped in Birmingham?’

‘Not far,’ said Ken. ‘We went through Walsall about fifteen minutes ago. That’s only a few miles north of Birmingham.’

‘I think I had a bad dream,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve alarmed you both.’

‘I’ll stay awake with him, Ken,’ Phyllida said. ‘Let’s get back to base as soon as we can.’

I wanted to protest that they were treating me like a patient, but in fact I had no idea what had been happening to me in the last few days. In this sense, like so many real patients, I was to a large extent at their mercy. Phyllida lived in Bury, north of the city, and Ken, who was due to be posted back to London, was planning to lodge with her and her parents for the next two days. After a look at the map, they decided they could make a detour and drop me off at my house. I was relieved to hear it. I ached to be home. I didn’t want to have to experience the long wait in Manchester all over again, or the slow train journey home afterwards. I had only just done that.

We were soon under way again. Phyllida tried to keep me talking as we drove along. We were both worn out. I was thinking that so long as I maintained awareness, watched what was happening, kept answering Phyllida’s questions, then the continuity of my real life could not be broken. Inevitably, though. Phyllida’s conversation lapsed. She lost her train of thought several times and I knew she was struggling to stay awake. I told her I was feeling OK, that if she wanted to take a nap I’d be fine lying there on my own. She shook her head and said that she and Ken had been advised to keep me under observation all the way home, but her voice was slurred. After a few more minutes she did stretch out on the hard shelf, pulling one of the blankets over her. Soon she was asleep, lying there with her mouth open, one arm dangling over the side of the shelf. I became introspective, thinking about that lucid illusion and wondering what it might mean.

iv

We rumbled into Macclesfield as dawn was breaking. I moved around on the shelf of the ambulance as soon as I noticed daylight starting to show through the high slit windows, sitting up so that I could peer through the small window that looked out to the front, over the driver’s head. Not surprisingly, perhaps because of the hour, there was virtually no other traffic out there. The one or two vehicles we did see were military ones. It was a grey, cold morning, with a sharp wind sending raindrops against the ambulance’s windscreen in short, diagonal lines, jerkily moving until swept away by the wipers. A few hours earlier, when I had dreamed or imagined so clearly this same morning, it was sunlit and mist-shrouded, promising autumnal brightness. Not now. The appearance of the countryside was more or less unaffected by the war, but in the towns many houses had their windows boarded up, their gates and doors padlocked. We saw no evidence of bomb damage in Macclesfield, but dreary signs of the war were everywhere: shelters, concrete road barriers, the general drabness created by the lack of advertising signs and shop-window displays. We were approaching the second winter of the war and there was little relief from the grimness. Ken halted the ambulance in Hibel Road, opposite the courthouse, its memories still fresh for me of the tribunal I had been forced to attend earlier in the year. I walked around to the front of the vehicle and sat in the cab with Ken for the last part of the way.

As we drove noisily up the long hill I was looking ahead for the first glimpse of the house, wondering again, this time with a low feeling of dread, what I would find when I arrived. At such an early hour Birgit would almost certainly still be asleep. I let my thoughts drift no further than that.

At Ken’s insistence we drove along the narrow lane to the front of the house. I clambered down from the ambulance and collected the small bag of belongings I had brought with me. The noise of the idling engine seemed to me loud enough to wake everyone in the village. Phyllida moved forward to take my place in the driver’s cab. I waved and mouthed my thanks to them both, and turned to the house. I opened the door with my key.

Into the familiar sense of home. Everything looked tidy, clean, attended to. I heard footsteps on the boards above me and Birgit appeared at the top of the stairs. She was a light sleeper and the sound of the ambulance had woken her. She was pulling on the long dressing-gown I had given her the previous Christmas, wrapping it around her nightdress. Her hair was awry, her cheeks were flushed. My first impression was how happy she looked, how well. Still beautiful! I realized how much I had been missing her, how much my absence turned in on itself, creating a vacancy in my life. She was smiling, hurrying down the stairs, greeting me with arms upraised.

I took her in my arms, smelling her familiar scents, the touch of her face against mine. She still felt warm from the bed. Without saying anything we kissed and held each other, touching, tasting, clinging on. She was soft and large in my arms.

Then she laughed and pressed my hand against her belly.

‘Can you feel the baby yet?’ she said. ‘This is my surprise for you, my darling!’

‘What?’ I said stupidly.

‘I have just found out! Only since two days ago. I am already nearly two months pregnant!’

That was her surprise for me, that cold November morning.

v

It was a cool, rainy autumn that year, the wind battering constantly against the west-facing side of the old house, insinuating bitterly cold draughts into every room. The view of the Cheshire Plain, which had always inspired me, was obscured by mist or low cloud every day. Our bedroom was at the back of the house, yet the cold seeped in there too.

I was allowed a week of sick leave by the Red Cross so I took advantage of it, sleeping late every morning, keeping Birgit close beside me. We both disliked slipping out of our warm bed into the icy room, walking on bare floorboards because we had not been able to afford carpets or rugs, then going shivering into the toilet, which was situated on the weather side of the house, or downstairs where the floors were of stone. For the first two or three days we were as happy as we had been in the first weeks we were married. The silent presence of our baby son or daughter, growing daily, at last presented us with a certain future. The prospect of becoming a father gave me a lot to think about: simple joy at the prospect of having a child, of course, with deeper fears about finding myself inadequate to the task of fatherhood. Beyond that, there were the larger worries: what right did we have, for instance, to bring a child into a world of warfare and fear? But the excitement tended to make up for everything. We would doubtless cope. For Birgit, additionally, the pregnancy felt like a new protection for her against the risk of internment. She showed me letters she had received from the Home Office while I was in London - the officials never said as much, but it seemed she was still being classed as Category ‘C’, unlikely to be taken in unless she transgressed against the law in some undefined way.

The letters were not our only reminders of war. Even without the outward signs - the apparently endless list of rules and restrictions that were announced on the wireless every day, the rationing of food and clothing, the depressing news of cities being bombed and ships being sunk, the constant activity of warplanes overhead - even without them I had to live with a sense of disquiet that my weeks in London had somehow allowed the war to infiltrate me.

I felt that my pacifism paradoxically turned me into a carrier of war, in the way some people, immune from disease, become carriers and transmitters of that disease.

Wherever I went, wherever I looked, signs of the conflict sprang into existence around me. I loathed, feared and dreaded war, yet I could not escape from it even when I slept. I often dreamed of fires, explosions, collapsing buildings, high-pressure jets of water playing against crumbling walls, the sounds of sirens, whistles, shouts; in the middle of most nights I would wake up in a sweat, then lie there in the dark, trying to tell myself it was only a dream. I was repelled by the images, but at the same time I knew that I had become addicted to the dangers of war, something it was almost impossible for me to admit. I was safe at home with Birgit - or as safe as any civilian could be - but I ached to abandon the safety and throw myself into hazard once again.

I had been home only a day or two when we heard on the wireless that the city of Coventry had been completely destroyed by the Luftwaffe in a single night of bombing.

vi

In the morning of the day after we heard the news about Coventry, I was woken up by Birgit climbing out of bed and moving quietly around our bedroom, apparently trying not to wake me. It was starting to turn to daylight outside. Birgit was dimly silhouetted against the curtains as she dressed. I admired the shape of her womanly figure, her enlarging breasts, her thickening trunk.

‘What are you doing?’ I said, before she left the room.

She looked back in surprise, apparently unaware until then that I was awake. ‘I have to go shopping. It’s important to be in the queues early, before everything sells out. Tomorrow I can’t, because I am teaching. So I go now.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, because already I had been at home long enough for me to start feeling trapped by the house.

‘No. This I want to do on my own.’

I argued with her for a while but she continued to move purposefully about the house and soon she left, promising to return as soon as possible. I followed her to the door and watched as she walked briskly along the lane towards the bus stop on the main road. I went back to bed and read the morning newspaper, delivered after Birgit left. The news from Coventry was depressing and worrying, as the rescuers went about their necessary searches through the damage. With those hundreds of people killed and acres of property destroyed, what would Churchill order as a reprisal? I feared the retribution of a warmonger. The war was out of hand. Some people said that it could not be worse than the endless succession of night-time attacks on our cities, but I believed both sides capable of more. I dreaded to think what it might be.

When I was dressed I made myself a cup of tea, then returned to our bedroom. Standing on the chair, I reached up to the shelf at the top of the wardrobe, groping into the back for the RAF cap that had been hidden there before. Rather to my surprise, I discovered that the cap was stacked on a small pile of clothes that were neatly folded. I pulled out what I could find and laid everything on the bed.

There appeared to be a complete uniform. As well as the cap there was a shirt, a pair of stiffly pressed trousers, a belt, a tunic, a tie and a pair of brightly polished black leather shoes. The tunic bore the twin ‘wings’ sewn over the breast pocket, signifying that the wearer was a qualified pilot. There was also the ribbon of a decoration, but I was unable to identify it.

I closed my mind to all the implications of the uniform being in my house. Instead, I quickly removed my own clothes and put on the RAF outfit. I stood in front of the full-length mirror, clad in the coarse stiffness of the unfamiliar clothes, staring at the transformation they wrought on me. I turned away and looked back over my shoulder. I stood in profile, squaring my shoulders. I tilted my head up, as if scanning the skies. I saluted myself. Engines seemed to roar enthrallingly around me; distant explosions echoed.

I heard a movement outside the room. I froze, fearful of being caught in a guilty act, but my mood quickly turned to curiosity and irritation. Who would be in the house?

I strode to the door, feeling in those two or three paces that the crisp uniform gave my movements a quasi-military bearing, and pulled it open.

My brother Jack was standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. He was dressed in his uniform. We stood and faced each other, mirror images of each other.

I knew then what must be happening. Somehow, I had awoken that morning not to my own reality but to another lucid imagining.

Jack saluted me.

There was another noise downstairs. I went quickly towards the apparition of Jack, pushed past him, terrified of meeting his gaze, and swept by him without our touching. The house was mine; it smelled and sounded and felt as normal as ever. How was I imagining it? I was determined to get away from Jack, to escape from the house, seek the cold air outside, break out of the hallucination. I hurried down the stairs.

As I passed the door to the living-room I saw Birgit, standing with her back towards me, bending over something that was spread out on the table, apparently reading it. I stopped at the doorway.

‘Birgit! You’re here too?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She straightened and turned towards me, pressing her hands down against her sides, stretching her shoulders.

‘You said you were going out. I heard you-’

‘JL, what’s the matter?’

‘JL? Why do you call me that? I’m Joe!’

‘My God! I thought-’

I glanced down at myself, the tie, the shirt, the blue unyielding cloth of the tunic. I felt the cap on my head, saw the shining toes of the black shoes. I moved away from Birgit and looked at the long bevelled mirror that hung on the wall in the hallway, next to the front door. Jack’s exact likeness stared back at me, his military bearing, his fresh and slightly rakish good looks, his strong hands. I lowered my face so that I should see no more of him.

vii

It was the morning of the day after we heard about Coventry, as dawn was breaking. I was on my side of the bed, lying on my back, wide awake. The room was almost in darkness but the bright, lucid images of the hallucination still dazzled me. As I had found when I was in the ambulance, the transition from one reality to the other made me feel as if I had been kicked back in time: a few tentative steps taken along a path, then a sudden jolt and a return to the place from where I had begun.

Now Birgit was sleeping beside me, the weight of her arm thrown across my stomach and pressing down on it. She was large and warm against me. I felt isolated and frightened, taking no comfort from her closeness, the intimacy with which we slept. I groaned aloud, realizing that these imaginings were exposing my own worst fears to me. She had called me JL. Why? I felt Birgit stirring, probably woken by the noise I had made. She nuzzled her face against mine as she woke, affectionate and happy to find me there. She rolled against me, her soft breast resting on my arm, her belly pressing against my side.

A few seconds later we were both fully awake, sitting up and leaning back against the hard wooden headboard of the bed. Birgit turned on the lamp on her side of the bed and pulled her woollen cardigan around her shoulders. It was eight-fifteen. Dawn came late because of daylight saving time, extended into the winter months. Somewhere in the distance we could hear the engines of a large aircraft droning low over the mountains.

The images of my hallucination tormented me: they seemed so real, so plausible. I had felt the coarseness of the uniform’s fabric against my skin. The house was exactly as I knew it, as I saw it then. My brother Jack was someone I knew better than almost anyone else in the world. I began to tremble, unable to understand or accept what it meant, or what was happening to me. I put my arm around Birgit, pressing her to me. She cuddled up against me, clearly unaware of what was going through my mind.

After a while I left the bed and went along the landing to use the toilet. When I returned Birgit was sitting fully upright. Her hair was untidy from sleep, her eyes looked puffy. I noticed that she was resting one of her hands across her stomach.

I turned on the overhead light, scraped a chair across to the wardrobe and climbed up to reach inside the shelf at the top.

‘Joe, what is it you doing up there? Come back to bed.’

‘I’ve got to resolve this,’ I said grimly. By pushing my arm all the way in, I made contact. I felt the cap at once, then groped around for the rest of the garments I had imagined. There was one other garment, lying underneath the cap. I pulled it out, with the cap. The cap, a stiff shirt. Not everything.

Enough, though, enough to make the point.

‘Who put these in here?’ I said, shirt in one hand, cap in the other. I held them up to her, almost a threat.

‘Of course, I did.’

‘They’re JL’s, aren’t they?’

‘Yes.’

‘What are they doing here in our house?’

‘I’m looking after them for him.’

‘What? Why should you look after clothes for my brother?’

‘He ... he brought them one day. The shirt needed washing and the cap had to be cleaned. He asked me to keep them there for him. He has others at the airfield.’

‘So Jack’s been at the house? While I wasn’t here!’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s been going on between you two?’

‘Nothing going on! What do you think of it?’ She moved in the bed, shifting her weight on to her legs, which she folded beneath her so that her body was more erect. She tensed her shoulders momentarily, then relaxed. JL is your brother! You have been away. Week after week after week! What do you think I do? I have no friends here. No one in the village, in England. Everyone who meets me hears my voice and thinks I am a spy for Hitler! I am the Nazi with the husband who does not fight.

People whisper. They think I can’t hear. Your parents don’t speak to me. My mother and father are dead, so it is thought. I’m on my own here, all the hours in the day, then the night, then the day again. Perhaps there is a letter from you will come, perhaps not. If not, I can play music for no one to hear. Or catch the bus and go to the shops where there is nothing to buy. Some life I lead!’

‘What about Jack?’ I said. ‘You know how Jack and I feel about each other. Why has he been coming here while I’m away?’

‘It’s always away you have been! JL is on leave only here a day or two, here another day, what they allow him. He has no choice in the matter. Once, he wrote to me and asked me if he could spend his leave with you and me, with us both, because he didn’t want to go home. But you were in London. I didn’t know how to contact you in time and he sounded desperate. He wanted to be away from the air base for a while, so I said yes. He came.’

Just once?’

‘No, he has been here three times. Maybe more.’

‘You never told me.’

‘Maybe five times. You are never here so I can tell you.’

‘And he leaves his clothes in the bedroom.’

‘No! What do you think? What are you accusing me of?’

Something like this can rarely be resolved properly in a marriage. The stakes are so high that pursuing it leads to areas from which you cannot retreat. So, while I could, I did retreat from the terrible consequences of what I was thinking. Birgit and I were drawn together by larger events: the dangers of the war, the coming of our new baby, the love we had felt for each other for so long. I could not bear to think of anything or anyone disrupting them, least of all my own brother. My row with Birgit caused a long silence of bitter feelings that lasted all day.

Following that there was a quiet truce in the evening; that night we made love.

I spent the next two days convalescing as best I could and reported back to the Red Cross office on the following Monday morning.

viii

I arrived at RAF Kenley in the early hours of the morning, with another Red Cross official called Nick Smith, after a lengthy and hazardous journey through the heavily bombed suburbs of Brixton and Streatham.

Our passes took us without delay through the security barrier at the Kenley air base. The driver deposited us beside a Nissen hut, in which we found several more civilians who were already waiting. I added my small suitcase to the pile that had been placed next to the main door, then went to stand as close as I could to the stove to warm up after the long drive. I was given a bowl of hot soup and I sipped it gratefully.

I had said nothing to Birgit about the journey I was to undertake, because a flight to Switzerland in the middle of a bitter land and air-war with Germany was obviously hazardous. In the days before the flight I had spent a lot of time studying a map of Europe, trying to work out in advance which route was likely to be the safest, the one that would take us the shortest distance over occupied countries or Germany itself. Landlocked Switzerland did not seem to offer many safe ways in and out. I guessed that the likeliest route would be a long dogleg: down the western coast of France, followed by a sweep eastwards across the area of southern France that was under the control of the Vichy government. The direct route across Germany would be much shorter, but seemed full of dangers.

From one of the windows of the Nissen hut I could see the white-painted aircraft on the apron, waiting for us to board. I couldn’t pick out much more than the plane’s shape, because of the darkness, but I could see there was a great deal of activity going on around it.

‘Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?’ I turned and saw that two high-ranking RAF officers were standing by the door at the end of the hut. One of them was holding up his hand expectantly. Silence fell. ‘Thank you. We’re going to ask you to climb aboard the aircraft in a moment. I must apologize in advance that the accommodation is a little spartan on board, but the crew have done their best to make you comfortable. Once the plane is in the air, may I ask you to move around the cabin as little as possible? The flight is going to be a long one, so the aircraft is heavily loaded with fuel and if there is too much movement inside the plane it could upset the trim. I’m sure I don’t have to underline that point. In particular, on the subject of moving about during the flight, once you’re on board you will notice that the front section of the cabin has been screened off with curtains. We must ask you not to go through to that part of the cabin until after the aircraft has landed and the other passengers have disembarked. Everything you require will be available in your part of the plane. I think you were also advised to bring sandwiches and drinks with you? Good. You’ll be pleased to learn that there is a toilet on board, and you won’t need a degree in physics to work out how to use it.’

We smiled around at one another nervously, a roomful of men who had obviously all been wondering the same thing. We were soon ushered through another door at the side of the hut and walked in the darkness across the concrete apron to the aircraft.

I was one of the first aboard and so I chose a seat at the back of the plane, next to one of the portholes. I had never been up in an aircraft before, so I was eager to see what I could of the outside world once daylight came. Of the other passengers, I knew only Nick and another Red Cross official whom Nick had introduced me to when we first entered the hut. This was a chap called Ian Maclean from the Edinburgh office. He and Nick took seats a few rows ahead of me. Everyone else on the flight was a stranger to me.

After another long delay the engines started, setting up a great racket and vibration throughout the cabin. Everything was louder and rougher than I had imagined it would be. The engines ran for ages while they warmed up. I was feeling extremely nervous as the plane finally began to move with an unpleasant wallowing sensation along the runway, rocking alarmingly from side to side. Once we left the ground, however, the motion of the aircraft became surprisingly smooth, though not much quieter.

I made myself as comfortable as possible in the canvas bucket-seat. Like everyone else I could see from where I was sitting, I kept my thick overcoat on because the cabin was unheated. I stared with interest through the tiny porthole, trying to gain some impression of the dark land below. In fact, while the darkness remained I could see little more than the steady blue-white stab of the exhaust flame from the engine on my side of the aircraft.

When the sun came up at last I saw that we were flying over the sea. I guessed it must be the English Channel, but if so the pilot was taking us across the widest part. Our aircraft droned on and on above the uninspiring sight of grey waves, seemingly immobile below. I was beginning to feel dehydrated and hungry in the chilly cabin, so I dug out my sandwiches and flask of tea.

The plane flew on, barely changing its course or attitude. The great white-painted wing spread out in front of me, partly obscuring the view ahead. I continued to watch what I could of the sky, expecting at any moment to see German fighters swooping down on us. It was impossible to relax, to put out of my mind how many risks there were in such a flight.

Three hours into the flight I finally got up from my seat and moved forward through the cramped cabin to where Ian Maclean was standing in the narrow aisle, his head bent under the low metal roof of the aircraft. I stood with him, just as uncomfortable. We spoke for a while, raising our voices over the engines’ racket. Ian was less nervous about flying than I was, which helped me relax a little.

‘I can’t help noticing we’re still over the sea,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t we be crossing land by now?’

‘For safety they stay over the sea as long as possible,’ Ian said.

‘You’ve done this trip before?’

‘Not exactly. I flew to Stockholm once. There’s not much land to fly over, whichever route you take.’

‘But Switzerland?’

‘Is that where they told you we were going?’

‘Yes. Are we going somewhere else?’

‘No, I don’t think so. They told me that, too. It could be a cover story, but you never know.’

I leaned down and forward, peering through the nearest window. All I could see was a patch of cloud and a glimpse of the grey neutrality of the waves far below.

Indicating the thick curtain that blocked off the cabin, a few feet from where we were standing, I said, Any idea what that’s about?’

‘Nothing official was said, was it?’

‘Are they hiding something from us?’

‘It’s probably someone rather than something,’ Ian said. ‘We had a couple of VIPs on board when we flew to Sweden that time. I think they were diplomats, one of them German. The crew did the same thing with the curtain then.’

It was difficult shouting to each other over the engine noise, so Ian and I cut the conversation short and I returned to my place. I shifted around in the narrow seat, the canvas sagging beneath my backside like an old deckchair on a beach, and I tried again to position myself comfortably. I resumed staring out at the sky. I was wide awake in spite of not having had any sleep during the night. I was alert, still tense from the novelty of the long flight, interested in the whole experience despite the lack of incident it contained. I’m certain I did not drift off to sleep, nor did my thoughts wander.

Even so, I failed to notice that mountains had come into sight. When I first saw them they were distant and half concealed by the wintry haze, but within a few minutes the plane began to pass between the higher peaks. I saw them in increasing detail as they loomed up on either side of our plane. They seemed dangerously close. How had we reached them so quickly after being above the sea? Maybe the land, when you flew high enough, had the same look as the surface of the ocean? It was hazy everywhere. But now the tedium of the preceding hours was banished. The upper snow-covered slopes of the mountains were a dazzle of reflected sunlight, making them hard to look at. I pressed my forehead against the porthole and stared instead more acutely down at the ground, a valley floor, way below, heavily wooded and with a bright, silvery river snaking from side to side. The plane began moving dramatically, the wings tipping and the engine note frequently changing as the pilot adjusted the course. We were passing through rough air, which made the aircraft kick up and down in a worrying way. It felt as if we were zig-zagging through the narrow valley, at times flying perilously close to the rocky walls. We were sinking closer to the valley floor with every minute, until the nose of the aircraft lifted, the flying motion steadied, the engines throttled back. Moments later we were cruising low above the ground -there was a bump, then another, and after that we were rolling at speed along a runway, with a glimpse of concrete buildings placed behind trees on the periphery of the aerodrome, the mountains rising up beyond them.

The plane came to a halt at last, its engines coughing to silence. We stood up, stretching our backs after the long confinement in the uncomfortable seats. I was behind everyone else as we shuffled up the narrow aisle between the seats. When the man in front of me went through the door and clambered down the short flight of steps outside, I was alone in the cabin. Instead of climbing down after the others, I took hold of the curtain and swept it aside. Beyond it was the forward part of the plane’s cabin, with six seats, three on each side of the aisle. There was no one there. At the front of the cabin, another curtain was drawn, presumably enclosing the cockpit. I could see movement beyond and in a moment someone on the other side opened the curtain and stepped out of the cockpit into the passenger cabin. A tall figure stood before me, dressed smartly in an RAF uniform, the peaked cap at a jaunty angle on his head.

It was my brother, Jack.

I stared at him in amazement, but his affable smile did not fade. He seemed unsurprised to see me.

Behind him another RAF officer appeared from the cockpit, pushed past Jack and, after a quick glance in my direction, went through the door and out of the aircraft. ‘You coming, JL?’ he called from the top of the steps outside.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

I said to Jack, ‘I had no idea it was you flying the plane!’

‘Well . . . now you know’

My heart was drumming. I looked around: daylight was glancing in through the open hatch, and beyond the broad white spread of the wing I could see the backs of the other men I had been flying with, as they walked towards the low buildings a couple of hundred yards across the apron. The co-pilot was following them. Behind me was the confined compartment of the plane: the utilitarian metal floor littered with discarded papers, cigarette ends, pieces of bread-crust dropped from sandwiches. It was plausibly real and actual, but I was gripped by the conviction that I was trapped in another lucid imagining.

‘Jack, don’t keep doing this to me!’

My brother stood there without responding. It was hard for me to look him in the eye, because I was terrified that if I did so I might be held there by him.

‘Where are we?’ I said finally.

‘This is Zurich, of course. Where your meeting was planned, exactly as they told you.’

‘What the hell’s going on, JL? How are you involved in this? Do you know why I’m here?’

‘I’m just the pilot.’

‘This is a Red Cross flight!’ I said. ‘It’s a neutral aircraft on a diplomatic mission. You’re a serving officer in the RAF. You shouldn’t be involved.’

‘All aircraft need pilots. My Wellington’s being re-equipped with new engines, so rather than hang around the airfield with nothing else to do, I volunteered for the trip.’

‘But you’re RAF crew,’ I said again.

‘Not while I’m here. I’m a co-opted pilot, working for the Red Cross.’

Finally, I did look him in the eye.

I said quietly, ‘Why are you doing this to me, Jack?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me, Joe. You know that.’

So I turned away from him, in misery.

ix

The aircraft droned on through the bright winter sky, the sea a grey-blue plain lying indistinctly far below us. I was relieved to be on my own at the rear of the cabin where there was no one to see me. I was shaking and trembling, on the point of weeping. I was convinced that the injuries I had suffered during the Blitz were driving me mad. The visions were crippling me mentally. I was no longer able to tell truth from fiction. That was the classic definition of insanity, wasn’t it? The delusions had begun that night in the ambulance, but had they ever ended? Was everything I thought of as real in fact another more subtle and extended delusion, a lucid imagining of forking alternatives, while in reality, real reality, I lay in the back of the noisy Red Cross ambulance, still being driven slowly across benighted England?

From the signs of the inactivity of everyone else in the cabin it seemed there was still a long way to go before we were due to land. Several of the passengers appeared to be asleep, their heads lolling uncomfortably, nodding with the constant movements of the plane. Others stared down through the tiny windows. One or two were reading. Ian Maclean, who for a long time had been standing in the aisle, was seated again. The thick curtains hung impassively across the front part of the cabin. It was no longer quite so cold and because several people had been smoking there was a familiar fug in the air. I lit a cigarette of my own to help me stay awake. I was beginning to feel sleepy but I shifted position in my seat and took in several deep breaths, unwilling to run the risk of falling into a second mental lapse.

When I next looked out through the porthole, I saw land far away to my left: there was a mountainous coast out there in the distance, wreathed in clouds and mist. It was so far away it was impossible to make out details or to try to work out which place it was, but I stared across at the view, glad to have something on which I could focus my eyes. Eventually the plane dipped its wing and turned in the direction of the land, but we continued to fly on without any perceptible loss of altitude. About half an hour later we were flying over a large city, the plane gradually-losing height and tipping and turning as it manoeuvred towards a landing.

For the second time that day, as it seemed, I braced myself for the landing as we swooped downwards. Soon the plane was skimming at treetop height. I could see a few buildings and hangars, with a glimpse of the city in the distance.

When the plane had landed safely it taxied for a long way, finally coming to a halt close to a modern brick building. The engines fell silent and the passengers began to shift in their seats.

‘Gentlemen!’ One of the passengers who had been seated at the front of the compartment, close to the curtained partition, was already on his feet, holding up the palm of his hand. Like most of us on board, he could stand upright in the cabin only with some difficulty because of the low ceiling. ‘It’s my pleasure to welcome you to Lisbon, a beautiful city that many of us in the Red Cross already know well. Most of you were told that we were travelling to Zurich for this meeting but, as you know, in wartime deceptions are sometimes necessary. However, we are in neutral territory and are therefore free of that sort of thing for the next few days.

‘So, for those of you who don’t know me,’ he went on, ‘my name is Declan Riley and I am from the Dublin office of the Red Cross. I know we are anxious to leave the aircraft after such a long flight but I must detain you for a little longer.’

Behind him the curtain billowed slightly, like one hanging in front of a window that is suddenly opened. We could feel the plane reacting to movement, as whoever had been in the forward part of the cabin stepped through the aircraft, presumably about to disembark at the front of the cabin.

‘I was going to say that I have three pressing matters to inform you of,’ Mr Riley continued. He indicated the movement of the curtain beside him. ‘I think the first of them has already made itself known, however. We have been honoured to share the flight with two or three people of great distinction and importance, who will be taking a leading part in the discussions over the next few days.

‘The second matter is that from this moment on, whenever we speak together we should do so in German.’ He paused for his words to take effect, then continued. ‘[Amongst other reasons you have been invited to take part in this important conference because of your ability with the German language. Even if in the next few days you meet someone from your own country, and he or she does not speak German, you must continue to speak in German and we will arrange for an interpreter to be present. We realize that this is an unnatural and possibly time-consuming process, but it was a precondition by one of the parties that everything should be conducted in German.

‘[The third matter naturally follows on from the second. You do of course understand that everything that is going to take place over the next few days will be of the highest sensitivity. It must therefore be treated with the utmost confidentiality. You will be asked to sign an acceptance of this in a little while. A mere formality, of course, because I know we share the fervent wish that the meeting should succeed. I don’t think there is anything else for the moment. . .]’ He glanced enquiringly down at the man who had been sitting beside him throughout the fight, and who shook his head briefly. ‘[Well then, my best thanks, gentlemen. Let us hope the meeting brings positive results!]’

A ripple of applause followed his speech. I followed the others up the shallow incline of the cabin aisle, waiting in line as one after the other we leaned down to exit through the hatch. Just before it was my turn to go through, the dividing curtain was suddenly swept aside and a young RAF officer stepped through. He nodded politely to me, then moved on down the cabin.

I stepped through the hatch, descended the little flight of metal steps, and began to walk across the tarmac in the warm sunshine behind the other men.

x

After a perfunctory examination of our passports at the airport, we were joined by another group who had flown in by an earlier plane. Several of these people were from Germany or from German-occupied territories, although all were officials of their local Red Cross societies. After brief introductions we were ushered outside to a line of cars.

First stop was a large private house, not far from the airport, where a delicious buffet meal was awaiting us. At first, those of us who had arrived from Britain carefully took small portions, unused to seeing the lavish quantities of food that were laid out before us, but gradually the reality sank in that we had left behind the rigours of wartime rationing, if only temporarily. I shared my table with two officials I did not know, a man and a woman who had arrived from Berlin, representing the German Red Cross. They had no more idea than I what was the purpose of this meeting, but I did begin to speculate in my mind. Presumably others were doing so too. Something big was clearly afoot.

We returned to the cars and in a long cavalcade we drove through part of Lisbon itself, then headed west along the coast that forms part of the bay of the Tagus river. It was already getting late in the afternoon and the sun was moving round so that it was ahead of us. To our left lay the great expanse of the Atlantic; to our right were glimpses of wooded mountains. At every rise and turn we saw breathtaking views of coastline and sea. We drove with the car windows open so that we were assailed by the scents of the flowers and shrubs that grew thickly beside the road.

We eventually reached a small seaside town called Cascais, built with pretty, white-painted houses and adorned with hundreds of palm and deciduous trees. We were taken to a large hotel on the seafront and everyone was assigned a room. Here we were allowed a little time to refresh ourselves after the journey, before we returned to the cars. My room had a huge double bed and a balcony from which I could look out across the sea.

The main road through Cascais ran parallel to the beach, then climbed out of the town across a low headland. Once we were outside the town, the scenery changed: it became a wild coast of igneous deposits, where cliffs of black and brittle rocks jutted out into the sea. The water was so calm it was like the surface of a mirror, the sunlight glinting magically from it, but such was the swell and reach of the ocean that as the waves came into the shore they formed high, rolling breakers. They dashed against the cliffs with spectacular explosions of spray. A white mist hovered over the coastline, in spite of the warm sunshine.

Not long after we left Cascais, our cavalcade of cars turned through wide gates and moved slowly up a tree-shrouded driveway towards an immense, pink-painted villa. This beautiful castellated house, with its acres of cultivated gardens, its terraces, shrubberies, swimming pool, private cinema and many other comfortable facilities, was to be my base for the next few days. It was called Boca di Inferno - the Mouth of Hell.

xi

At one end of the main hall of the villa was a reception area, where visitors once would have been invited to wait. Here a number of easy chairs had been arranged around an ornate marble fireplace which to all appearances was used only rarely for open fires. Closely packed bookshelves stood on each side, as well as a number of oil paintings of important past residents of the house. In an alcove beside the fireplace was a large photographic portrait in a gilt frame, not ostentatiously placed but in view of most of the hall. It was a studio portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, the former King Edward VIII of Great Britain and his American wife, Wallis Simpson. Their signatures were inscribed at the bottom of the picture. Beside the portrait two small national flags stood close together, placed so that their poles crossed: the British Union flag and the Nazi flag of the Third Reich.

A cocktail reception was held in that long hall during the early part of our first evening in the Mouth of Hell. At first, most of those present were the various delegates from Red Cross branches of the different European countries, but as the evening wore on the principals began arriving. They joined our party without fanfare or introduction, but moved quietly through the crowd and joined in conversations. I did not recognize them all, but Nick Smith and Ian Maclean whispered to me the names of the ones they knew. In this way I learned that Dr Carl Burckhardt, president of the Swiss Red Cross, was there, as well as one of the most celebrated Red Cross officials in the world, Count Folke Bernadotte, head of the Swedish section. The British Ambassador to Spain, Sir Samuel Hoare, arrived in mid-evening, closely followed by Sir Ronald Campbell, his colleague at the British Embassy in Lisbon. Both were accompanied by teams of embassy officials, who circulated deftly around the room, speaking excellent German. Later, representatives from the German embassies to various neutral countries began to arrive.

At eight-thirty, George, Duke of Kent, the British King’s younger brother, was announced from the door. He was greeted by Sir Ronald Campbell and was then introduced to the leading figures who were present. His entourage, all of whom were dressed, like the Duke, in civilian suits, dispersed themselves about the room, joining conversations with great affability and courtesy. At one point, as I circulated around the party, I overheard the Duke speaking to Count Bernadotte, a relaxed, amused conversation, conducted in fluent German.

At nine o’clock everyone moved through to a large dining-room in an annexe, where dinner was served. We took our places according to the seating plan. The two senior Red Cross officials took their seats at the head table with the Duke and some senior German officials. I found myself sitting next to a military attaché from the German Embassy in Madrid, SS-ObergruppenFührer Otto Schafer. He was making an effort to be polite to me and I responded as best I could, but in truth I found him boorish. We had little in common, although this did not stop him telling me about his background. Over the years, he said in his harsh Pomeranian accent, he had been involved in many proud acts of the Nazi SS that I had never heard about before, but which I found depressing and frightening, even when humorously cast in a supposedly defensible version by one of their perpetrators.

At the end of the dinner Dr Burckhardt made a short speech, reminding us of the unique and historical importance of our meeting, of how much depended on a successful outcome and that although for the time being we must conduct ourselves in the utmost secrecy, in the years to come people would realize what we began in this unique house in such a beautiful and wild part of Portugal.

We drank a toast to the success of our own efforts.

Dr Burckhardt had sat down again when one of his aides walked swiftly across to him and leaned over to mutter something. Naturally I could not hear what was said, but Dr Burckhardt moved immediately to the Duke of Kent’s side and spoke quietly. The Duke nodded and smiled. Dr Burckhardt returned to his seat.

Moments later a new entourage of delegates entered the room, as unceremoniously as most of the others. But their arrival caused an undoubted stir throughout the room; the SS general beside me suddenly stiffened. The leader of the new arrivals walked confidently across to the head table to greet Dr Burckhardt and Count Bernadotte, who led him straight away to meet the Duke of Kent. Both men stood together, smiling and shaking hands with great amiability, clapping each other on the arms and shoulders. The room had fallen into silence. The new arrival was Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess.

xii

Next morning the first round of negotiations began. We all had a part to play. As a junior official I was assigned to a document party in a side room, drawing up, presenting and endlessly revising a long series of detailed statements that were used by the senior representatives as position papers.

I was one of only a few Red Cross delegates in the working group: the rest were British and German officials from the embassies or their respective governments, together with constitutional lawyers from Britain and Germany, negotiation counsellors from the Quaker Society of Friends and observers from the five main neutral European powers: Sweden, Switzerland, Ireland, Portugal and Spain. Everything was conducted in German, fluently and naturally by all present, although we produced the position papers in both English and German. For the first hour or so we were stiff and formal with one another, perhaps watchful for one side or the other to seek special advantages, but as the hours went by we became familiar and friendly, forming ourselves into an efficient and harmonious group.

Although mine was only a small role in the proceedings, I felt I had been allotted an important and interesting task. On our team fell the responsibility of writing down the verbal agreements made by the principals. We worked out the form of words in which the tentative measures should be recorded, discussed them among ourselves for the variations and nuances of language, and finally sent them back to the principals for further negotiation and, it was hoped, eventual agreement. In this position I was able to see not only the details changing and growing as the talks went on, but also the larger picture taking shape. We laboured under pressure, as the various delegates and their advisers would hurry in with new notes and demand that everything be rendered into clear language with the minimum of delay. I worked with increasing excitement and dedication, realizing that I was playing a crucial part in bringing the terrible war to an end.

Our second-storey room was on the southern side of the villa, looking down across the wooded grounds towards the sea. There was a wide balcony outside and many of us took advantage of it, pulling our tables and chairs into the sunlight, working at our papers in the warm, wintry sunshine, breathing in the scents of the garden, hearing the great sea crashing distantly against the rocks below.

The only occasions when everyone was in the same place together were during the two main meals of the day. It was a sight whose strangeness never failed to impress me: there in one large room we had senior representatives from two opposing sides in a bitterly fought war mixing socially and congenially. Rudolf Hess and the Duke of Kent were often seen in each other’s company, their attendant officials kept at a distance, as if to protect the two men’s privacy. This ease was matched all through the various levels at which we worked. On my second evening, for instance, I was seated next to Generalmajor Bernhard Altschul from the tactical Luftflotte 4 based in northern France, in charge of many of the aircraft which were, at that time, attacking British cities almost every night of the week. He was a cultured and intelligent companion - it took a force of will to think of him as being responsible for the hundreds of civilian deaths and injuries that were occurring as a result of the bombing.

By the second day we were settling into a routine. It became possible to predict when there would be peaks of activity required of us and when there were likely to be quieter moments. One of these more relaxed periods came along about midway through the afternoon, so I grabbed the chance for a little solitude. I left the villa and walked through the grounds on my own, relishing the break.

It was a most beautiful spot, cool under the trees, warm in the sunshine. Beyond the thicket of trees was a short stretch of untamed land: long grasses and hardy-looking bushes growing wild, sloping down towards the top of the cliffs. Rough pathways had been worn through the vegetation, so I followed one of them and soon came to the spectacular rocky cliffs. I squatted down to watch the waves rolling in, the surf and spray exploding excitingly against the rocks. The scene had an almost hypnotic effect: the quiet sea with its glistening lights, the waves moving endlessly in towards the shore, gaining weight and height, rising and peaking before they hit the cliffs, then bursting outwards and upwards in a vast spray.

‘[This coast is known as the mouth of hell,]’ someone beside me said.

My reverie was instantly broken. I turned and looked up. It was Stellvertreter Rudolf Hess, who had walked up behind me unheard, the sounds of his approach muffled by the soft ground and the rush of the surf and spray.

I scrambled quickly to my feet, surprised and slightly alarmed.

‘[I was taking a short break, my gentleman Deputy Leader!]’ I said defensively.

‘[I am doing the same. You have been before, to this part of Portugal?]’

‘[No, sir.]’

‘[Let me show you the Mouth of Hell itself. I was here at this house last year. Another visit in the endless quest for peace. You were not present, I think, but you no doubt know who was resident here at the time. We shall have better luck this time with our efforts for peace, I believe!]’ He grinned amiably at me, a sort of uncontrived leering smile that revealed the narrow gap between his two front teeth. ‘[If we walk along the cliff we will find the natural feature after which the house was named.]’

Hess was alone. Unless the three SS officers who acted as his bodyguard were concealed somewhere about, he must have slipped away from them. It was unusual for any of the negotiating principals to be seen without their entourages. The previous evening, during an informal briefing by Declan Riley, the ancillary negotiators, of whom I was one, were warned not to engage in any conversation with a principal that could later be construed as a bargaining position. It had certainly never occurred to me that I might find myself having to heed that advice.

Hess indicated that we should follow one of the paths leading along the cliff top. I walked a few paces behind him. He seemed unconcerned about turning his back on me. He was solidly built but not stout, wide rather than muscular. He walked with a flat-footed gait, his back straight. Although his short bristly hair was still dark and thickly growing, the bright sunlight revealed a circle of baldness on his crown, oddly off-centre. It was, as I later learned, the result of an injury sustained in a bierkeller brawl during Hitler’s years of struggle for power. If reminder was needed of the Nazis’ violent background, it was there on the crown of Hess’s head.

Before we had gone far we approached the lip of an immense pit, a deep cavity in the cliffs whose presence was concealed from the house by a screen of low trees and bushes. When we had gained the edge, the huge size of the roofless cavern was revealed: it was almost perfectly circular, approximately a hundred feet in diameter and about the same in depth. The sea churned and boiled at the base of the cauldron: every wave that came in exploded into the immense fissure, bursting and spraying in all directions at once.

I stared down at the sight for two or three minutes, impressed by it, but even more disconcerted by the presence of the notorious Nazi leader standing beside me. When you stand over a vertiginous drop of that sort, where a fall would lead to certain death, thoughts of stumbling accidentally are uppermost in your mind. With them, inevitably, come the parallel thoughts of jumping or of being pushed. Rudolf Hess was an arm’s length away from me, leaning, like me, to stare down into the pit. If one of us were to fall? If one of us were to push the other?

I shrank away from such thoughts, physical violence being abhorrent to me, but at the same time I could not forget who was there beside me, what he stood for, how many human lives his war had already taken, what a threat his regime presented to the security of the rest of the world.

He straightened and we both moved back from the edge.

‘[Did you know the cliff once was used as a prison?]’ Hess said, raising his voice above the roar from the cauldron.

‘[A prison?]’

‘[The main jail was elsewhere but they created punishment cells in these cliffs, at the high-tide mark. Troublesome prisoners were put there for a while, so they could have a bad experience of solitary confinement.]’ He gave me another leering smile. ‘[It was the French and German prisoners who were most often placed in the cells. Never the British, though. I wonder why not? Come, let me show you. One of them is along here somewhere.]’

He set off along the footpath once more and I followed, chilled by his oddness. He turned out not to be sure of the site of the cell, because we walked to and fro along the path for several minutes without success. I was becoming guiltily aware how long I had been away from my work. Hess eventually lost interest in the search, looking thoughtfully towards the ground as we sauntered along. We came to a halt in more or less the same place as I was sitting when he came up to me.

Then he said, in a more confidential voice, ‘[We have met before, I think. Do you remember that?]’

‘[I have seen you before, Deputy Leader,]’ I said. ‘[But I am certain I have not had the pleasure of meeting you in person until today]’

‘[No, you are wrong,]’ he said emphatically. ‘[I know your name from the list of Red Cross negotiators. You are Sawyer, J. L. Why should I remember that name? Your face also is familiar]’

‘[I was a competitor in the Olympic Games. I had the honour of accepting my medal from you, but I’m sure you would not remember me from that.]’

‘[In Berlin, you were? An athlete, then?]’

‘[I was a rower, sir.]’

‘[Maybe so. We have moved a long way from those days, have we not? So, you are English as I thought?]’

‘[Yes, sir.]’

‘[What do you English people think now of war? We have had a taste of war and perhaps we do not like it as much as we thought.]’

‘[I have always been against war.]’

‘[So you say. But it was you English who declared war on the Reich.]’

‘[Herr Deputy Leader, I should not be talking to you about such matters. I am only a junior official, with no influence on the principals.]’

‘[So why are you here?]’

‘[Ultimately because I am a pacifist and I wish to see peace made.]’

‘[Then we agree more than perhaps you think. I too have made the long journey here because my quest is for a peace between my country and yours.]’

‘[Sir, I am not representing my country. I am working for the Red Cross as a neutral.]’

‘[Yet you say once you competed in the Olympic Games. Were you then a neutral?]’

‘[No. I was rowing for Great Britain.]’

‘[So, tell me, what do the people of Great Britain have to say about the war? Do they want it to continue or do they want it to stop?]’

‘[I think they are tired of war, sir,]’ I said. ‘[But I also know they will never give up fighting so long as there is a threat to them.]’

‘[Tired of it? Already? There could be much worse for them to come, I think. The Leader has many secret weapons at his disposal.]’

The way he instantly seized on the idea that the British were wearying of war made me bite my lip. I remembered the warning we had been given by Declan Riley the evening before.

‘[I believe the British prefer peace to war,]’ I said as carefully as I could. ‘[But the threat of invasion and the actions of the Luftwaffe bombers have made people angry and determined to win.]’

‘[What of the party for peace in Britain? Do you ignore what they say?]’

‘[I’m not aware of them, sir. I have heard no talk of peace when I have been in Britain. Who is in the peace party?]’

‘[They are around you, Mr Sawyer. In this house! Do you think I am imagining them?]’

‘[Mr Churchill is running the country. But in my own opinion, Churchill is a troublemaker and warmonger-]’

‘[Mr Churchill has not been invited here, as you can see!]’ Hess interrupted me without apparently having listened to what I was saying. ‘[Churchill is an impediment to peace! He is the problem I have to solve, Mr Sawyer. The Leader is prepared to sign a peace treaty with the English but he is not willing to negotiate with Mr Churchill or any of his yes-men. The Leader passionately craves peace with Great Britain, but how do we persuade Churchill? Since we are here to speak of peace, what is your opinion? Would Churchill agree to a separate peace, or should Churchill be replaced? Important changes would have to follow an agreement such as the one we seek in this house. I speak of replacements in Germany, as well as in England. Will you British play your part and replace Churchill? With Halifax, say, or one of the able gentlemen who is with us for this conference?]’

‘[I can’t say, Herr Deputy Leader. I am not a representative of the British government.]’

I was terrified by the sudden intensity of the man. His distinctive, deep-set eyes were staring firmly at me, challenging me for an answer. But I was already in over my head. The information or opinion Hess wanted from me was impossible.

For a moment longer he continued to stare at me, then he made an impatient gesture. ‘[It is as I thought! Only the Reich wants peace!]’

He turned away from me with a bad-tempered, dismissive wave of the hand, and began to stride up the rough path in the direction of the house. I walked quickly after him, sensing already that if word of our conversation reached my superiors in the Red Cross, I would be boiled in oil.

We breasted the rise and came to the stand of trees that grew between the grounds of the house and the cliff area. Two SS officers in their sharp black uniforms were waiting on the lawn, staring towards us. I sensed trouble piling up on trouble for me. Hess came to a halt and faced me as I caught up with him.

‘[We have work to be doing,]’ he said in a more reasonable tone of voice.’[Mr Sawyer, let me tell you that even if you do not remember our earlier meeting in Berlin, I have myself now recalled the circumstances. Perhaps you have deliberately put them from your mind. We have indeed moved a long way since then. I understand the danger you are in, of being a British neutral in time of war. You can be sure I will say nothing of it again.]’

‘[Thank you, Herr Deputy Führer,]’ I said.

‘[Later, perhaps, you and I will have another opportunity to speak in private.]’

It was not to be. That was the only private conversation I had with Rudolf Hess during that stage of the negotiations. In fact, I scarcely saw him again before the end of the conference.

Almost from the moment when I returned to the villa the pressure of work on us greatly increased, with dozens of position papers, protocols, draft agreements, revised drafts, codicils and memoranda in need of practically instantaneous preparation and translation. None of us complained about the strain that the workload was placing on us, because of the unique importance of what we were doing, but for the next thirty-six hours we worked with hardly a break.

In the early hours of our last morning at Boca di Inferno Dr Burckhardt unexpectedly walked into our room and we rose to our feet in astonishment. Smilingly he signalled to us to relax. He was looking as tired as everyone else: I knew from the glimpses I had had of the main discussions that he had hardly been away from the conference hall. He was the only one of the principal negotiators who had visited us in our workmanlike domain, with its typewriters and notebooks on every working surface, the dirty glasses, cups and plates scattered everywhere, the piles of discarded papers all over the carpet, the jackets slung across the backs of chairs, the tobacco-heavy air.

Dr Burckhardt made some self-deprecating remark about being curious to see for himself where the real work had been going on: the furnace of the engine-room, as he described it. He said he was pleased to report that the talks between the British and German delegates had reached a conclusion and he thanked us for our dedication and uncomplaining labours. We gave him a polite but enthusiastic round of applause. As it sank in what the conclusion to the conference might actually mean, our applause turned quickly to loud cheering. Dr Burckhardt smiled modestly, nodding around to all of us.

At the end he caught my eye and with an inclination of his head indicated that I should follow him out of the room. I did so, with my hard-working colleagues watching me with noticeable curiosity.

Outside in the corridor, when he had closed the door to the room, Dr Burckhardt shook my hand warmly.

‘[Mr Sawyer, I wish to thank you on behalf of the International Red Cross for your contribution this week.]’

I mumbled something about doing no more than what I had been asked to do, and so on.

‘[Yes, indeed. We are all working for the same thing, but it has been a particularly effective meeting. You should say nothing to your colleagues at the moment, but there will be a second round of talks in a few weeks’ time, when the agreement will be ratified. The date and place have not yet been set, but the conference will take place near the beginning of May. I should add that your personal presence has been especially requested by one of the principals. May we count on you to be available?]’

‘[Yes, of course, Dr Burckhardt.]’

‘[You have a family in Britain, I believe. Would your responsibilities there prevent you from making a second journey on our behalf?]’

‘[No, sir. My wife and I are expecting our first baby. But it is not due until the end of May]’

‘[All our business should be completed by then. Indeed, you’ve helped make it probable that your baby will be born in peacetime. Congratulations, Mr Sawyer!]’

With that cheering news he shook my hand again and wished me well, and that was that. I stood in the corridor, thunderstruck by the idea that peace was not an abstract notion but an achievable reality in my own life. Our baby would be born to a world of peace.

I had not fully realized that before! I felt joy rising in me. Great relief consumed me. I wanted to run and shout, but instead I stood by myself in that corridor, tears in my eyes, realizing that I was privy to the greatest, most important news in the world.

I went back into our office. In a daze I helped my colleagues to finish off the few remaining tasks and then to tidy up the room. A little more than an hour later I was in my bed in my hotel room, so excited I could hardly sleep, despite the exhaustion that was drowning me.

The next day I returned to England in the same white-painted plane, and two days after that I was reunited with Birgit at home in Rainow.

xiii

Everyone who was involved in the Lisbon agreement was sworn to secrecy and was provided with a cover story of some kind, to explain our absence. I had been to North Wales, it turned out, training with new rescue equipment received from the USA.

The events of that sunny winter’s week in Cascais are a matter of history, and no secrecy remains. What we drew up and agreed was a protocol for peace, terms which required to be ratified only at the highest levels for the armistice to be binding. Several weeks lay between the first and second peace conferences, a time of intense diplomatic and governmental activity, unwitnessed by anyone outside the inner circles of the two governments and the ruling council of the Red Cross. I certainly had little to do with what went on and was left in a vacuum of uncertainty.

Because I was a party to the drawing up of the agreement, I believed I knew every clause, paragraph and sentence by heart. What I did not know was what the people at the highest levels would make of the deal.

Would Hitler accept it? Would Churchill?

xiv

After Lisbon, I returned to my life in Rainow with a sense that at last the war was about to finish. Granted leave of absence by the Red Cross, on full pay, the only memento I had of that extraordinary meeting in Portugal was a brief handwritten letter from Dr Burckhardt. He passed it to me before I boarded the aircraft for the long flight home. In it he asked me not to involve myself in the normal day-to-day work of the Red Cross, but to hold myself ready to travel at short notice.

During those days at Boca di Inferno I had come to think of myself as a neutral in the war. I was an intermediary, a Red Cross official, someone who composed or translated important documents that could, quite literally, change history. But within a few hours of returning to Britain I felt myself become partisan once again: English, British, not neutral at all. I found it an enlightening experience. I had assumed, before I went to Portugal, that by being a pacifist I counted myself out of partisanship, but when you are in a war you cannot help but identify with your own people. It gave me a lot to think about.

I slipped back into something that felt similar, but not identical, to my old life. Birgit was in the last weeks of her pregnancy, a situation which took on a whole extra level of meaning now there was the prospect of peace. While I was away, Birgit had become much more dependent on Mrs Gratton, the elderly woman who lived in the cottage down the lane. She seemed to be constantly in our house, often bringing her strange, middle-aged son with her. When I first returned from Portugal I felt I was almost an intruder in the house. Mrs Gratton was always fussing around, seeing to the laundry and washing up the dishes, making Birgit drinks and snacks, while Harry busied himself with odd jobs: cutting logs and bringing them in, cleaning windows, sweeping out the kitchen floor and that kind of thing.

Perhaps for these reasons my first weekend at home, after Lisbon, was not a happy one. A distance had opened up between Birgit and myself. I wanted to be a loving, dutiful husband, involving myself in the last weeks of her pregnancy, but Birgit would say little to me about how she felt, or about her hopes and fears, or indeed anything about the plans she was making for when the baby arrived.

I helped her clean out and paint the small spare room, which would eventually become the child’s own bedroom, but because of her condition I ended up spending most of the time working on my own. The off-white distemper, which like all house paint was normally almost impossible to obtain because of the war, had been provided by Harry Gratton. He called round a couple of times to remind me of the fact, while I was putting the stuff on the walls.

People in Rainow were still talking about the night of the heavy bombing in Manchester, which had happened while I was away. After two big raids in December the city had been left alone, but the previous week the bombers had returned. Harry Gratton told me that at the height of the raid the fires were so intense that the people of Rainow, watching from their hill many miles from the city, could feel the heat on their faces.

Irlam Street, where the Red Cross building had been, no longer existed. While waiting for the Red Cross to find alternative premises, I hung around the house, hoping in a vague way to make amends to Birgit for my long absences, trying to forge something like our old closeness together. I still felt cut off from her, but I reasoned that once our baby was born our lives would change for the better. Of course, once the secret I was carrying became a reality, life would be different for everyone.

The prospect of that burned in me like a beacon. When I heard people complaining about the constant difficulties they were having in feeding their children, or their worries about their sons or husbands in the forces, or even the endless problems of simply travelling around, I knew I had it in me to reassure them with the greatest news of all. Another week, I could say to them - put up with it for another week or two, maybe a month, then it will be over. The broad, sunlit uplands Churchill promised last year are in sight at last.

But the weeks were starting to slip by. When I returned from Lisbon I expected to be summoned back to the next round of talks almost at once. Surely everything was in place and agreed? The terms for peace had been comprehensively negotiated: both sides had given way on several important elements of the original proposals, but in the end a realistic agreement had been reached, one that gave both Britain and Germany a way out of the war. One side could emerge with honour intact, the other with strategic freedoms in place.

Clearly there was an obstacle. Once I was back in my humdrum life, undergoing the same inconvenience and hardships as everyone else, overhearing conversations in buses and pubs, listening to small talk in shops, it was obvious where that obstacle lay. It was in Churchill himself. He had identified himself, or he had become identified, with a plucky British determination to fight on and on, whatever the odds. Churchill was the symbol of everyone’s hopes. It was not only inconceivable that Churchill would step down, it was inconceivable to millions of ordinary Britons.

I could not even imagine what the parallel situation in Germany would be like, in the way Hitler himself had come to personify the German nation.

The German night-time Blitz on British cities continued. During the five weeks in which I waited for Dr Burckhardt’s call, cities like Bristol, Birmingham, Plymouth, Liverpool, Exeter, Swansea, Cardiff and Belfast had their hearts blasted out of them by concerted bombing attacks. The Blitz on London continued at the same time as the attacks on the other cities, almost without a break. In the Atlantic, U-boats were sinking British ships every day of the week. In the North African desert the fight for Egypt and the Suez Canal went on, much more dangerously for the British since the arrival of Rommel’s Afrika Korps. In Greece the British were being beaten back.

All those deaths. All those losses. All that destruction.

The war was being prolonged when it could have been halted at any moment.

One night, after Birgit and I had gone to bed, we heard the air-raid sirens drone out their chilling warning. We were both instantly awake, stiff with fear in the dark. I started to climb out of bed.

Birgit said, ‘Don’t go from me.’

‘We should take shelter.’

‘They will not come near us. Stay here with me.’

‘No . . . it’s never safe.’

I helped her out of bed, first propping her up then swinging her legs around. She stood up unsteadily and for a moment we leaned on each other and embraced in the dark. The hard ball of our unborn child pressed between us. The sirens faded away, into ominous silence.

‘Are the planes coming?’

‘I can’t hear them,’ I said. ‘But we mustn’t take chances.’

We pulled on woollen garments for warmth, then picked up our pre-packed emergency bags and went downstairs. We had no special shelter in which to hide, but because the house was built of stone and the staircase ran next to the chimney we had put emergency bedding, lighting and water in the triangular space beneath the steps. I suspected that while I was away Birgit must have spent many nights alone in there.

We crawled into the narrow space and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. We lay with our arms around each other. I could feel the baby moving inside Birgit’s belly, as if it was picking up our feelings of fear.

The sirens started again and almost at once we heard the sound that everyone in Britain dreaded most: the droning, throbbing noise of engines overhead, a Luftwaffe bomber formation coming in, high above. I felt Birgit’s arms tighten around me. The aircraft were passing directly over the village, the characteristic drumming rhythm seeming to shake the stone walls of the house. We braced ourselves for the sound of bombs, the horrifying shriek of the tail whistles, the shocking explosions; I had lived with those for so long in London.

We heard the Manchester guns first: the sharp, shattering bangs, easily distinguished from the sounds of the bombs going off. As always, it was an encouraging noise, lending the sense that the bombers would be warded off. But then, over the racket of the guns, we heard the first bombs as they fell and exploded in the streets.

I could not lie still in the dark with a raid going on so close and despite Birgit’s protests I wriggled away from her, crawled into our darkened hallway and found my coat and shoes. I let myself out of the house. In the dark I crossed the lane and moved up to a mound of earth which I knew would give me a clear view to the north and west.

The sky was rodded with white shafts of searchlights. Bright flashes of anti-aircraft shells exploded briefly in the air by the cloudbase. Trails of tracer bullets raced upwards. The city was already spotted with bright points of orange fire. A glowing static fireball rested in the centre of the city, like a small sun that had alighted there. As I watched, more bombs went off, more fires took hold.

‘Manchester’s getting it again,’ a man’s voice said beside me. ‘Not as big a raid as last time, but getting it bad.’

I nodded my agreement in the darkness and turned towards the sound of the voice. He was standing behind me but there was not enough light from the fires to illuminate his features.

‘Second time since Christmas, isn’t it?’

‘So it is.’

‘I missed the others,’ I said, but as I spoke I realized who the man must be. I said, ‘Isn’t that you, Harry?’

‘That’s right. You’re an old hand at the raids, your missus tells me. Away down south and all that.’

‘I was working.’

‘In London, wasn’t it? Or was it in Wales? Doing a bit of rescuing?’

‘A bit of that,’ I said, finding myself falling into the rhythms of his speech. ‘I’m not going back for more.’

‘You should be down there in Manchester tonight. Looks like they could use an expert like you.’ There was a taunt in his voice, a sort of mocking challenge. He was beginning to needle me.

‘Not now,’ I said.

‘Not your sort of place, is it? Manchester?’

‘I was injured and I’m still suffering the after-effects, if you must know. I’ve had enough for a while. Maybe you should go and volunteer’

‘Not me. I’ve too much to do around the village. Birgit told me you’d been injured. Then you went off vanishing, and that. Your baby’s due next month, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Last week in May’

‘Glad you’re back in the village, Joe,’ Harry said. ‘Birgit needs you with her. Husband shouldn’t be away, at a time like this.’

‘What did you say?’

‘None of my business, I know, but -’

‘That’s right. It’s none of your damned business.’

‘I’m round the village most of the time, Joe, and you’re not. I hate to see a nice young woman alone, baby on the way, and that.’

‘Look, Harry-’

We both ducked reflexively as one of the larger German bombs exploded not far away. London people called them parachute mines: they threw up a distinctive white-yellow ball of explosive fire when they went off. A second or two later, the sound and the blast from the bomb came at us, banging me backwards from where I was standing. I stumbled, recovered my balance and crouched down so that I could watch the rest of the raid.

‘A close one, that,’ Harry said. ‘Still, you must be like those Londoners, used to this kind of thing.’

‘It’s as bad there as it is here,’ I said. ‘But London is bombed most nights.’

‘They’ll be all right. Expect you will be too, when the war’s over. You off on another trip soon, then?’

We stood there together, watching the fires spread, seeing the huge funnels of dark smoke rising, sometimes even glimpsing some of the raiding planes if they swooped low enough to be lit up by the fires on the ground. The explosions were merging into one long roar. A big raid. The second in a month.

‘You want to stay out here and watch a bit longer?’ Harry said. ‘I could go in and see if Birgit’s all right.’

‘What?’

‘It’s no trouble to me. Quite a few times while you’ve been away I’ve been round while there’s been an alert. Just to make sure she’s managing OK. She’s all right with me. Mum and me can take care of her. Don’t you worry, Joe. If anything else happens to you while you’re working, and that, and you don’t come back afterwards, I’ll take care of Birgit. Be my pleasure. She needs a man to look after her.’

I turned to face him, but he was already walking away from me, down the lane, losing himself in the dark.

‘Just you keep away from Birgit, Harry!’ I shouted after him, but there was no reply.

I turned back to watch the rest of the raid, but I found that while the last exchange with Harry had been going on the attack had come to an abrupt end. One by one the stalks of light from the searchlights were switched off, the flames died down, the smoke drifted away, the drone of the engines receded into the distance. The great urban sprawl of Manchester became dark again, blacked out in the night.

xv

We were in the narrow triangular space beneath the stairs, our arms around each other, our unborn baby fretting between us. Birgit was asleep but I snapped awake. I held tight, forcing myself to be still, not to move suddenly so that I might wake her. The baby kicked at me, a small but distinct pressure against my side.

The night was silent. What happened to the raid? There had been the sirens, sounding the alert, but because the authorities never knew exactly where the German planes were heading there were a lot of false alarms. Had there been an all-clear yet? I was testing my memory for reality. Birgit and I had left our bed when the siren sounded, so that had been real. After that, though? The raid, the conversation with Harry outside in the night?

I could hear no engines, guns, bombs, sirens.

This lucid hallucination was the first I had suffered since I went to Portugal. I had begun to believe I was over them.

For the second time, as it seemed, I disentangled myself from Birgit’s arms and slid along the hard mattress on the floor. She groaned in her sleep, shifting to the side, helping me shuffle away from her. I pulled on my coat and shoes, again. I went quickly to the door, opened it and listened in the night. All was darkness and silence. I stepped out into the cold air, crossed the lane and scrambled up the mound from where I could command a view of the plain below.

Everything was in darkness, blacked out, huddling in the night, silenced by the fear of raiders. I glanced back at the bulk of the Pennine hills beyond our house: it was possible to make out the curve of the moors against the slightly less dark sky.

While I stood there, shivering, I heard the all-clear: the first single-note sound drifted in on the wind from miles away, but one by one the other sirens on their town hall roofs, their fire station gantries, their school outbuildings, their church towers, took up the eerie but comforting message. No raid after all, they said; not tonight. Maybe somewhere else is getting it, but not here, not now. It’s safe to leave shelter, to return to your beds.

I went back into the house, secured the door, and returned to the space beneath the stairs. Birgit was half awake, because of the sirens. I cuddled her fondly and helped her climb the stairs, taking her first to the lavatory then back to our bed. We crawled between the cold sheets, Birgit moving around many times while she tried to make her distended belly comfortable. I pressed against her, holding her, trying to warm her with my own chilled arms and legs.

xvi

The next morning, while Birgit was taking a bath, I went to my bureau in the corner of the living room. I took Dr Burckhardt’s letter from the lockable, central drawer.

I read again his expression of thanks, the request for me to stand back from normal Red Cross duties for a while, the continued payment of my wages. His plain letter, handwritten and hurried in tone, was for me a guarantee of reality. It was a link back through unreliable memories to that memorable conference in Lisbon. I was not misremembering that. I had been there and it had really happened.

I felt that a sign of my improvement was the fact that I was starting to recover from the attacks more quickly. As the day went by I was able to forget the hallucination about the air raid and I began to wonder instead what I could do to occupy my time until I heard from Dr Burckhardt.

I was idle and useless around the house, aggravating a situation I did not properly comprehend. It was not a happy period. During the week that followed my spectral vision of the air raid Birgit and I argued many times, over trivial matters and large ones. We spent time in separate parts of the house. I felt we were becoming strangers to each other and I had no idea what I could do about it. I was miserable when I thought about what she and I were becoming. All the excitement of knowing each other, all trust, all familiarity, most of the love, had been beaten out of us by the experience of war. Only the unborn child, restless in her belly, remained to link us together. But what would happen after he or she was born?

One evening, while I was listening to the BBC, I heard a report of the previous night’s RAF attack on the north German port of Kiel. It was described in the usual confident terms of the propaganda issued by the Air Ministry: the raid was pressed home by the crews with great skill and determination and while under attack from intense anti-aircraft fire. The target was described, as always, as a military one. In this case, many port installations and German army supplies had been damaged or destroyed. But the BBC also said that the damage had been widespread - surely that would mean many of the bombs fell outside the port area? Then there was the admission that more of our planes than normal had been shot down. It sounded as if the German night fighters had been unusually effective.

Inevitably, my thoughts turned to Jack. It is true that I did not often think about him deliberately, but that was because it was easier not to. For many years we had been so close: inseparable, our parents used to say about us. Some identical twins were like that. We did everything together, tied by an instinctive sense of kinship, of inherent oneness. We both tended to drift in a state of abeyance if we were separated. At school the teachers made us sit in different classes, but as soon as the breaks came we were together again. Because of that constant intimacy we grew up without many friends, our closeness not only self-sustaining but excluding too. It continued into early adulthood: when we were rowing together we used to say we were one mind in two bodies. But for the last five years, since our return from the Olympics, we had been almost completely separated, first by choice then more recently by the conditions of war.

Had we been drifting in abeyance once more, without each other? Because of my idleness around the house I began to think so, at least of myself. I thought back over my year of active pacifism, going it alone, or trying to, when most of the other men of my age were in the forces. None of my beliefs had changed, but I did begin to wonder if I had been approaching the problem the right way. Then there was Jack. Since the war began I had been making assumptions about him and his motives, but I knew that deep down we had to be much the same. We were much the same in so many other things. We had the same father, came from the same family tradition of tolerance, liberal conscience, anti-warfare. What might he be going through, while he flew against the enemy?

I had pushed Jack away from my conscious thoughts. I already knew how the war encouraged the temptation to avoid important decisions, to put things off, to try to suppress feelings, to stop worrying about this or that. But how could I have done that to Jack? The news of the raid on Kiel - in itself one more attack in a war filled with such attacks - reminded me yet again of the peril that he was facing in the RAF. I assumed that as an operational pilot he would be fully engaged in the bombing campaign. Every time he went on a raid his life was at risk.

I held secret knowledge that would affect him. Peace was imminent, while warfare continued. Danger remained until the last shot was fired, the last bomb dropped.

xvii

I told Birgit that I had been called in to work for the Red Cross again, that I would not be gone for long. She asked no questions, offered no complaint. I needed to get away from the house for a while and we both knew it.

I travelled across the country to Lincolnshire, a journey which in peacetime, by car, would take only a few hours. Now, when members of the public were in effect banned from using their cars, public transport was the only way.

The slow train journey, calling at every station and with many unexplained delays, took me the best part of a day and a half, including one night huddling in the dismal waiting-room in Nottingham station after I missed my connection. I was exhausted by the time I reached Barnham, the town closest to my brother’s RAF station, and I counted myself lucky to find a vacant bedroom over the bar in one of the High Street pubs and went straight to bed.

Because I was so tired I assumed I would sleep through the night without interruption, but I felt as if I had only just dropped off when I was woken by the sound of engines.

Aircraft were flying low over the centre of the town, their engines straining and roaring. I thought I was used to the noise of aero engines, near and far, hostile and friendly, but these were entirely different. Waves of deafening sound battered against the sleeping town.

Once the brief panic of being woken by a loud noise started to recede, I realized what was happening. The planes must be taking off from a local airfield. I was fully awake in seconds. I scrambled across the room, threw the window up, then leaned out and craned upwards.

The planes, powerful twin-engined bombers I recognized as Wellingtons, were travelling low above the roofs, swift, dark shapes outlined against the faint glow of moonlit clouds. The sound of the engines was more than a loud roar: it was a physical concussion of noise, beating not only against the walls and windows of the building but creating a perceptible rhythm against my head and chest. I was exhilarated by the endless reverberations, the shattering, thrilling commotion. I soaked up the sound like a man feeling a downpour of rain after a month in the desert. It was a terrifying but enthralling experience, something so powerful and engulfing that I felt it could not be understood until it was shared with others. Yet I realized, with a sudden jolt of surprise, that I seemed to be alone. There was no traffic in the blacked-out street below, there were no pedestrians walking home, no one else standing at a darkened window to stare up at the deafening sky.

Then I thought, then I realized: this is not real.

A sense of dread sank through me, a familiar sick-feeling anxiety that I could no longer trust my senses. Once again I had woken from what I thought was sleep to what I thought was reality: to a lucid imagining.

I could shrink away from it as I had done before, let the sinking feeling of dread course through me and take me with it, waking me up properly and pulling me out of the delusion. This time, though, I chose instead to remain, to experience the illusion to the full.

I stayed at that window while wave after wave of bombers took off across the town, sweeping low over the roofs. I tried to count the planes: fifty, a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, more and more, roaring off into the vengeful night.

I rejoiced in the unreality, letting the magnificent crude cacophony of powerful engines flood around me, drowning me in their deluge of sound.

xviii

Barnham is a market town to the west of the Lincolnshire wolds, built of pale red brick and tiles, a windy place that morning, under a sky thick with low, leaden clouds. At the back of the town, beside the railway station, there were stockyards for the weekly livestock markets. In the narrow streets close to the centre of town, the houses were built in terraces, backing on to each other, but there were larger, more prosperous-looking houses where the town started to blend with the countryside. I walked past them, following the main road in the direction of Louth, but found myself in flat, uninteresting farmland, marked out with trees and hedges but with few other features to give ease to the eye. I looked in all directions as I walked, knowing that there were two RAF bases in the immediate vicinity of the town, but I could see no signs of anything that might signify the presence of an airfield: a water tower, hangars, a windsock. I turned back.

A short while later I was walking again down the High Street in the centre of the town, past the pub where I had spent the night. I glanced up at the window where I had imagined I was standing in the dark. It looked smaller from street level, as if even when fully open it would not be large enough for a man to stand by it and lean through. Familiar shops were open along both sides of the main street and people were going about their unexceptional chores of shopping and making deliveries around the town. It was a place rather like Macclesfield, without the interesting Pennine scenery.

I knew my brother was based at RAF Tealby Moor, close to a village of that name, but the direction signs had been taken down all over Britain the previous year. I didn’t want to ask the way: ever since the war began in earnest most people were wary of strangers.

I found a cafe and drank tea and nibbled at some sweet biscuits, not sure what to do next. While I was still sitting there I noticed a number of airmen were walking down the High Street, some of them in small groups or pairs, others singly. Thinking that Jack might be among them I finished my cup of tea and went outside.

Jack was not there. The RAF men were a mixture of officers and men, apparently unconcerned with differences in rank while they were off duty. I was impressed by their casual manner, the fragments of flippant RAF slang I overheard as I passed. One or two of them looked at me strangely.

At the western end of the High Street was a wide, flattened area, partly a car park and bus depot. A cream-painted single-decker bus was standing next to the public lavatories. A young man in a blue RAF uniform and cap was sitting behind the wheel, reading a morning newspaper.

I sauntered over, trying to look as casual as possible. The airman folded his newspaper and looked at me incuriously.

“Morning,’ I said. ‘You’re the Tealby bus, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

I retreated, walking across the road to where there was a small park. The heavy clouds were thinning away to the east and soon I was able to enjoy the spring sunshine. As I wandered, around I kept my eye on the waiting bus. At about a quarter to eleven the airmen began drifting back to the bus, climbing aboard noisily and waiting inside for the others. A group of six kicked a ball around in the dusty area. When the bus was full the driver started the engine, turned out of the parking area and set off towards the west.

I went quickly to the side of the road and watched the bus as it drove away into the distance. After about half a mile it slowed suddenly, making a left turn.

xix

RAF Tealby Moor was about two miles from Barnham, a long but not an impossible walk. I arrived soon after midday, discovering that the road along which I had seen the bus heading brought me directly to the guardhouse at the main gate. The airfield was laid out in farmland away from the village from which it took its name, with no other houses in the vicinity. It was clear that any civilian seen hanging around outside the entrance to the base would be challenged. I kept my head down and my hands stuffed in my pockets. I walked on past the gate.

The road followed a long stretch of the perimeter fence. Once I was away from the main cluster of admin buildings and hangars, the fence became a double strand of barbed wire, presenting only a token barrier against the outside world. As I walked along I saw many of the aircraft at dispersal: they had been moved out to positions around the perimeter so as to present a more scattered target should enemy intruder aircraft appear. The planes were Wellingtons, with their round, snub-nosed fuselages, twin engines, gun turrets at front and rear. Most of the aircraft were being serviced or repaired by technical ground crew, with auxiliary power supplies wheeled up to the aircraft, ladders propped against the sides of the planes, men standing or squatting on the wings next to the opened nacelles of the engines.

As I walked past them, no one inside the base took any notice of me.

Eventually the road and the fence took different routes, the road swinging left and dropping down a shallow incline towards a bridge across a narrow river. I could see the church spire of a village in the near distance. The perimeter fence turned sharply to the right, heading out across the fields. From where I was standing I could see that it was where the main runway ended in a wide apron, allowing the aircraft to turn before or after using the runway. I saw a few signalling installations, a couple of huts, a caravan, the long straight road of the concrete runway.

While I was standing there, I heard the sound of an engine and I saw a small RAF truck running along the inside of the perimeter wire towards me. An officer was sitting in the front seat, next to the driver. More men stood precariously on the open platform at the back. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my coat and walked along the road in the direction of the main gate, trying to seem immersed in my own thoughts. The occupants of the truck did not look interested in me, but the officer gazed long enough to acknowledge me.

After the vehicle moved on out of sight I retraced my steps and found a narrow, unmade path that followed the outside of the perimeter fence. On the far side of the main runway and its apron, where the fence doubled back towards the main part of the base, there was a thicket of trees. I climbed over an old stile and moved among the trees. After a short walk I came to a place from which I could gain a clear view of the end of the runway, yet where I would not be easily spotted from the airfield.

I stood there for an hour or more, rewarded in mid-afternoon by the sight of several of the bombers being flown on test circuits low around the field. When the pilots opened the throttles and the propellers turned at full speed for take-off, the sound was exhilarating. I was close enough to be able to see the man at the controls, but because of the thick jackets and helmets it was impossible to tell if any of the pilots was Jack.

By about four in the afternoon I was feeling cold, hungry and thirsty. I had intended to stay on at the side of the airfield as long as possible, but I had not planned properly. I left my position in the trees and started the long walk back to town.

The next day I killed time in the town during the morning and most of the afternoon. After lunch I telephoned the airfield and asked to speak to Jack. He was not available, so I left a message that I was staying at the White Hart in Barnham and would like him to contact me there. When I said that I was Jack’s brother, the officer who had answered the phone unbent a little and said he would pass on the message but added that Flight Lieutenant Sawyer would be on operational standby for a few more days.

I made suitable preparations for the second expedition, buying some sandwiches and a large bottle of lemonade from the pub. I dressed as warmly as I could.

It was already evening as I passed the main gate. In the west the clouds were clearing to reveal a golden sunset. It took me another twenty minutes to walk round the far end of the airfield to the thicket of trees. It was still just about light, a calm, silvery twilight. I stumbled through the small wood, making my way to the position I had found the day before.

As soon as I was there I realized that a raid of some kind was about to be launched. Low lights glinted from within one of the small buildings near the end of the runway. Several vehicles stood about, including a fire tender.

I waited, sitting with my back against the bole of a tree. I ate my sandwiches and drank the lemonade, keeping a watchful eye open for activity. When my back became sore I stood up, flexed my legs and arms, trying to ease the growing stiffness. Eventually things began to happen. Two people wobbled slowly down the side runway on bicycles, leaned them against the hut and went inside. A few minutes later, somewhere down in the main part of the airfield, I heard a plane starting its engines. Soon it was joined by another, then another, then more. Red and green signal lights fluttered along the runway, shone briefly and went out. I heard a telephone bell ringing.

The engine noise grew louder and in a few moments I saw the first of the bombers taxiing slowly down the side runway towards the turning point. It came slowly on, the wings rocking up and down as the plane lurched along the uneven surface. It passed only a short distance from me, turning towards the main runway but coming to a halt. The stream of air thrown back by the propellers blustered against me, tainted with the rich smell of gasoline.

Already a second bomber was lumbering down the side runway, with another following. On the far side of the airfield I could see others moving along too. The noise of the engines was swelling. The plane closest to me suddenly roared more loudly, the blast of air against me stiffening. The plane rolled to the end of the runway, turned smoothly, headed down the long concrete strip. At first it was travelling so slowly I was convinced a running man could easily overhaul it, but gradually the heavily loaded machine began to pick up speed. Green signal lights glared ahead of it.

A second Wellington was already moving from the far side to the end of the runway. The signal briefly turned red, then green again. The plane rumbled forward slowly, in a great commotion of power.

Behind it, the next plane was already taking up position.

I counted twenty-two aircraft in all. From the first plane to the last the whole procedure of launching them into the air lasted less than fifteen minutes. Silence fell on the airfield as the last plane climbed away into the gathering night.

Stumbling through the trees, I set off on the long walk back to the inn.

xx

For the next three days I took the walk along the country roads to the airfield, trying to see what was going on, making myself feel that in some way I was participating. I never failed to thrill to the spectacle of the heavy planes clawing their way into the air.

Early in the morning of the fourth day I was woken by the landlord of the White Hart, telling me in an aggrieved voice that I was wanted on the telephone. Dull with sleep, I followed him downstairs to the small phone cubicle at the back of the public bar. It was Jack.

He said he was surprised that I was there in Barnham, in the neighbourhood of the airfield, but he did not ask any questions over the telephone and suggested that we should meet straight away. He told me he was about to go on leave for forty-eight hours and was anxious to be on his way.

Once more I trudged along the road through flat Lincolnshire fields, arriving at the gate a little before ten in the morning. Jack was waiting for me. He was in the road outside the main entrance, smoking a cigarette and with a newspaper folded under his arm. He looked the picture of the romanticized RAF pilot that you sometimes saw in the newspapers and on the newsreels: young, dashing, carefree, taking on the Hun with bravery, good humour and an unwavering sense of British fair play. I couldn’t remember how long it was since we had last been together, but as soon as I saw him I felt a familiar surge of many of the old feelings about him: love, envy, resentment, admiration, irritation. He was still my brother.

Jack was in no good humour as I walked towards him.

‘What in blazes are you doing around here?’ he said at once, with no greetings, no expression of warmth, no hint that it must have been more than a year since our last meeting. ‘This is no place for civilians. Several of the patrols have seen you out there, hanging about on the perimeter fence. That makes people nervous. It was only because I was able to intervene that you haven’t been arrested.’

JL,’ I said. ‘It’s me. Can’t you even say hello?’

‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

‘I’m not doing any harm,’ I said. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

‘Lurking around in the woods at the end of the runway isn’t the way. Why didn’t you drop me a line first?’

‘It was something I did on an impulse. I have to talk to you face to face.’

‘Couldn’t you have put it in a letter?’

‘No, it’s too . . . sensitive. If it was opened by someone else -’

I saw something change in Jack’s expression: a fleeting evasiveness, a guilty look. He fiddled with the cigarette he was holding.

‘Would this be something to do with Birgit, by any chance?’ he said.

His question surprised me. ‘Birgit?’

‘The baby must be due soon. There isn’t anything going wrong, is there?’

‘No, it’s not about Birgit. Why should you think that?’

‘Are there any problems?’

‘Everything’s fine. We aren’t expecting the baby for at least another five weeks. At the end of next month.’

‘You’ve come away and left Birgit alone at home? In the last weeks of her pregnancy? How could you do that?’

I suppose that I too might have allowed a look of guilt to cross my face.

‘Look, JL, Birgit’s doing fine,’ I said. I could not rid my voice of a defensive note. ‘She’s a healthy girl and a neighbour’s keeping an eye on her while I’m away. I wouldn’t have left her if there was any risk. Anyway, I’m going home tomorrow’

‘So if it isn’t Birgit, what’s the important news that can’t wait?’

‘Can we find somewhere a bit less public to talk?’ We were a few yards away from the guardhouse at the airfield entrance, with several airmen in view. At least two or three of them were within hearing distance. With an inclination of my head I tried to make a wordless signal to Jack that I wanted to move away a little, but stubbornly he would not shift.

I moved closer to him, sensing his resistance to me. Speaking softly, I said, ‘I’m sticking my neck out to tell you this, JL. It’s as secret as anything can be. But I have information that the war is about to come to an end. Maybe in a week, two weeks. There’s going to be a cease-fire.’

Jack laughed sardonically, drew on the last of his cigarette, inhaled, and tossed the glowing end into a puddle.

‘You’ve come all the way here to tell me that?’

‘It’s absolutely true.’

‘So are the other rumours that go around a place like this every week.’

JL, this one isn’t a rumour. I know what I’m talking about.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true!’

‘A cease-fire is never going to happen,’ he said. ‘Even if it’s not a rumour. Even if there are some people who want one. Wars don’t suddenly end because somebody decides it’s time to stop. They go on being fought until one side or the other comes out on top.’

‘The last war ended with an armistice.’

‘That was different. In effect the Germans surrendered. No one’s going to start negotiating for peace now, on our side or theirs. The war has at last begun to go our way and we’re in too deep. We’ve gone beyond the point of no return and we have to see it through to the end.’

‘You sound like Churchill.’

‘Maybe I do. Is he suing for peace?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said, realizing how much I was blurting out from the store of confidential information with which I had been entrusted. ‘But it’s the real thing, I swear it. I’ve already said too much, but for various reasons Hitler wants to negotiate a cease-fire with Britain. Obviously something inside Germany is about to change, although I don’t know what. Whatever the reason, Hitler wants to make a separate peace with Britain.’

‘Since you mention Churchill, he would never stand for it.’

‘Churchill’s already talking.’

‘Talking? Churchill is talking to Hitler?’

‘Not directly. There are secret peace negotiations going on through intermediaries. This is why it’s dangerous for me to tell you. I’ve already let out more than I should.’

‘Your secret’s safe with me, Joe. Even if Churchill went mad and said he wanted to negotiate, the country wouldn’t let him. Not now, not after Dunkirk, not after the Blitz, not after the other sacrifices.’

‘It’s about to happen, whatever you say.’

‘How do you happen to know this, anyway?’

‘I obviously can’t tell you that. I’m only peripherally involved, but I do know what I’m talking about. It’s the real thing. There’s going to be an armistice and it’s going to be agreed soon. Perhaps even by next week.’

We had by this time, with unspoken consent, turned our backs on the airfield gate and were walking slowly along the grassy verge. JL offered me one of his cigarettes and we both lit up. I felt a quiet, unexpected surge of sentiment about being a twin again, if only in small things, walking together with my brother, smoking with him.

‘All right, let me suppose for one minute it’s true,’ Jack said. ‘What on earth is the point of me knowing it?’

‘You’ve got to come off operations, JL. Straight away. Couldn’t you apply for some kind of ground job? Every time you go out on a raid you’re in danger. There’s no point getting yourself killed now’

‘A lot of us tend to think there’s not much point being killed at any time.’

‘Why won’t you take me seriously?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Maybe you mean what you say because you have some special knowledge. Maybe you mean what you say anyway. Maybe you only think you mean it.’ I felt a stirring of resentment, a feeling that probably showed in my face. Jack, apparently reacting to it, went on, ‘All right, Joe, perhaps I even wish you meant it. But I can’t wander into my station commander’s office and tell him I don’t feel like flying any more. He’d take me down to the bar, buy me a beer and tell me not to go around with such bloody silly ideas. Anyway, there’s no point even discussing it. I don’t want to stop flying. What about my crew? Can I tell them too? What about the other crews? I can’t walk away from the squadron because my brother tells me a rumour - all right, passes me some information about the war coming to an end. Do I keep it a secret from the others? Then watch them go on putting themselves in danger? Or do you want us all to walk out?’

I heard the sound of aero engines in the background, caught by the wind and carried across the flat landscape, a growling reminder of war.

JL, I simply want you out of danger for a few days. I’ve been sworn to secrecy about the cease-fire, but I have to tell you about it because you’re my brother! I didn’t go so far as thinking about how you might work it out with the air force.’

It was the longest conversation Jack and I had had in years. We were standing still again, a few feet away from each other, side by side on the grassy verge of the country road. We kept drawing on our cigarettes, using them like punctuation, for emphasis. We weren’t exactly looking each other in the eye, but we were as close as we had ever been since we grew up. I was trying to take his measure, trying to cut through and eliminate the complicated network of memories, childhood, obsessive sports training, falling out, my marriage to Birgit, all the events that lay unfathomably between us, the subjects we were still touchy about, the arguments we never resolved, a maze of alert responses from which we could bounce off irretrievably in the wrong direction, separating us once again. I felt for a moment it might at last be possible to leave that behind us, simply become brothers once again, adult brothers, joined by our resemblance to each other rather than driven apart by it.

But then he said, ‘You don’t know what the hell the war’s about, do you?’

The moment of possible healing was lost. We both looked up as a black-painted Wellington bomber roared away from the runway behind us, climbing heavily into the air, drowning us with its ferocious noise.

I was shaken into wakefulness. A plane was passing low over the pub, the centre of the town, out there in the night. The engine noise vibrated the window glass and shook the floorboards.

I was not in bed. I had left the bed.

I was standing in my room at the White Hart, wearing my pyjamas, halfway between the bed and the window, one hand resting on the wall for support. I was blinded by the jolt from bright daylight to night-time darkness, the real world, the illogical reality of my life. Lucidity lay only in the mind.

I shook my head in frustration and disappointment, still feeling the daylight presence of my brother. I could taste the tobacco in my mouth and throat, felt I should exhale the cigarette smoke I had sucked in as the plane took off behind us. All that smoking, all that talking, somewhere out there in the mind, somewhere in nowhere at all.

I sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about Jack and what he and I had seemed to be discussing. It was a recapitulation of my own preoccupations, of course.

From time to time more planes flew low across the town.

Finally, feeling cold and isolated in the blacked-out night, aware of the silent town out there beyond the small window, I crawled back under the thin blankets, lay still, tried to feel warm again. I was wide awake, replete with unwelcome thoughts. I tried again and again to calm my mind, turned over in the narrow bed, seeking comfort. Time went by - eventually I must have drifted back to sleep.

I was woken by the landlord, hammering on the door of my bedroom and telling me in an aggrieved voice that I was wanted on the telephone. I rolled out of bed, dull with sleep. I followed him downstairs to the small cubicle at the back of the public bar. I picked up the phone. It was Jack.

As he spoke I was looking around at the empty bar room, remembering. I could hardly concentrate on what Jack was saying. I was thinking, This must be another lucid imagining!

Jack fell silent, apparently waiting for my reply. Then he asked me again: what had I wanted when I left the message at the adjutants office? I stumbled out with the words: I need to meet you, it won’t take long, can it be today? Now?

He sounded surprised but quickly agreed that we should meet straight away. He told me he was about to go on leave for forty-eight hours and was anxious to be on his way.

Once again, therefore, I walked the long road that lay between the flat Lincolnshire fields. I had plenty of time to think, to test the authenticity of what was happening. I made a deliberate attempt to observe what was around me, almost to measure it. 1 looked at the sheep as they grazed in the fields, saw the hedgerows that lined the road, felt the texture of the road surface itself, the sound of the light wind in the trees, testing these mundane impressions as if to find flaws in their reality. I was aware of myself: the feeling of the air temperature around me, a minor discomfort in one of my shoes, the aftermath of the greasy, undercooked breakfast grudgingly provided by the pub landlord, a growing impatience to resolve everything with Jack.

I continued to walk along, but instead of being impelled by the urgent need to see Jack, I was now more concerned with the nature of the world around me, the essential quality of its reality. I was certain I had entered another lucid imagining, but if so it was the first time I understood that fact almost from the start. Although I had experienced lucidly, I had never before thought lucidly too.

Was it a sign that the problem was coming to an end?

I carried on walking, the road between hedgerows, the fields, the unilluminating sky, the distant sound of aero engines.

I arrived at the airfield shortly before ten in the morning. I checked my wristwatch to make sure. Jack was already waiting for me outside the main gate. He was smoking a cigarette and had a newspaper folded under his arm. As soon as I saw him I felt a familiar surge of many of my old feelings about him: love, admiration, envy, resentment, irritation. He was still my brother.

He was looking the other way as I was walking towards him. Finally he glanced across and saw me, then looked away again immediately, with a guilty hunching of his shoulder. He took a drag on his cigarette and tossed it on the ground and crushed it beneath his foot. It looked to me unmistakably like a self-conscious signal of rejection. Months of frustration suddenly boiled up in me without warning.

As soon as we were close enough to speak, I said, ‘Look, JL, what’s been going on between you and my wife?’

I winced inside to hear myself say the words. Even to myself I sounded hectoring, weak, irritable, negligible. My voice trembled on the brink of falsetto.

Jack looked startled. ‘Is that what you’ve come all this way to say?’

‘Answer the question. Are you up to something with Birgit?’

‘Hello, Joe,’ JL said calmly. ‘It’s good to see you again after all this time, brother of mine. Couldn’t you even say hello before starting in on me?’

‘You always were a sarcastic bastard.’

‘Joe, for heaven’s sake, calm down!’

I was about to shout something in rage at him, but at the last moment I realized how close we were to the guardhouse by the gate. Several airmen were in view.

‘You’ve got to tell me,’ I said, suddenly finding myself out of breath. ‘What’s been happening at home while I wasn’t there?’

‘Let’s take a walk,’ JL said, inclining his head to indicate we should move away a little, but stubbornly I would not shift. JL turned to face me directly and spoke softly. ‘Birgit’s your wife, Joe. Why do you think I would get involved with her?’

‘Do you deny it?’

‘The way you mean it, of course I deny it.’

‘Do you deny you’ve been to my house while I was away?’

Joe, it’s not what you think.’

‘Don’t tell me what I’m thinking!’

‘You kept going away and Birgit hardly ever knew where you were.’ Jack was keeping the sound of his voice level. It made me listen to what he was saying, even though anger and resentment were still clamouring within me. ‘OK, Joe, some of that time you were missing and that wasn’t your fault, but until the police located you Birgit thought you had been killed. She has no phone at the house, the people at the Red Cross either didn’t know where you were or wouldn’t tell her. And surely I don’t have to tell you what she’s been going through since the war began? Half the people in the village think she’s a German fifth columnist. The government keeps threatening to lock her up. She’s pregnant. She’s convinced her parents have been murdered. You were away somewhere. What she wanted - I’ll tell you what she wanted, though I’m certain that in this mood you won’t believe me. She was lonely, needed a friend and above all else she wanted to speak German for a while.’

‘You went all the way over there and spoke German to her!’

‘She was desperate for company, someone she knew and could relax with. You know that Birgit and I have always been close friends. From all the way back, in Berlin.’

‘You never made much of a secret of it.’

‘Why should I? I’m extremely fond of her. It’s even true I was once madly in love with her, but that was years ago and you put an end to it. She’s been your wife for all this time. Joe, she loves you so much! Can’t you believe I respect that?’

When had Jack been madly in love with Birgit? I hadn’t known that.

‘So what did you two talk about in German?’ I said jealously, wanting to know but also sounding sarcastic. Jack and I were so much alike.

‘I can’t remember. It wasn’t important. Whatever it is that friends talk about.’

‘Important enough for you to travel all that way to visit her.’

Joe, I told you why.’

We had by this time, with unspoken consent, turned our backs on the airfield gate and were walking slowly along the grassy verge. JL offered me one of his cigarettes and we both lit up. I felt a quiet, unexpected surge of sentiment about being a twin brother again, if only in small things, walking together, smoking together. The sound of aero engines struck up again, much closer and louder, caught by the wind and carried across the flat countryside, a growling reminder of war.

‘JL, at least tell me this. Was it you who made Birgit pregnant?’

A gust of wind made the engines seem louder. The cigarette I had taken from Jack had been in its packet too long, or it had been crushed while it was carried around. It was flattened and loose-packed. When I sucked on it, tiny fragments of glowing tobacco flared up from the end. How long had Jack been smoking? It was the longest conversation I had had with my brother in years. We were standing still again, a few feet away from each other, side by side on the grassy verge of the country road. We kept drawing on our cigarettes, using them like punctuation, for emphasis. We weren’t exactly looking each other in the eye but we were as close as we had ever been since we had grown up. I was angrily trying to take his measure, whether he was lying to me or telling me a simple truth.

‘Come on, JL! Was it you?’

‘You don’t know what the hell Birgit wants or needs, do you?’ he said, in an almost despairing voice.

We both turned in surprise as a black-painted Wellington bomber lifted away from the runway behind us, climbing heavily into the air, deafening us with the ferocious noise of its engines. I waved my fist in frustration, knowing what was about to happen.

As the darkness of the night fell around me a plane was passing low over the roof of the pub, flying across the centre of the sleeping town, out there in the night. The reverberations from the engine noise shook the window glass.

I was not in bed. I had left the bed. I was standing next to it, wearing my pyjamas, in the narrow gap that ran alongside, halfway between the bed and the window, one of my hands resting on the wall for support. I felt stray tobacco strands sticking to my lips. I picked them away with my fingertips, licking my lips to clear them.

I sagged with depression. I did not try to go back to sleep again but crouched uncomfortably on the floor of the room beneath that small and inadequate window, watching the dawn light slowly spreading across the low grey clouds.

In the morning, as soon as I heard the landlord moving around downstairs and before there was any risk of the telephone in the bar ringing, I paid my bill at the inn and began the long journey home, following the interminable and indirect train-route across England. It took me another day and a half of tedious travelling and waiting for connections. We were in the first week of May, the month our baby was due to arrive.

Mrs Gratton and Harry were both in the house when I walked in and they made me a cup of tea. They told me Birgit was asleep upstairs. Everything was going well, Mrs Gratton said, no cause for concern, the baby was due to arrive on time, but they were waiting for a visit from the doctor. Birgit had spent an uncomfortable night.

I went upstairs as soon as she woke and we spent an hour or more together until the doctor came to visit her. I heard Birgit tell him she was suffering worse back pains than before and that her legs were swollen and were losing sensation. The doctor reassured her it would not be long before her troubles were at an end.

When everyone had left the house, Birgit gave me the small pile of letters that had arrived for me while I was away. Prominent among them was a letter in a typewritten envelope, posted in London two days earlier. It was from Dr Carl Burckhardt and it requested me to meet him in London in two days’ time.

xxi

In normal times I suppose it would probably take ten or fifteen minutes to stroll from the YMCA near Holborn to Admiralty House in Trafalgar Square, but on the morning of May 7, in the immediate aftermath of a raid, it turned out to be an arduous expedition. Many of the streets were blocked by fallen buildings and detours were necessary. Fire engines and ambulances were moving around constantly and at several of the worst places of bomb or fire damage the rescue workers were still digging and pulling at the fallen masonry in search of anyone trapped inside. Flood water from broken mains was in every street. Bulldozers were attempting to remove the worst of the wreckage from the streets. My walk, which began in the spirit of curiosity and discovery, ended with my hurrying along, concerned not to get in the way of the emergency services, trying not to notice the many pathetic and touching scenes of damage and loss.

I was shocked to realize how quickly I had forgotten what hell the bombing brought.

In common with many of the official buildings in the area, Admiralty House looked like a fortress: at ground level every inch of the perimeter was protected by walls of sandbags about twelve feet high. Above, the windows were sealed with metal shutters. Clearly, it would be no more able to withstand a direct hit from a high-explosive bomb than any other building, but it was certainly intended to survive almost everything else.

Dr Burckhardt, together with two other officials, was waiting for me in a small anteroom along the main hallway. He greeted me effusively, speaking in excellent English with what I discerned to be a cultivated accent.

‘Our meeting is to be delayed somewhat,’ he said, after we had reassured each other that we were well and in good order. ‘Because of the raid last night, the Prime Minister felt he should go on a short personal tour of some of the worst-hit areas. He says it is the best morale-raiser he knows. There is some tea here, if you would like a drink.’

For the next hour we waited, usually in silence, engaging only in small talk. Throughout our wait, the door to the room was open. From my seat I could see along most of the hallway outside. When Mr Churchill arrived he did so without fuss or ceremony. I saw the shadows of movement beside the main entrance as people passed through the narrow corridor created by the high banks of sandbags, then a man in a civilian suit walked in. He was closely followed by the familiar figure of the Prime Minister, who was dressed in a brown overcoat and tall-crowned hat and carrying a cane. He wore a gas-mask case on a strap hung across his shoulder. As he began to divest himself of all this, more of his entourage came into the hallway behind him: two or three more civilians, uniformed senior members of the navy, army and air force, and a superintendent of police. Churchill nodded to these people briefly and shook hands with them, then walked down the hallway towards us. He was accompanied by one other man.

We stood up quickly as he came in. He was not as short as I had imagined him to be. He was slimmer about the waist too. He was also much more spry and youthful in his movements than I had anticipated. To see his famous face so close up was, in spite of my many hostile feelings about him in the past, a considerable experience.

Finally, he spoke. ‘Let me apologize for keeping you waiting, gentlemen. I realize how important your mission to see me is, but as you no doubt know we suffered a serious raid last night. I like to get about to see the people if I can. However, I am ready to proceed.’

We followed him out of the room, Dr Burckhardt walking alongside the Prime Minister as we ascended a wide, curving staircase. The interior of the building was gloomy, because the windows were shuttered and the electric light bulbs which were in use were low-powered, but it was still possible to glimpse the grandeur of the famous building, from which Britain’s naval operations were directed. I glanced at my wristwatch - it was eleven fifteen.

xxii

Our plane flew low over the rooftops of Stockholm, a grey-and-silver city whose outlines were delineated by sparkling channels of sunlit water. We landed on the lake called Stora Varten, to the north-east of the centre of the city, in a great plume of white spray that splashed against the cabin portholes like a cascade of pebbles. The flying-boat swooped sharply down and up while we still travelled at speed on the surface of the water, but when the pilot held down the aircraft’s nose the noise briefly increased as the plane was slowed by the friction of the water. My own seat was fairly close to the front of the cabin, looking out through the porthole beneath the starboard wing.

The forward part of the cabin was curtained off not far in front of my seat. Once again, we in the rear part of the aircraft had to wait while the dignitaries at the front disembarked. This time it was not as straightforward a matter as it had been on land. I watched as a motor-boat came out from the shore and tied up beneath the wing. The Duke of Kent and his entourage boarded the boat in my full view, but by this time the secrecy surrounding the Duke’s presence was a formality for most of us on the aircraft.

By the time the rest of us had disembarked and been taken at high speed to the centre of the city, it was getting dark. Most of the delegates stayed in a large hotel in the city. In the morning we were driven out into the countryside, to a beautiful mansion set in a secluded position, surrounded by forest and overlooking a wide lake. As before, I was assigned to the document team, a job I relished. The important difference on this occasion was that I was placed in overall charge of the team, something I thought a great honour.

However, it was soon apparent that it was not to be a rerun of the earlier meeting.

Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess was expected to arrive in Stockholm during the night, but clearly something had gone wrong while he was en route. He did not appear at the first session, which naturally enough meant the talks were not able to start.

While we were settling down in the palatial rooms of the mansion, his absence noted by all, rumours began to spread. At first they were sensational stories: Hess had been sidelined by Goering, Hess’s plane had been shot down, Hitler had ordered Hess not to attend, and so on. From Count Bernadotte’s team of assistants - it turned out that the estate belonged to the count, although he was not present in person - we learned that none of the rumours was true and that the talks were merely delayed for a few hours for unavoidable reasons.

With no facts we could rely on, all we could do was wait until the position became clearer. Dr Burckhardt, who obviously knew no more than any of us, counselled patience. We remained in a state of suspension through the morning, took an early lunch, then returned to our various places.

Midway through the afternoon, without prior warning, three black Daimler limousines approached the house at some speed. Attracted by the sound and the movement, several members of our translation team moved to the window to see what was happening. Hess was travelling in the first car. As soon as it halted he climbed down, briefly scanned the facade of the house then strode into the building.

xxiii

Within fifteen minutes of Hess’s arrival a plenary session of the conference was called. All the various auxiliaries, like myself, were allowed into the main negotiating hall, the first time I had seen inside. It was set out so that the main tables formed a large equilateral triangle: the British representatives were placed on one side, the Germans on another and the representatives of the neutral governments, the Red Cross and the Quaker negotiators were seated along the third. A huge spray of flowers had been placed in the floor space between the tables.

As we assembled, the auxiliary workers being requested to sit in three rows of chairs placed behind the Red Cross, it was noticeable that all the seats at the German table were occupied but for the one in the centre.

We settled into silence, an air of great expectancy hovering in the room.

After we had waited about a minute, Rudolf Hess appeared from a side door and walked briskly into the hall, his face a mask of impassivity, looking to neither side. He was dressed in the uniform of a Luftwaffe officer. We rose to our feet. Hess, taking up his central place at the German table, nodded imperiously and we resumed our seats.

Speaking without the aid of notes, Hess then addressed the delegates.

‘[My good gentlemen, I apologize for my late appearance at this most important meeting,]’ he began. ‘[I fully intended to be here on time and, as our hosts in such a splendid house already know, we representatives from the Reich had already requested that our negotiations should adhere to a strict timetable. My lateness has ruined those plans. I regret if this fact has made it seem, even temporarily, that the German government has lost its enthusiasm for peace with honour to both sides. I can assure you that is not so.

‘[I was, however, delayed in a way that everyone here, when they learn the facts, will agree was unavoidable. Yesterday evening, while I was flying to this country, as dark was falling over the sea, the plane, which I was piloting myself, was attacked by an unknown number of fighter aircraft. Although I did manage to escape unharmed, as you can see, it was not without serious damage to my aircraft. I regret to say that my fellow crewman, Hauptmann Alfred Horn, was killed during the incident. The plane was also damaged to such an extent that I was forced to make an unscheduled landing in Denmark. I have reached here today by other means.

‘[It was not possible for me to identify the nationality of my attackers’ aircraft. They came at me suddenly and from behind and broke off to the side when they thought they had mortally damaged my plane. However, certain suspicions do arise. It could have been that the fighter aircraft were British, patrolling above the sea in search of aircraft like mine. There were in fact British incursions against Germany last night, so bombers were in the vicinity. But British fighters do not normally patrol so far out to sea, unless in this case there was a special reason. Could it be that subversive elements within the British cadres somehow knew that I was planning to be flying last night and that being in opposition to peace they sent out the fighters to ambush me? If so, it would mean there was a breach of security and confidentiality concerning my plans, which could place our talks in jeopardy.]’

Here the Deputy Führer paused, folding his arms across his chest with a theatrical gesture. He deliberately stared around the room, looking slowly at all of us who were there. It was a dreadful moment, because the man’s anger was plain to see. His deep-set eyes beneath the distinctive bushy eyebrows gave out a challenge to everyone. His gaze lingered on the British contingent. Of course, no one acknowledged that they knew of the ambush, because it was inconceivable that anyone there would wish to sabotage the talks.

‘[The other possibility,]’ Hess continued, ‘[would be that the aircraft were sent by a dissident faction from my own side. Under normal circumstances that would constitute high treason. In comparison with it, an attack by the RAF would seem a relatively minor matter, an intelligible act of war. At this moment, though, circumstances within Germany are far from normal. Everyone here today knows that. We all face problems of acceptance of these plans within our caucuses at home. Let us not pretend otherwise. In such a way, and if it is behind what happened to me last night, I am inclined to treat it as a minor matter.

‘[I can assure you once again that I am here with the full authority and agreement of the Leader and that he and I are determined to forge peace with our present enemies, the British. The events of last night have only concentrated my mind more closely on the need for a rapid agreement. I emphasize that the German government does not urge peace from a position of weakness. We seek peace with honour for both sides, based on parity.

‘[I therefore announce unilaterally that I and my negotiators are prepared to reach final agreement in the swiftest way possible, and that the many small problems that arose as we tried earlier to frame our armistice will be treated, at least by us, as minor or insignificant. At the worst we can adjourn areas of small disagreement until a later meeting, in the spirit of reaching a concord about the main issue between us.]’

Hess sat down suddenly. After a moment or two of silence, several members of the neutral representatives uttered growls of agreement and approval. One or two of the British rapped their knuckles on the table. It was a half-hearted response, one that evidently did not please the Deputy Führer. He scowled around for a moment, then looked to his own entourage. They stood up hastily, raised their arms high and began clapping loudly. At this, Hess once again rose to his feet and applause broke out all round the hall. It sounded to me polite rather than enthusiastic, but Hess seemed satisfied with it.

We returned to the document room, to find that while we had been in the plenary session Hess’s aides had delivered pre-pre-pared draft documents for translation and incorporation into the texts from the earlier meeting. I took charge, swiftly allocating tasks to the team, making sure that the non-executive observers from the Red Cross and the Quakers had full access to each worker. I settled down to work on the section of the wording I set aside for myself. The room was soon filled with the purposeful sounds of typewriters. Smoke rose from cigarettes; jackets came off.

Not long afterwards, the familiar sequence of negotiating procedures began to unfold: completed texts were checked, proofread, identified as to context, copied. Once I had approved the translation or précis, it was taken through to the teams of secondary negotiators for their consideration and revision. In the meantime, more texts were being drafted in conference, and they in turn were brought to the document room for our minor revisions and editorial insertions.

Gradually we saw the revamped armistice document taking shape, an absorbing and satisfying process.

What soon became noticeable was the amount of energy emanating from the German side of the room. It had not been like that in Cascais: the German proposals and responses then were full of feints and diversions, a series of attempts to achieve small advantages over the other side. Now it was different: it was the British who were on the defensive, objecting, compromising, quibbling, trying to nullify offers with counter-proposals.

Although I was technically a neutral in the negotiations, I was of course British-born and had spent nearly the whole war inside Britain. I was used to the subtle British propaganda put out by the various government ministries. It routinely portrayed the Germans as the sole aggressors, the wrongdoers, the invaders, the killers of innocents, and much else besides. Truth resides somewhere deep inside propaganda, but in a war neither side has a monopoly on it. In Stockholm I began to understand the Germans’ position: many of the British responses were inflexible, stubborn, pettifogging, often contradictory and tinged with a moralistic tone.

At ten in the evening Dr Burckhardt sent word to our team that we should stand down for the night. The main conference was being adjourned for twelve hours. As we raised our heads, we realized that we had been working without a break more or less since the end of Hess’s speech. I was not only exhausted, I was famished too. I knew everyone else must be the same, so we broke off from our tasks with relief, leaving unfinished whatever we were doing. It was not long before we were being driven back to the hotel in Stockholm, where a late supper was waiting for us.

In the morning, refreshed a little, we returned to Count Bernadotte’s country house.

xxiv

The page on which I had been working the evening before was still in the roller of the typewriter. I sat down, loosened my tie and took off my jacket. Someone opened the window shutters to let in the morning sunlight. I read through the last few lines of the translation, thinking myself back into what I needed to do. I had been working on a position paper drawn up by the British negotiators, who were concerned with the German idea of parity. It was seen by both sides as central to the peace accord. Hess, the day before, had used the German word Gleichheit, which in English translated as ‘parity’ with the meaning of ‘equality of interest’. To the British team, equality of interest was neither quite what they wanted it to mean nor what they thought (or hoped) Hess had meant to convey. They preferred to substitute ‘equality of rights’ {Parität), or ‘equality of status’ (gleiche Stellung), phrases loaded with significance when it was remembered that Churchill insisted on signing the armistice himself. It was obvious he would have nothing to do with a deal which implied that the British were losing the war and had sued for peace, which might be the interpretation if the only equality that was admitted with Germany was one of vested interests. I had been trying to decide what to do about the problem - was it a question of interests, rights or status? - when we closed down for the night.

I stared at the sentence, trying to concentrate.

I was still sleepy, a condition that ever since my episodes of lucid imaginings made me apprehensive. I was somewhat reassured by my hurried consultation with the psychologist, Mr Clark, who seemed to think the problem was at an end, but to me nothing was certain. Most of those episodes had occurred when I was sleeping or sleepy. I was concerned that I had hardly slept during the night and that I had started the morning feeling unrested.

I found myself thinking about the different meanings of ‘parity’, in English as well as in German.

It was a concept I grew up with: parity in all things is a concern of identical twins, often in a contradictory way. We wanted to be equal in the eyes of our parents but to be favoured by them, to become individuals with independent lives while remaining twins, to develop separately while retaining a special bond.

Perhaps this was what Hess was trying to suggest: introductory material to the draft agreement spoke sentimentally of a tradition of brotherhood between Britain and Germany, twin countries, forever joined, forever separate, benevolent neutrals. The Germans described what they saw as common cultural purpose, innate likeness between the two peoples, a shared sense of civilized responsibility. Fine words, so long as you did not consider the war. That was what they sought: to remove the war, to strengthen the natural bond.

Was it a coincidental clue about me and my brother Jack?

Through over-concentration I was becoming blind to the subtleties of meaning that existed between the various translations, so I called over one of the constitutional lawyers and asked his advice. One of the Quaker advisers who was from Germany sat with us while we discussed it. Semantic nuances were a concern of us all. Our work with the documents took place in a situation where diplomacy, language and national interests intersected. The lawyer considered for a moment, then said he thought that gleiche Stellung, parity of status, would be the correct way to express the concept. The German Quaker agreed. We consulted an official from the German Embassy in Stockholm, a member of the document group, and he also thought that was right. Gradually we crept to agreement. It went into the next version of the draft, submitted to our principals in the main conference hall.

Not wanting to work everyone to exhaustion again, I used my discretion as leader of the team and called a thirty-minute break in the middle of the morning. Several of us walked downstairs and out into the grounds, admiring the cold peacefulness of the pine forest and the large, calm lake. Birds flew noisily and freely in the neutral air. I remembered many of the other document workers from the days in Cascais; our mood was different here. In Portugal there had been the exhilaration of possibilities - an armistice was an enthralling prospect. Now that peace was in sight we simply wanted to conclude the process and the work was more of a grind. Most of the translators drifted back to their desks long before the end of the break period.

We had resumed work when I was summoned to Dr Burckhardt’s office, a small room next to the main conference chamber.

‘[It has been agreed by the principals that the talks will end by 6 p.m. today,]’ he said brusquely. ‘[There will not be an extension beyond that time. Anything that has not been settled by then will have to remain unsettled. Do you think you and your team can complete all documents?]’

‘[Yes, sir, if we have the texts to work with. There have been no obstacles so far. Everything seems to be working smoothly]’

‘[Good. No one is expecting any real problems at this late stage, but you never know.]’

He said nothing about the reason for the decision, so I assumed it had been adopted as an artificial but agreed deadline, to make sure that the negotiations would not drag on for ever.

We therefore entered the last and hardest period of translating and editing, reacting to the increased amount of discussion that was taking place between the principals. We did not stop for lunch but were provided with a cold buffet from which we took what we needed. There was a burst of extra activity soon afterwards, but then the pressure began to ease. By mid-afternoon I was able to delegate the actual drafting work that I would have done myself and by four o’clock at least half the team had no more work piled up on their desks. Half an hour later, the last document was sent through to the principal negotiators and their advisers.

Everyone in the document team had seen sections of the draft armistice, sometimes many times over. A few of us had been able to see the whole thing. I knew to my own satisfaction that it was as nearly complete as it was possible to be. It was an intriguing, complex document, almost shocking in the way it confronted what a few weeks before would have been unthinkable. For all the complexity of the ideas and principles the armistice addressed, and the difficulties we had sometimes found in writing them down, we finished the work an hour and a half before the deadline.

In the period of calm that followed, an unreal sense of euphoria mixed with apprehension settled on me. The impossible seemed to be about to happen: the war would end. At the same time, the thought of the armistice going wrong at the last minute was terrible, with the USA, the Soviet Union and Japan being drawn into a global conflagration.

All international treaties are as significant for what they don’t say as for what they do. Every page I had worked on was heavy with unstated fears about a wider war.

I was pacing about on the lawn beneath our window, feeling chilled by the easterly wind but needing a few minutes of solitude, when I was approached by a man I recognized as one of Dr Burckhardt’s staff.

‘[Mr Sawyer, if you would be so kind. Your presence is requested.]’

The formal courtesy of the man’s words and manner indicated the call was something special. On the way back into the house I grabbed my jacket from my desk and quickly combed my hair. At that moment I had no idea what to expect, but assumed it must be connected with the document work.

Dr Burckhardt was waiting in his office and as soon as I appeared he stood up. We shook hands.

‘[Mr Sawyer, I am as grateful as ever for your contribution to the agreement. Like everyone else here, you will see shortly the fruits of everyone’s efforts, against which my own thanks will be nothing. In the meantime, though, I have received an unusual request. I wonder if you would be good enough to speak privately to Herr Hess?]’

‘[In some kind of official capacity, Dr Burckhardt? On behalf of the Red Cross?]’

‘[He has asked for you by name and requested that no note-taker or interpreter should be present.]’

‘[But what is it about?]’

‘[I don’t know, Mr Sawyer.]’

He indicated that I should follow him. We walked along a short corridor that led away from his office. At the end was a wide hall that opened at the bottom of a grand staircase and beyond it was a double door, decorated with gilt inlays and rococo decals.

xxv

Dr Burckhardt closed the doors behind me as I went through. I was immediately aware of the vast size of the room - a long lounge, with several clusters of easy chairs and settees arranged around low tables - but had no time to take in the rest. Rudolf Hess was standing by himself a short distance from the door, waiting for me. His hands were clasped behind his back and his broad figure was silhouetted against the daylight from the large window behind him.

‘[Good afternoon, Mr Sawyer,]’ he said at once, in his curiously tenor voice.

‘[Good afternoon, Herr Deputy Führer.]’

He shook my hand in an odd way, vigorously but with his fingers gripping weakly, then led me through the room to where two large armchairs faced each other across a wide table. A tall, glass-fronted bookcase, stacked neatly with uniformly bound editions, loomed over us. A jug of coffee had been placed on the table, together with a selection of cakes. Neither of us sat down but stood self-consciously near the window. Because it was on the other side of the building from where we had been working, the room faced across a part of the estate I had not seen before: a short distance away from the main house was a long row of single-storey buildings, stables perhaps, which fronted a paved yard. Many large cars were parked there.

‘[We have much to celebrate, do we not?]’ said Hess.

‘[Yes ... it is a great achievement.]’

‘[And with time left over. We hoped to be finished by six, but we find we have slightly more than an hour to spare. I have seized the chance to speak to you alone. We have a great deal to look forward to. At last the way is paved for change in the world. England and Germany will be friends once more. An important alliance with consequences that will be felt around the world, the foundation of a new Europe.]’

‘[Yes, sir.]’

I glanced around the room, feeling nervous of the man. As Dr Burckhardt had said, there were no aides present and the long room was empty.

‘[The last time we spoke together you were not certain we had met before. I assume that you do remember our conversation at the Mouth of Hell?]’

‘[Of course, sir.]’

‘[You said you were unsure of your neutral status. An Englishman who competed as a sportsman for his country, yet one who claimed to be a neutral in all other things. An interesting position. Let us enjoy coffee and cakes.]’

Hess indicated the refreshments on the table, but I was suddenly gripped with fear of the man. Two rooms away from us, no doubt under close guard by several groups, there existed an immense document of several dozen pages, written in the two main languages of English and German, with summaries prepared in French and Swedish, which ordained that peace had been forged between Hess’s country and mine. But it was as yet unratified, unsigned by either government. Until then, this man was a prominent member of the regime that was enemy to the country where I had been born. The conflict he detected in me, that of nationality against neutrality, was largely the result of Germany’s aggressive actions against other countries. He spoke of restoring friendship between our two countries, yet throughout my life Germany had been synonymous with threats to peace, persecution of its own people and military invasions of other countries. I was neutral not because of uncertain loyalties between countries, but because I loathed war.

Hess bent over the table, pouring himself a black coffee and selecting for himself two small cakes covered with a thick layer of dark chocolate. I had not seen such delicacies for nearly two years, because of the rigorous food rationing at home. Hess popped one of the cakes, whole, into his mouth, scattering crumbs as he worked it around.

‘[So how do you feel, my friend Sawyer, now that we have peace at last?]’ Hess said, chewing on the cake. Dark crumbs were sticking to his protruding teeth.

‘[I am relieved, of course. I suppose it is what I have been hoping and working for]’

‘[To you English, peace will mean the end of fighting. No doubt you will be thankful for that. But for Germany it will be different. The peace will bring the dawning of a new age. Much will change. You must come to Germany and see what I mean.]’

‘[Thank you, sir. I should like to do that, at some time in the future.]’

‘[No, I do not mean to make polite conversation. I have a purpose in wanting to meet you. I have spoken to Dr Burckhardt and he speaks highly of you, as well he should. I can see with my own eyes that you are a fine young man. I would wish to explain to you in detail what is about to happen within Germany, but for the time being I cannot. All I can say is that after today, once our peace has been signed, many changes will take place. They will occur at the highest levels of our country. Do I make myself clear to you?]’

‘[I’m sure you’re right, Herr Hess, but my place is in England-]’

‘[At the highest levels, you must understand. Within one week from now - I can say no more than I already have. Events will have to take their course. There is likely to be a period of upheaval in Berlin, and for the sake of continuity I shall need around me trusted people whose grasp on Germany’s international role is beyond question. The appointment I am suggesting would be an administrative one, technically as a junior diplomatic officer attached to the civil service, but it would in reality have wide-ranging executive powers. The title would be Group Leader of Schooling and Morality. Schule und Moral is the department I have myself been administering in Berlin for several years and through its networks to the regions I have been able to keep control of all intelligence matters. The position I created will soon be vacant. We would work in close personal propinquity, you and I. The office is a pleasant one, situated in Unter den Linden, on the corner of Neue Wilhelmstrasse. In fact it is immediately opposite the building that was until recently the British Embassy. I dare say that the embassy will soon resume its former function, a proximity I expect you will find not only amusing but useful, as I have done in the past.]’

I could only stare uncomprehendingly at him. He put the second cake in his mouth, worked it around, then slurped at his coffee to wash some of it down.

‘[So what do you say, Mr Sawyer?]’

‘[Are you offering me a job in Berlin, Herr Hess?]’

‘[I could give the job to any one of a thousand, ten thousand, young people in Germany and each of them would be loyal to the great cause. But I am looking ahead to the days when the cease-fire will have taken permanent effect. Not long from now Britain and Germany will be instrumental in building a strong Europe, a coming together of the two dominant nations of the modern age. Imagine a joining of the cultures that between them have given the world Goethe and Shakespeare, Wagner and Gershwin. The challenges ahead will require the best young people from both countries to take up positions in the capital cities of their former enemies. I simply suggest that you might like to be among the first. What do you say?]’

If he had asked me what I thought, rather than what I was going to say, I could have told him the answer was no, then and there. But thinking and saying were not at all the same.

I found his company intimidating, intrusive and coarse, making me dissemble. All through these high-flown ideas he was chewing and swallowing the sticky cake, using a fingernail to dislodge the crumbs from between his front teeth. He also had a disconcerting habit of approaching and standing too close when he spoke. I could smell his breath and a scent of some kind of oil he used on his hair. He was not wearing the Luftwaffe uniform on this day, but was in dark-grey trousers and a beige shirt, with a tie clipped neatly to the front. He had a way of turning his head slightly to one side, then rolling his eyes back to gaze at me, which each time briefly gave him a frantic, somewhat deranged appearance.

‘[I think I really need time to consider, Herr Hess.]’

‘[Yes, indeed. I expected you to say that. What exactly do you need to think about and for how long?]’

‘[I love working for the Red Cross and I have not given a thought to leaving.]’

‘[All that sort of work will of course end when the war finishes. In the new Europe we will have no need of the Red Cross. One month from now you will be without a job. That must surely decide the matter for you.]’

‘[There would be other considerations, too.]’

‘[Name them.]’

‘[Well, for one thing, sir, I am married. My wife is expecting our first baby-]’

‘[She may come to Berlin too. Bring the child. There is no problem with that.]’

If until that moment a tiny particle of me might have been tempted, I knew that what he was proposing was out of the question. With the Nazi regime still in power, no matter what the ‘changes’ would turn out to be, Birgit would never return to Berlin. It crossed my mind to wonder if Hess might, perhaps, know something about Birgit’s background. After all, he claimed to have kept control of what he described as intelligence. It was a disquieting thought to have in the company of this powerful man.

Hess took a third cake, a rectangular piece of yellow sponge, coated with what looked like marzipan. He bit it in half, apparently disliked the taste and threw the second piece aside. It landed on the floor, close to the base of the large bookcase. He looked around for somewhere to dispose of the piece he already had in his mouth but finally spat it out on the carpet. He drained his coffee, swirling it noisily around his teeth, then refilled his cup.

‘[Whatever your objections,]’ Hess went on, ‘[you will come to Berlin shortly. All things will be possible soon. You need not decide until then. But let me tell you I have made up my mind. I think you are greatly suited to work with me.]’

‘[Thank you, Herr Deputy Führer.]’

I was hoping that would signal the end of the meeting, but Hess suddenly turned away from me and returned to the large window overlooking the stables.

‘[Ah!]’ he said expressively. ‘[We have important company. So soon. They were not due to arrive for another hour or so. Your Royal Air Force is reliable in some matters, I think.]’

I too looked through the window and in a moment saw what Hess was talking about. A short height above the pine forest, about half a mile away towards the west, a four-engined flying-boat, painted white all over, was passing right to left from our point of view. It was so low that for much of the time it was out of sight behind some of the hills in the near distance.

‘[I can’t see any markings,]’ I said. ‘[Why do you say it is the RAF?]’

‘[We should go down to the lake to be a welcoming party!]’ Hess said abruptly. ‘[I shall be there too, in good time, but I was not expecting the arrival so soon.]’

He indicated that I should leave the room. I opened the door and held it for him. He stepped through, leaving a hazy smell of body odour and hair-oil in his wake. There was no one else in the hall. Hess turned back to me and shook my hand again, with the same finger limpness as before.

‘[You must be there when the plane disembarks its passengers,]’ he said. ‘[I think you will find that on board there is a great surprise for you, Mr Sawyer!]’

He raised one hand, then hurried up the wide staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

Thinking that I should immediately report what Hess had been saying to me, I went quickly to Dr Burckhardt’s office and knocked on his door. When there was no answer I eased the door open and peered inside - the room was empty.

I went back to the wide hall, remembering that on the far side, beyond the staircase, there were doors leading to the outside. I hurried through, coming out at the top of a double flight of stone steps that descended to the perfectly laid driveway circling round in front of them.

Before me was an astonishing sight. Most of the people I had been working with in the house, plus many others, were hurrying down the sloping ground in the direction of the lake. Nearly all of them were on foot, scurrying across the grass towards the wooden landing-stage that stretched out into the lake. Clearly the plane had turned up before it was expected. Two black limousines were driving along one of the parkways, vanishing in and out of the trees as they too made towards the wooden pier. The white plane was in view now, the sound of its engines droning across the silent forests. The aircraft was heading away from us but flying low alongside the huge lake that was part of the mansion’s estate.

I walked quickly down the steps and began to cross the long sloping lawn towards the lake. In the far distance, the white aircraft was starting to turn, heading back to us.

As I watched it, I was stricken with a thought that almost paralysed me. I came to a halt, feeling completely isolated.

I had been fighting off a feeling of unreality all day, assuming that overwork and the late night were taking their toll. I had lost a great deal of sleep in the weeks leading up to the conference. There was anyway a sense of the fantastic about the whole day’s proceedings: the rapid progress towards completing the treaty, the huge house and its isolated grounds, the interview with Rudolf Hess. And on top of it all there was something Hess had said: his unusual emphasis on the RAF, his prediction that there was a surprise for me on board the plane.

I believed I knew what that surprise might be. I dreaded that I would be right.

Almost all my episodes of lucid imaginings directly or indirectly involved my brother and led to a confrontation, which in turn led to an abrupt return to my real life. I was certain as I stood there in the cool northern sunlight, watching the white plane skimming low above the tops of the trees, that when the aircraft landed I would discover that the pilot was my brother.

I glanced around at the placid Swedish scenery, the forest, the lake, the grand house, the scattered group of my colleagues hurrying down to greet the aircraft. How could I be imagining anything so subtle, complex, apparently unpredictable? Should I let the hallucination continue around me, or should I back away from it? Once before, ultimately to my regret, I had decided to let it run, but also, in the past, I had foreshortened the experience when I realized what it was. Both events had traumatizing effects on me.

Two of the Quaker negotiators from the document team had left the house behind me. Now they passed me on their way down the long lawn.

‘[Mr Sawyer, are you not happy to be at the lake?]’

‘[Yes, I am going there now,]’ I said, forced to push my despair into the background.

I fell into step beside them. I knew neither of them well, although I had worked with them both in Cascais and here. Their names were Martin Zane and Michael Brennan, former construction workers from Pittsburgh who had moved to Britain at the outbreak of war. Until they became involved with the Red Cross peace moves they were working in London with the air raid rescue squads. They had both undertaken crash courses in German at the beginning of the year so that they could work with Dr Burckhardt, but the language was still difficult for them. It would have been easier if we spoke in English while we were together, but the German-only rule was invariable. As a result, we said little to one another as we walked down to the lake.

We could see the flying-boat in the last moments of its landing manoeuvre, gliding towards us low above the trees then dipping its nose towards the still waters of the lake. It looked to me as if it was flying slowly, but as soon as the hydrodynamic underside of the aircraft touched the water an immense spray shot up on either side, to be thrown back by the propellers in long cylindrical vortices. After much bouncing and splashing the aircraft finally slowed until it was able to sail like a cumbersome boat.

I could see the two pilots, unidentifiable in their helmets, peering forward from their seats across the nose of the aircraft so as to guide it accurately. The plane, engines roaring, jinked from left to right as it manoeuvred closer to the long jetty. Two men on the side of the pier were standing by with boat-hooks, but they weren’t needed. The captain expertly brought the plane to a halt so that its hatch was against the end of the landing stage, the starboard wing shading the wooden walkway like a canopy. The hatch opened smartly from within. Two ropes were thrown out and the men quickly secured the fuselage.

As the engines fell silent and the propellers ceased we pressed forward for a better look at whoever the passengers might be. From the roof of the fuselage, immediately behind the cockpit, a tiny flagpole was pushed up, with the Union Jack fluttering. There was a delay while steps down from the aircraft were pushed into place and secured on the none too steady pier. While this was going on I heard the sound of a motor-car engine: an open-top Daimler drove quickly along the lakeside parkway and halted in a scattering of gravel close to the end of the pier. Rudolf Hess stepped out, resplendent in his Luftwaffe uniform, the Iron Cross at his throat glinting in the thin evening sunlight.

Two men from his entourage, dressed in black SS uniforms, flanked him.

Both pilots of the flying-boat had removed their helmets. They too were leaning towards the canopy on the landward side of the cockpit, so that they could watch the arrival of their passengers. I could clearly see both their faces. Neither of the pilots was my brother Jack.

A few moments later, preceded by a senior staff officer from each of the three armed forces and followed by a group of civilians, Winston Churchill stepped down on to the pier. He walked slowly along it, looking to neither right nor left, until he was met by the Duke of Kent. Churchill removed his hat, bowed deeply to the Duke and they chatted privately for a few seconds.

xxvi

Rudolf Hess and Winston Churchill sat side by side in the conference room. They both stared straight ahead at the photographers, neither of them acknowledging the presence of the other. The table where they were sitting was the one that had earlier been occupied by the negotiators from the Red Cross and the neutral states. The other two tables had been removed, but the spray of flowers remained. Both men were sitting with bound copies of the treaty in front of them, open at the first page of protocols. They looked as if they were about to sign the treaty, holding brand-new fountain pens, supplied for the occasion by the Red Cross.

The two photographers leaned towards them – flashes dazzled everyone in the room. The photographers moved back to the side table with their equipment, ejected the burnt-out bulbs and squeezed in new ones. They returned to the table where Hess and Churchill were waiting. They took similar shots, but this time from different positions. After the bulbs had been replaced again the negotiators and the auxiliaries posed in a group behind Hess and Churchill, while more photographs were taken. I, being tall, stood in the back row, towards the left end, between Martin Zane and Michael Brennan, about seven places away from Dr Burckhardt. The picture shows that I am smiling, like everyone else in the photograph; everyone, that is, apart from Churchill and Hess. The flashlight has bounced off Churchill’s spectacles, concealing his eyes behind two disks of reflected light.

When the cameramen left, we remained standing behind the two statesmen to act as official observers of the signing of the Treaty of Stockholm. Churchill first signed the version drafted in German; Hess signed the English version. After the signatures had been dried with blotting-paper rollers, the two versions of the treaty were exchanged and each statesman signed the copy that was in his own language.

Hess laid his pen on the table. Churchill twisted the cap on his own pen, then carefully placed it inside the breast pocket of his jacket and patted it with his fingers.

Both men continued to sit side by side, staring straight ahead. A Red Cross man went over to the table and turned the two versions of the treaty round, opening them at the witness page. One by one the rest of us moved forward, standing briefly in front of the two statesmen to lean over the bound copies and attest to the signing. I wrote my name at the end of the list, added my signature and wrote in the date: May 12, 1941. I was trembling as I did so, almost overcome with the emotion brought on by the immense importance of the occasion.

As the last witness signature was added, Dr Burckhardt indicated to the two statesmen that the ceremony was completed. Both stood. Hess was at least six inches taller than Churchill.

He turned to Churchill, clicked his heels together at attention, extended his hand, and said,’[Prime Minister Churchill, it is the greatest of honours to sign such an historical treaty with you. Let us pray that we are living in the first moment in a new destiny for our great European nations!]’

Churchill said nothing and kept his hand resolutely tucked into the flap of his waistcoat. I happened to be standing a short distance away from him. Realizing that he spoke no German -or was affecting not to -I said, ‘Sir, would you wish me to interpret for you?’

‘If you would be so kind,’ Churchill replied, not looking away from Hess. I translated what Hess had said.

Churchill replied at once.

‘Herr Hess,’ he said, ‘let us pray instead that our accord has more substance to it than the one you have made with Russia.’

‘[What is it you say?]’

‘He claims not to understand, sir,’ I said to Churchill. ‘Should I interpret for him too?’

‘I happen to know that the Deputy Führer speaks English perfectly well’

‘The Third Reich is seeking peace in good faith,’ Hess said, contriving to look genuinely surprised and confused.

‘I know your game, Herr Deputy Führer. In a few weeks, when you have shifted your aggression to the east, everyone in the world will also know what you are up to.’

‘There is no need for that!’ Hess shouted, in English.

‘There is a need for an end to the war between us and that is what we have each obtained. What you decide to do next is a matter for you. I may add that after this hour, should one stick or stone of yours fall anywhere upon Britain, or upon our Commonwealth, or upon any of our allies liberated by the armistice, we will turn back on you with a simple fury that will never be surpassed.’ Churchill turned on his heel with a sprightly movement and spoke in an entirely different manner to Dr Burckhardt. ‘Thank you for what you have done, sir. I’m sure I can speak for the Duke when I say how much we are looking forward to dinner with you.’

They moved towards the exit, leaving Hess behind them. The peace was sealed, but not with a handshake.

xxvii

Dinner was served in the banqueting hall of the mansion, with everyone who was involved in the negotiations seated along the sides of one immense table that ran the entire length of the room. By contrast with the relaxed mood of the two previous days, Churchill’s arrival appeared to have split the conference into its three constituent groups. He had succeeded in creating a frosty, almost hostile atmosphere between the two main groups when until his arrival all delegates had mixed convivially with everyone else. He and the Duke of Kent, together with the ambassadors, the chiefs of staff and the secretaries from the Foreign Office, sat at one end. Hess and his similarly sized retinue were at the other. The representatives from the neutral states, the auxiliary negotiators and the document team occupied the middle ground.

Churchill was sitting on the opposite side of the table to me, about fifteen seats away. In spite of everything I still felt about his warlike nature I was dazzled by his presence. Although I had been closely involved with the preparations for the treaty, I suppose that I had never really believed Churchill would bring himself to sign it. Yet here we were with the process complete. Even as we were dining, the teams of constitutional lawyers from Germany and Britain were elsewhere in the building, engrossing the text, making it ready for release to the public record. Churchill appeared to be deep in conversation with the Duke, but I could not help noticing that from time to time he gave me a direct and unblinking stare, which I found disconcerting.

Hess and his group left without warning in the middle of the meal. During the first two courses he and his officials were deep in conversation, conducted with much intensity. They did not wait to finish their venison course. Without a word to anyone else at the table they suddenly rose to their feet, scraping back their chairs. They strode quickly to the exit.

At the door, Hess turned back, stamped his feet together and raised his right arm in the Nazi salute. The room fell silent. Hess held the pose for a moment.

‘Heil Hitler!’ he shouted and marched out of the room.

Churchill said into the silence, ‘Good Lord.’

He turned back to the Duke and continued his affable conversation as before. The mood in the room lightened noticeably.

Now that our negotiations were complete I was starting to think anxiously about returning home. I could not see what more work I would be called upon to do for the Red Cross, but the inescapable fact was that I could not return to England on my own. I tried to find out from some of the people I was sitting close to what the arrangements for flying home were going to be, but everyone else was in the dark too.

At the end of the dinner, Winston Churchill rose to his feet and made a brief speech. For me, it was a moment of high anticipation, the thought of being present when he might have something to say of historic significance. As soon as he began speaking, though, it was clear that he saw this as no opportunity for high oratory. In plain language he merely congratulated us on our work and said that despite the apparent bad faith of the Nazi leadership he believed the treaty would hold and that the peace would be genuine and lasting. He also explained that he was obliged to return to London as soon as possible. After his few words he sat down to warm applause. Somehow, imperceptibly, he had turned the meeting round: it was no longer an international forum for peace, but was now a Churchill occasion.

Not long after, we began to collect our personal property together as cars arrived to take us back to our hotel in Stockholm. When I passed through the main conference room for the last time, I saw Winston Churchill there. He broke off his conversation and came across to me, his cigar smoke trailing behind him. He was cradling a brandy balloon, with a generous quantity of the liquor swilling around inside.

‘I remember you from our meeting at Admiralty House last week,’ he said, without preamble. ‘Your name is J. L. Sawyer, is it not?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let me ask you a question, Mr Sawyer. Your name had already come up before I met you. There was some confusion about you which I think Dr Burckhardt might finally have resolved for me, but I should like to hear it from you too. He tells me you have a brother or a close relative with the same name as you.’

‘I have a brother, Mr Churchill. We are twins, identical twins.’ I briefly explained about the similarity of our initials.

‘I see. Your brother is the one serving in the air force, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And he is the married one of you?’

‘No, sir. I believe he is still single.’

‘But then you are married. To a German?’

‘My wife is a naturalized British citizen, Mr Churchill.’ I added quickly, ‘She came to England before the war began and we were married five years ago.’

Churchill nodded with some sympathy. ‘I understand your concerns perhaps. There is no need for you to worry any longer about your wife’s position. But let me say that I have been amused by the confusion your name was creating, because something of the sort once happened to me. When I was younger I discovered that there was another Winston Churchill loose in the world, this one an American. A novelist he was and rather a good one too. We were both writing books and before anyone realized what was happening we innocently caused a muddle. Ever since I have used the S for Spencer as a middle initial, but only on my books.’

He seemed to be in an expansive, talkative mood and in spite of his warning at dinner that he had to hurry back to London he did not appear to be in any great haste to leave me. Because of that, I raised the subject that was on my mind.

‘Sir, do you suppose the Germans really intend to observe the peace?’

‘I do, Mr Sawyer. As you know, most of the impetus for peace came first from their side. Hess clearly intended that he and I should fall into each other’s arms like long-lost brothers. That is not my way in any event. Although I will parley with Nazis I do not expect to have to hug them afterwards.’

‘He seemed furiously angry as he left.’

‘Indeed he did. But if it is any consolation to you, I can tell you that the peace has already broken out. Because you have been here in Sweden, you will not know that on Saturday night London suffered the worst air raid of the war. Terrible damage was done and many people died. Since then, though, not a single German plane has crossed the Channel. We too launched massive air raids against Germany on the same night, but they were the last we will be flying. U-boat activity in the Atlantic has entirely ceased. The desert war has halted. Our navy is still on patrol, the air force is flying constantly and the army remains vigilant everywhere, but there hasn’t been a single hostile incident from either side since Sunday afternoon. Because we have not yet had the opportunity to announce our armistice, the war will continue in theory for the time being, but in every practical way there has been a cease-fire for more than twenty-four hours.’

Mr Churchill swirled his brandy one more time and tipped the balloon against his lips.

‘Then why did Hess act the way he did?’ I said.

‘I do not know. Maybe because I refused to shake his bloodstained hand.’ Churchill made a chortling sound. ‘I suspect darker deeds will soon be afoot, and his departure in that fashion was a little play-acting for our benefit. Most people are afraid of the Nazis, but I find them tiresome, as everyone else will too, once their threat to our safety has passed. This reminds me, though. Now that we have entered the post-war period you’ll have to find a new job. I have one I can offer you. We are going to need an organizer with special skills to act on behalf of British interests in Berlin. It would be an administrative job, concerned with moving all those people to Madagascar. It’ll be a huge responsibility, but Dr Burckhardt says that no less a man than you should be the one.’

I heard what he said with an extraordinary sense of déjà vu.

‘I really don’t know, sir,’ I said, the arguments against such a move fresh in my mind. ‘I would like to have time to think about it. There’s my wife, and the upheaval-’

‘The government can take care of problems like that. You would be attached to the Foreign Office, working from the British Embassy, but it would not be a diplomatic appointment. You’d be responsible directly to the prime minister’s office.’

‘To you, sir?’ I said.

‘To the office I presently hold. As you should remember, I shall not be holding the office much beyond the end of this week.’ I felt myself starting to blush at my gaffe. Mr Churchill paid no heed. ‘Of course you may have time to think about it. We won’t need to make the appointment until next month and work will not have to start until August.’

Churchill stuck his cigar into his mouth and walked away from me.

xxviii

Our negotiating team flew back to England the day after Churchill departed. After a long run across the lake, the great white seaplane lifted away from the smooth waters of Stora Varten. It climbed slowly in a wide, shallow turn above the trees of the countryside and the steep roofs of Stockholm. The mood of everyone in the cabin of the aircraft was one of great elation. None of us stayed in our seats for long during the flight, but for most of the time we clustered excitedly in the narrow spaces and aisle, talking eagerly about what we had achieved, how we had done it, what our hopes were for the bright future that we had helped create.

When the pilot announced some three hours later that the plane was flying along the British coast I moved to one of the seats next to a window, staring out with feelings of rejoicing at the green countryside, the line of white breakers, the smooth blue sea. We were somewhere above the Channel, following the English south coast, not high above the waves nor far from the land. I could see small seaside resorts, tall white cliffs, distant downs. On this day of bright sunshine the country looked remarkably whole from the plane, undamaged by the war. I knew that close up the reality was different, but from this passing eminence it was possible to glimpse England as she had been, as she would be again.

When we were not far from Southampton a flight of RAF Spitfires appeared from high in the blue, streaking down past us, cavorting and rolling, repeatedly circling us as we growled slowly along above the waves. They stayed with us all the way to the Solent, a joyful escort. As we were preparing to make our landing they moved away, formated in the distance into the shape of a long vee, then made one last pass above us, the roar of their engines clearly audible inside our cabin. Then they disappeared towards the land and our slow, cumbersome flying-boat made its crashing, bouncing arrival on the choppy surface of Southampton Water.

Half an hour later, as we stepped ashore from a naval launch, a small crowd applauded us politely. We went through the formalities of arrival in a slight daze, hardly daring to believe that the radical lifting of the mood of the country which we could already sense was real, permanent.

I craved to go home, to see Birgit, to be there with her in the last days before our baby was born, but the problems of travelling around in wartime Britain were not yet a thing of the past. The government had at short notice declared the day a public holiday - PE Day, Peace in Europe Day - and there were no trains, buses, or indeed any easy or affordable way of leaving Southampton until the next morning.

So there was one more night I had to spend away. The Red Cross found us rooms in a small hotel away from the town centre. The dock area and much of the business quarter of the city had been destroyed during the Blitz and choices were few. I decided to make the best of it. As soon as I had put my bag in my bedroom I went to find the others downstairs.

At the bottom of the main staircase I saw a tall figure standing by the window, staring out. He was in military uniform and was holding his cap beneath his left elbow. When he heard my footsteps on the stairs, he turned to look at me and quietly intercepted me as I made to pass him.

He said, ‘Are you Mr Joseph Sawyer?’

‘I am.’ I felt the first tremor of concern.

‘I’m Group Captain Piggott, sir, attached to 1 Group, Royal Air Force, in Lincolnshire. I’d like to speak to you privately. I hope it won’t take more than a few moments.’

‘It’s Jack, isn’t it?’ I said at once, responding to the man’s grave tone of voice. ‘You’ve brought bad news about my brother.’

The officer indicated a door leading to a small lounge at one side. He held it open, so that I could walk through ahead of him. He closed the door behind us. Everything about his manner indicated that the news about to be broken to me was the worst.

‘I’m afraid it is about your brother, sir.’

‘Has he been killed?’

‘No, I’m relieved to tell you that he has not. But he has been badly wounded.’

‘How serious is it?’

‘His wounds are extensive but his life is not thought to be in danger. I haven’t seen him myself, but I was able to speak to the doctor in charge before I came here to contact you. Your brother is in hospital and he’s under sedation. He’s young and strong and they believe that in time he will make a full recovery.’

‘Can you tell me how bad his injuries are?’

‘I don’t know the full details, Mr Sawyer, but I was told that among other injuries he has a fractured leg, cracked ribs, a blow to the skull, many cuts and bruises. He was injured when his plane was shot down. He spent about eighteen hours in an emergency dinghy before he was rescued. This is often the fate of our airmen. If we could only find them and transfer them to hospital before they are exposed to the elements for too long, they would be able to recover more quickly However, we do what we can.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘His plane was shot down on Saturday night, early Sunday morning. Your brother had taken part in a successful raid against Hamburg when his Wellington was hit by flak. There was only one other survivor from his plane. The navigator, I believe.’

We stood there in silence for a little while, the air force man standing courteously beside me while I tried to take in the import of his news.

The last raid of the war, Churchill had told me. The last we will be flying, he had said.

xxix

From the time of my accident during the London Blitz, six months earlier, I had not touched a drop of alcohol. There was a deliberate reason for it: I had no idea what triggered my lucid imaginings but they often occurred when I was drowsy or when my attention wandered. Some instinct told me that drinking might increase the likelihood of an attack. It had been reasonably easy to stay away from alcohol since then. At certain times -such as in Stockholm, when many toasts to the peace treaty had been drunk in champagne - it had been possible for me to find a non-alcoholic alternative without making a fuss about it.

But that first night of peace was a special one for everyone: Peace in Europe Day, a time to let your hair down if ever there was one.

After Group Captain Piggott had taken his leave, I tried to decide whether I should make a telephone call to my parents (who had no idea where I was or what I had been doing for the last week) or give up my plans for the evening and find some way to travel across the country to see JL in hospital. I saw a public telephone booth in the lobby of the hotel, so I dialled my parents’ number. There was no answer. I assumed they must have gone to visit Jack in hospital. I was lurking indecisively in the hallway next to the reception area, wondering what to do next, when Mike Brennan, the Quaker adviser from Pittsburgh, saw me. After that, there was no more doubt and no more argument.

In the company of five other members of the Stockholm team, Mike and I set out for a long evening’s celebration on the town. We started in the pub next to the hotel, then followed huge crowds of people as they began to converge on the bomb-damaged city-centre. The whole population, it seemed, was out on a night of revelry like no other they had known for months or years. At midnight we were in East Street, outside the looming, dark shape of the art gallery pressed in a shouting, waving, dancing, sweating crowd. A church clock somewhere struck the hour; we cheered and yelled as lights blazed from every building, the defensive searchlights came on for the last time, criss-crossing the sky above us, and a final defiant cannonade of anti-aircraft shells exploded in the air.

xxx

The next morning was predictably run through with remorse, a groaning discomfort and a renewed determination to get back on the wagon again. Rather to my amazement, I woke up in my own bed in the hotel, having found my way back to it somehow, or having been taken to it.

I leaned over the tiny hand-basin set against one wall to rinse my hair with clean water, then towelled it dry. I washed my face and arms, dried myself briskly. I put on my clothes slowly and carefully.

By mid-morning I was aboard a train heading north out of Southampton, fragile but recovering. I was feeling mildly nauseated all morning, but by midday I was a little better. It was a long time since I had experienced a hangover. I felt detached from reality, wrapped in a shroud of numbed feelings. When I looked at some of the other passengers in the compartment with me, I knew I was not the only one. It had been a memorable evening, what I could remember of it.

The train arrived in Manchester in the late afternoon. I walked across the concourse of London Road Station to where the suburban trains terminated. I was extremely hungry, having skipped breakfast at the hotel and discovered that there was no food available on the train. The snack bar was closed. It was warm in the huge station concourse, the air rich with the steam and coal smell of trains. I had time to step outside to the station approach for a few minutes, breathing the cleaner air, but looking out across the desolate landscape of ruined and burned-out buildings.

Eventually, I caught a local train to Macclesfield.

xxxi

Now comes the final part of my story, almost impossible to write down.

I was in an unsteady emotional state, because of the heavy drinking of the night before, because of the long train journey, because of the lack of food, because of general exhaustion. Perhaps, most of all, because of the stupendous peace treaty that had been attained and the fact that I had played a part in it. I was not ready for what was to happen.

At first, however, I was reassured. Macclesfield’s appearance remained much as I remembered it when I last saw it: no more bomb damage had occurred in the final few days of the war. A place of large factories and silk mills, overlooked by the wild hills of the Pennines, Macclesfield possessed that unique northern English feeling of industry and moorland, a town with a wide bright sky and narrow dark streets. Familiarity wrapped itself around me comfortingly.

I left the station, walked through the foot tunnel where I had been jostled one night, long ago, and emerged into the Silk Road. Immediately opposite was the long straight hill of Moor Road, climbing up towards Rainow.

I walked briskly up the slope, enjoying the sensation of putting my muscles to use once again. I began to make small plans for the future. I saw everything in positive terms of healing and recovery. My cares, my fear and hatred of the war, had slipped away with the coming of peace. The baby would be born soon, with all the unpredictable changes that he or she would bring to our daily lives. Birgit and I could have more children, move to a larger house. Jack would recover from his injuries, after which there was the hope of an eventual reconciliation with him. With the war out of the way I could seek a real job, perhaps even accept the proposition from Churchill for a government job in Berlin. Anything was possible again.

I came to the place in the road where I had a choice of ways. I could continue along the main road, climbing the hill, then turn off after about a quarter of a mile into the country road that led to the lane past our house or I could cut across a couple of fields, saving a few minutes and part of the long climb. I remembered the last time I had walked across the fields: it was in one of my lucid imaginings, the first of them in fact. I paused there at the iron gate. The associations were still so strong. I dreaded repeating what had happened before. I went on up the road, seeking normality. This was the way I had always ridden my bicycle, during the time when I was working in Manchester. It was a stiff climb, but after the smoke-filled rooms and forced inactivity of the last few days, as well as the night of heavy drinking, I was sucking in the fresh air as if it was an elixir. I could feel my blood pumping through me, my senses opening out.

Soon I reached the top of the climb and was walking past the village houses of Rainow. I slowed my pace a little, because now that the road was shallowly slanting downhill there was no longer the need to push myself so hard. I glanced at each of the houses I passed, thinking that Rainow - which Birgit and I had originally discovered by chance - was in fact an attractive place to live. Every time I saw the expansive view across to the west I fell in love with the place again. Maybe we should wait for one of the larger houses to fall vacant, then try to buy it or rent it? Or again, because most of the disadvantages of our own house were to do with its leaks and draughts, and most of those were caused by the neglect of the landlord, maybe we could buy the house for ourselves? It was large enough, comfortable enough, or could easily be made to be.

Forming such harmless plans, I turned off the village road on to our lane, passing the house on the corner where Harry Gratton and his elderly mother lived. There was no sign of them there, although windows were open.

I came to Cliffe End, the familiar old house in which we had lived since we married, looking the same as always. I walked up the sloping path to the door, pressed my hand to it and found it closed. I fumbled for my keyring, then tried to get the key into the lock.

A new lock, shiny in the sunlight, forbade my key from entry. I tried the handle again, pushed against the door with my shoulder.

I hammered the flat of my hand on the door. I was trying not to think about why the lock had been changed, why I had to call for entry to my own home. I heard footsteps behind the door, a shape glimpsed through the frosted glass. The door was opened by Harry, looking round at me, blinking against the low evening sunlight. He looked grey and tired, unshaven, like someone who had not slept properly. As soon as he saw that it was me he held the door wide open, making a show of being welcoming, friendly. My house.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said churlishly.

‘It’s good to see you again, Joe,’ he replied. ‘Quite a surprise, I’d say, after your being away and that.’

‘Where’s Birgit?’ I said, trying to push past him, because he was blocking the narrow hall. I threw my bag on the floor, where it knocked against our low table in the hallway, the one where I stacked up newspapers after I had read them. No newspapers were there now. The table tottered, moved along and its feet scraped across the bare floorboards.

‘No need for that.’

‘Get out of my way!’ I shouted at him. ‘I don’t want you in my house all the time. Whenever I go away I always come back to find you round here, busying yourself with my wife!’

‘Listen, Joe, you watch what you’re saying to me!’

‘Harry, what’s going on?’ It was Birgit’s voice, sounding to me as if it came from the direction of the kitchen. I shouldered past him, collided with the side of the table I had dislodged, and staggered against the door post. The room was empty. I turned back, finding that Harry had moved behind me with his arms outstretched, as if to restrain me. I swung my arm against him, pushing him aside.

I heard Birgit’s voice again, raised anxiously. This time it seemed to me to come from above, so I thrust myself past Harry, took the stairs two at a time and ran along the landing. She was not upstairs. I knew that I was not hearing, registering properly. There was a faint buzzing in my ears and I felt dizzy, unable to focus. I had gone too long without food and I was still tired after the excesses of the previous day.

Harry positioned himself halfway up the stairs, watching me. He had a fearful look on his face, as if he expected my next move to hurt him.

I said, ‘Where’s Birgit, Harry?’

‘If you’d stop running around like that, you’d find her. We were in the living-room when you burst in.’

‘Is she all right?’ I began walking down the stairs. He retreated below me, taking the steps backwards.

‘Birgit’s fine. So is your baby boy. Where have you been? We’ve been trying to find you, but nobody knew where you were.’

‘A boy? I have a baby boy?’

Harry was suddenly grinning. ‘He’s asleep at the moment. Come and see him.’

I hurried down the stairs, Harry stepping to one side to make room for me. I pushed open the door to our living-room. Birgit was standing, facing the door as I blundered in. I took in an impression of chaos, of a huge pile of clothes, an ironing board, Mrs Gratton standing at the board with the flatiron in her hand, a scatter of knitted toys, small garments, squares of white cloth draped over the fireguard, a smell of boiled milk, steam, porridge, urine, talcum powder. In a wicker basket on a metal stand by the window, I could see the tiny shape of a baby.

‘Joe, he’s so beautiful!’ Birgit was radiant - she looked plump and well, her cheeks were pink, her face was round, her dark hair glistened on her shoulders.

‘Let me see him!’ I went to the cot and leaned over it. I gently pulled back the light blanket that was shrouding his head. Down there was the tiny, screwed-up face of my new son, his lips compressed, his eyes tight shut, wrinkles of pink flesh. I knew I shouldn’t wake him but I couldn’t resist. I reached in, picked up the tiny body with both hands, cradled him as well as I could, touched back the folds of the blanket with my fingertips so that I could see his face.

He opened his eyes: a truculent frown, a myopic stare past me, a tiny wet mouth opening and closing. I put my face closer to his, trying to make him see me. I moved my head back to take a better look.

There, in his face, I saw myself, the resemblance, the knowledge of my family. All my own impressions and sensations of the day, everything that I had done and gone through in the past few hours, faded away. I felt something like a pause in the progress of the world beyond me, a halting. Silence briefly surrounded me and my son, emotions rising theatrically. There he was, alive in my arms, surprisingly solid and heavy. He had my father’s colouring, my shape of head, a look in his eyes that I recognized as a family look which was detectable even through the corrugations of a baby frown in a loosely fleshed face.

I could see myself in his face, see Birgit’s familiar looks, all indefinable yet exact. I could see me and therefore I could see my brother. Everything of my life was contained there in that tiny fragment of new life.

Birgit had moved so that she was standing beside me. She rested a hand on the arm that I was using to support the little boy’s weight and I felt her squeeze my muscles.

‘Joe, he’s such a lovely baby!’

‘What’s his name? Have you named him yet?’

‘I wanted to wait for you, but everyone has been pressing me to call him something.’

‘I’d no idea he was coming now. I thought he wasn’t due for another three weeks!’ I stared down blissfully at my son, trying to think of a good name to call him.

‘It happened at the weekend, while you were away,’ Birgit said. ‘It started on Saturday afternoon. He was early, but he’s almost up to normal weight. He’s going to be OK, Joe!’

We stood together, beaming down at the tiny child, waves of happiness radiating from us.

‘We decided to call him after my dad, Joe.’ I turned in surprise. It was Harry Gratton, standing behind me. I could feel his weight on my arm as he too leaned forward to peer down at the baby. ‘His name is Stuart.’

‘You named my baby?’ I said incredulously. ‘You called him Stuart! How the hell-?’

‘It was my decision, Joe,’ Birgit said. ‘My idea to call him Stuart. It is what I wanted also. Stuart is a good British name, I think.’

Beyond Mrs Gratton, who had paused in her ironing to watch me cuddle the baby, I saw a movement. A man had been sitting in the armchair behind her, facing away from me. He stood up now and turned towards me, smiling and beaming, joining in my difficult moment of paternity.

Happiness swung full circle to tragedy in that moment. It was Jack, standing there in his RAF uniform, standing in my house, already there with Birgit and the baby when I arrived. Jack, who I had been told was unconscious in hospital somewhere, Jack who haunted my lucid imaginings, who thrust me back to reality.

I stared at him in amazement, knowing that it could not be him. Not really.

I glanced once more at the little child, who looked so like me, so like Jack, but then I thrust him away.

Birgit took the baby from me, cradling her arm around him protectively, pressing him closely to her soft body. I was losing control as exhaustion and emotions overtook me at last. I moved back, one halting step, then another. My heel caught on something behind me and I tripped at once. I fell backwards, crashing to the floor, my arm colliding with the wicker cradle, pushing it to the side. I hit the back of my head hard on the floor and for a moment I thought I was going to lose consciousness.

The others rushed towards me, Birgit reaching me first, kneeling down with the baby clutched against her chest, a hand reaching out to me. Jack moved to stand behind her, over her, towering above me. They were both speaking but I was deaf to their words. I looked away from them both, up at the ceiling immediately above me. It was cream-painted, made of metal, held in place by a line of tiny painted-over rivets. The vehicle was lurching as we bumped along, but my legs and waist were held in place by straps. I was finding it difficult to breathe, as if other straps had been tightened across my chest. Panic rose in me. I could raise my upper body, twist to look around, but in the cold and dimly lit interior of the ambulance there was little to see.

On the stretcher shelf across from me was a young woman, sleeping. I remembered her name was Phyllida. Phyllida managed to look at ease in spite of the swaying of the vehicle, the endless racket from the engine and transmission. Her eyelids lay quietly at rest. Her lips were slightly parted and one of her arms dangled over the side. The stiff, utilitarian cut of her Red Cross jacket took on softer lines as she slept. Even as I was struggling for breath I was captivated by the unexpected intimacy of finding her there with me.

I gripped the side of the shelf as the ambulance ran across a pothole in the road’s surface. The jolt expelled breath from me. I knew where I was, what had happened. Everything I feared about my lucid imaginings had come to be. Six months of my life had reversed, slipped away from me.

The vehicle rumbled on through the night. All that I thought I had gained and put solidly and unarguably behind me, the flying journeys abroad, the meetings in great houses, the deal between Hess and Churchill, the outbreak of a final peace, once again lay ahead in that delusional future.

All of it would be lost if I gave way at the end.

Yet also ahead of me lay that life which was obscurely rejecting me: my alienated brother, the marriage that was failing, the son who had been born and named in my absence, the intrusion of others, all of it the product of my own neglect.

I lay on my back, staring up at the neutral ceiling, watching helplessly as my vision slowly dimmed. Desperation for life rose in me. I wanted to hold on so that I could re-awake in that post-war world. I dared not lose what I had gained, whatever the personal price, but each breath was becoming harder to take in and use. Darkness spread within me, bringing a feeling of stillness, an end to turbulence, to the struggles. The close of my life, the loss of that peace.

Surely it had not all been an illusion, the noble peace we had struck, the separation of the two great countries away from the horrors of war?

The pitching motion of the ambulance stabilized, the harsh sound of the engine died away, the dim lights faded. I struggled against it for a while, but gradually a sense of calm began to flow meekly through me, offering me peace - not the kind I had always sought, but an alternative to it. I felt the encroachment of final darkness, its cold and endless embrace.

The terror of it made me resist, however, through that night.

I clung to my life, forcing myself to breathe evenly, without anxiety, watching Phyllida sleep and dreaming of waking to a better future.