‘Aberdeen Press and Journal, tuppence a copy. Get your Press and Journal. Only tuppence a copy,’ shouted the young flat-capped youth in a high-pitched Aberdonian accent.
For a moment, she wondered if he would increase his sales if she played her oboe beside him. She kept the black box close by her side and proceeded through the customs, with a constant smile. There were more smiles all around her, as families greeted passengers and wives reunited with their ocean-going husbands, due a four-day break. She enjoyed hearing once again the distinctive Aberdonian Doric tongue. She even recalled speaking in that dialect not so long ago when she was a language student in the ancient city.
The salty sea air and the freshness of the northeast cold winds had been part of her life all those years ago, during her studies and at her graduation. The German language tutorials had prepared her for her life in Hamburg. Had she taken French as her main foreign language, how different her life might have been. However, she loved the guttural language of the Germans, its nuances remarkably similar to her Aberdonian accent.
The granite-grey city of Aberdeen was the same as ever, and Hilda loved it, even the greasy cobblestones made wet by the recent rain were a familiar sight. She sought a cab to take her to the railway station. As she kept a lookout on the street for its arrival, two men approached her, both in trilby hats and formal suits under belted trench coats. They also wore gloves, which she felt was a little premature in early autumn. They stopped before her, like a brass band, obeying the drum major’s raised mace.
‘Frau Richter?’
She hesitated before responding, more than a little concerned in case they had brought bad news from Forres.
‘Y-e-es,’ she stuttered.
‘Frau Hilda Richter?
‘Indeed.’
‘My name is William Dynes. I am with the British security services. Mr Thornton accompanies me. Frau Richter, we would like to ask you some questions, about your real identity.’
‘What? Good grief. What utter nonsense,’ she protested. Her mouth began to dry up.
‘Please come this way. Please,’ said Mr Dynes. Mr Thornton led the way into a rather small room next to the ticket office. It was sparsely furnished, but a gas fire faced the table at which she sat. It glowed with bright orange flames and gave off some welcome warmth. Hilda was in a state of shock, and little else gave her comfort. Was she dreaming? Perhaps she was back in Germany. This seemed like a confrontation she would rather avoid.
‘Were you expecting family to meet you?’ asked Mr Dynes. He appeared to be much the same age as her, but his demeanour was nonetheless overbearing.
‘No. My parents are elderly. I was waiting for a cab to take me to the railway station to get a train to Forres.’
‘You won’t be going to Forres tonight, I can assure you,’ said Thornton. He was the younger of the two, and wore a striped tie; some old boys’ club, Hilda thought fleetingly.
‘I have been instructed by the security services to detain you and to ascertain your real purpose in leaving Germany,’ said Dynes.
Hilda shook her head from side to side in disbelief. ‘To think a homecoming would end like this,’ she replied, casting her eyes towards the tobacco-stained ceiling.
‘A German surname, a son in the German army and as tensions rise you suddenly come to Scotland. I cannot overlook these facts, can I?’ suggested Dynes.
She shuddered, hoping they did not see how tense she was. They were so well informed. She answered slowly, clearly and in her best Aberdonian accent. ‘That is one interpretation,’ she eventually said. ‘Let me offer you another. I am Scottish, and I was under house arrest in Hamburg during the last war. I have ageing parents in Forres and I am heading there to stay. I have no connections with political forces in Germany or Britain.’ She lifted her chin defiantly and added, ‘You have a very weak case against me.’
They smirked. ‘We think we have a rather stronger case than you might think, Frau Richter. You cannot deny being under the instruction of one Gestapo police chief in Hamburg. I refer to Herr Gerhardt Eicke.’
Dynes sat back, studying her face, and she realised these men knew much more than she had given them credit for. She would have to be as open as possible with them.
‘Yes, I do not deny I know Herr Eicke. He is my son’s Youth leader.’
Mr Dynes tapped a cigarette on the table and lit it up. ‘Come, come, Frau Richter, Herr Eicke is not just a youth leader. He is a senior Gestapo man in Hamburg. And he has been to your home, and you know that. He is also a schemer and deceitful man. Ideal for the German secret police, I would say.’
‘Yes, as I said, I do not deny that I know him. I first met him when he came to my husband’s funeral, but to say I work for him or that he sent me here is quite outrageous. I told you, my parents are ageing. It was an appropriate time to travel here,’ she said.
Mr Thornton took over. His northern Irish lilt was tuneful but no less incisive.
‘Your son, Otto. He must put you in a difficult position,’ he said.
Her head was reeling. She could not fathom how they were so well informed.
‘Our consul in Hamburg runs a very busy office,’ stated Thornton.
It would be impertinent to ask, but she did. ‘The Hamburg British Consulate? I see. I suggest that would be either Armstrong, Shepherd or Barnett?’
That took them by surprise.
‘You know the British Consulate staff?’ asked Dynes.
‘Yes, I have played my oboe there on several occasions. Mr Shepherd the military attaché sang along with my playing. However, he left and I have not been there recently. The staff will have changed.’ She recalled the late 1920s and early 30s when the soirées musicales were popular, but her inquisitors cut through the memories.
‘And Otto, Frau Richter?’
‘If Otto had been younger when my husband died, we would have returned to Scotland right away. Otto has visited Forres often in the past and has many friends here. He would have settled. However, that was not to be. He was at school in Hamburg, and when the church groups and youth groups were banned, all children enrolled in the Hitler Youth. All children. What was Otto to do? Dropping out is not an option these days in Germany, you realise? He will be a man soon and he must make his way in life. But no matter what, he will always be my son.’
Dynes gave a brief nod.
‘Indeed, as you say, making his own way in life. Choosing to serve the German army, in Hamburg. Not the proud profession of your late husband,’ he said.
Tears welled up in her eyes. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed them away. Clearly, she had no redress to her inquisitors’ thorough knowledge of her family’s background and movements. Her allegiances stretched mercilessly, and they threatened to tear her apart. She was German in culture, language and family. That was not denied. Yet Herr Eicke’s clipped tones resounded in her mind. To side with him would save Otto, Karl and Renate, but she was also a Scot, by birth and inclination. Why could she not be both German and Scottish?
‘I thought this was a new start for me. I considered teaching in a local school, returning to my roots as it were. The only difficulty I foresaw was my German surname. But even that… my husband Dr Willy Richter was a fine man, a peace-loving man and a quiet opponent of Germany’s military ambitions.’
‘So how did you really get mixed up with Herr Eicke?’ asked Thornton, his tone becoming less threatening.
Was he softening her up, she wondered? She decided to accept it at face value. ‘As I told you, I met him first at my husband’s funeral – on a very black day for me. Perhaps that was when he realised my value to him, as an alien. I shunned him at first, as did my brother- and sister-in-law.’