The Engine

By John Owen©August 2010

To Affaf, for her patience and support

The Engine.

Chapter 1.

Manny King enjoyed tinkering. When he was younger he had been given a construction toy for his sixth birthday. From this, he progressed to building model aircraft which he flew in the local park close to his home in Oakville. A group of teenaged boys met regularly to show-off their flying models. Manny’s best was a delta winged craft driven by a miniature diesel engine.

His father, Kurt King, had died in 1966, when Manny was ten. Two years later, his mother re-married and was now called Margot Kitchener.Manny got on reasonably well with his step-father, but he always felt that he was in the way. Mr. Kitchener – ‘Bill’ was older than Margot and had a grown daughter of his own. He rather welcomed the idea of having a son, even if just by marriage. “Well, my boy” said Bill Kitchener, “You’re going to have to make some choices, very soon. You seem to be good at math, why don’t you work toward an MBA? We could find you something in the brokerage and you could be earning six figures by the time you’re twenty-five”. William Kitchener, BA, CIFP, was a partner at a stockbrokerage. He sometimes hinted that he was descended from Lord Kitchener, the First World War General, but never provided details.

Manny had other career plans. “I want to take an engineering degree and do something useful, like my real dad.” His remarks were calculated to be cutting and mildly rebellious. He recognized that Bill was trying very hard to take the place of a father. Manny and his mother wanted for nothing, but there was an uncomfortable distance that Manny was unwilling to bridge. Manny was a day-boy at a private school in Oakville. The Kitcheners were members of the prestigious local golf club and Margot drove her own Jaguar. At sixteen, Manny had a teenager’s clarity of thought, and the self-confidence to be judgemental. Inexperience removes many of life’s complexities. Manny felt that his step-father was a parasite, taking large fees for routine transactions, and adding no real value.

As Manny’s memory of his father became more remote with the passage of time, he grew more curious about his lineage. Margot had been devastated when Kurt died but, perhaps out of respect for her new husband, said very little about her years with him. Manny had to create his own history. As part of his University application, Manny had to produce his high-school records and birth certificate. His mother was happy to provide any records that he needed and he took a heavy file-folder into his room to study his school reports and his family history. He knew that Kurt had been born in Czechoslovakia at the end of the First World War. Now, he discovered that his grandfather had been called Manfred. Manny had evidently been given his grandfather’s name. Manfred had lived in a place called Opava. There was no record in the file folder of Manfred’s wife or any children, other than Kurt – Manny’s father.

As Manny studied the documents he thought he found that Manfred had been a bicycle maker. Most of the records were written in a foreign language that Manny assumed to be Czech. Others were in German which he could decipher to a point. Tucked inside a large, Government-type brown envelope was his father’s Army discharge certificate, some old photographs and a hand-written letter addressed to ‘Captain Horace Woolley’, but with no postal address. He examined the pictures; there was a formal photograph of about thirty soldiers arranged like his own class photographs. The front row consisted of men sitting cross-legged on the floor. The middle row was comprised mostly of what he assumed were officers wearing ties and one dressed in a kilt. The back row was all younger men with button-up-to-the-neck battle-dress blouses. He found two faces that could perhaps be his father. Another, older picture he borrowed from a display shelf in his mother’s living room. It had wavy edges and a brownish tone. It showed a stout middle-aged man, formally dressed in a dark three-piece suit and a stiff white shirt-collar. A chain ran from his vest buttonhole to a side pocket. The man steadied himself against an ornate table and Manny guessed it was to compensate for the slow shutter speed of an ancient camera. A mirror behind the man showed the reflection of an elaborate ceiling chandelier. This, he knew was his grandfather. He had hoped there might be some writing on the back, but there was just the faded stamp of a professional photographer.

Stuffed inside the large envelope, Manny found a smaller air mail letter-form addressed to ‘The King Family’ from someone called J. Beale with a return address in England. It was a very warm, condolence note from someone who seemed to have known his Dad very well. It was signed in a messy scrawl that looked like ‘Jim or John’. The surname was completely unreadable but it had been hand-printed as part of the return address.

Manny was accepted at Waterloo. It had a fine engineering program. Students were encouraged to take their vacation periods and sometimes term-time working as intern help in local technology businesses. Manny convinced his mother (who persuaded Bill) that he should live close to the school. Finally, Manny was free!

Chapter 2.

“Hey, Papa, I bored out the cylinders as you said. Do you want to check them”? Kurt knew his father trusted his accuracy, but he asked anyway. Kurt had studied at the Mechanical Engineering Institute, and last summer he started to work in his father’s small factory, in Opava. They made industrial engines and motor-cycles. Kurt knew that his father was a better engineer than all the lecturers at the Institute.Kurt’s father was Dr. Manfred Koenig. His mother was Heidi. He never knew her but he had some photographs which revealed her to have been very beautiful. His father refused to speak about her. The family were ethnic Germans who settled, a century ago, in what was then called Moravia.

Manfred had been working on the development of a secret rotary engine for ten years. He did not dare to publish his work because he knew the Essen factories would steal his idea. The patent regulations were corrupt and ineffective. The early version of the engine was powered by gasoline. Once started, it would continue to spin until the gasoline supply was blocked. The big problem was that while it could keep itself running, it had very little power. It also consumed gasoline far faster than regular gas powered piston engines.Dr. Koenig – usually referred to as Herr Doktor, had many friends in the scientific community as well as some political leaders. The Czechoslovak republic had been one of the few good things to have come out of the Great War. It was a true benevolent democracy headed, since 1920, by an honestly elected president, Tomas Masaryk.

Koenig’s many scientific friends included Professor Benjamin Routh, a physicist. Koenig told his friend Routh about his engine. “It runs fast, and so very smoothly. Hardly any vibration, but it is very inefficient. It uses expensive gasoline by the bucket and it will not produce enough power to drive anything more than a lawn mower”. Routh teased his friend and suggested he build a steam engine instead. “Then you can get your motive force from water which is, I believe, still cheaper than gasoline.” Koenig knew he was being ragged but went along, anyway. “But how will I heat the water to produce steam? Remember, this engine has to drive an automobile or a small railway car. I can’t have a wood-furnace in the back of a motor-car”. Routh was happy to show-off his special knowledge.“Well, you could heat the water with a uranium furnace. The fuel would last for ninety years and you would only have to keep the water tank filled and provide lubrication for the moving parts”. Koenig knew that his friend Routh was showing-off his scientific speciality. He was mocking Koenig in a good-natured way. But what if Routh’s idea could be made to work?

After months of experimentation and trials, Koenig had almost single-handedly constructed a uranium engine. He had visited all the nearby mining sites looking for an ore similar to Routh’s description. Hans Toffler had been his trusted assistant and (when he was old enough) his son Kurt would help out. Hans was not capable of understanding how the machine worked but he nodded, sagely, as his boss explained the design to his son.

“You see, we use steam to drive the rotor. Steam is not compressible and it is cheap. Because we can afford to lose some of the motive compound – the steam, we do not have to seal the compression chambers as tightly as for the gasoline prototype. As you have discovered, Kurt, a gasoline engine is very responsive to the operator’s demands for more, or less, speed. With the uranium engine, it will only start to slow down when we separate the reaction cups. It also takes several seconds to build-up to an optimum revolution count. So, I have introduced an electric motor as the final drive. The electric motor is very responsive; it accelerates when I increase the voltage and it stops the instant I remove the contact”.

Kurt was ready with his questions.“So the uranium boiler heats the water to make steam. The steam drives the rotary engine which has very few moving parts. It is coupled to an electric generator which is used to drive the vehicle.” Manfred beamed at his son’s ability to understand the complex arrangement. “Very good! Of course, we will have to modulate the electric current. Maybe we will put a battery between the generator and the final motor drive. But what you have described is essentially what we have”. Kurt could hardly contain his excitement.

“Can we run the engine, please Papa”? The Herr Doktor smiled and said

“Soon my boy. Soon, you will be able to operate the engine. But now is not the time. I must be sure that the uranium fuel cannot harm the operator when it boils”.

Hans Toffler smiled enigmatically.

Chapter 3.

Manfred was a regular attendee at the Engineering Institute. The meetings were held in the upper floor of a beer-hall in the town centre. Apart from technical lectures and displays, there was a monthly dinner to look forward to. Like Manfred, most of the members were ethnic Germans and they used that language almost exclusively. The men enjoyed a robust fellowship that was deeper than mere friendship. The Institute was almost like a medieval guild or a Masonic lodge.

Manfred looked down the long dinner table laden with heavy, German food, and large stein tankards brimming with good Czech beer. He counted at least three members whom he had been able to save from some sort of personal tragedy. He was not alone in his philanthropy. Many others had benefited from the fraternal society to which they belonged.

Lately, the attendance had increased by the addition of several new members who came from Berlin, or the industrial areas of the Rhur valley.The new men always wanted to speak about German cultural values; how German industry was the most efficient in Europe, how the German language was more expressive than French or English, and how the German intellect was superior to any other. It was the holy destiny of the Fatherland and its peoples to organize how all of Europe should be run. They sneered at the French as vindictive and effete, the English were lazy and its working class was anarchist. They thought the Americans might have a place in the new World Order; they were very entertaining but most of them had limited intelligence. The Jews, the Russians and the Slavs were considered ‘untermenschen’, something a little short of being human.

Most of the members agreed with these opinions. Some agreed out of conviction, others out of fear (the new men were very belligerent), but most members just went along because they did not want to make a fuss. A few members started to wear black shirts which was the style adopted by the newcomers. They said that Moravia – since it was a mainly German-speaking region should again become part of the German nation, ‘the Reich’.Manfred was not sure. The prospect of a strong German nation had its appeal. Who cannot feel pride when one’s national flag is unfurled at a sporting event? Who can resist comparing ‘our’ marvellous accomplishments against the puny efforts of others?

Manfred thought of himself as a guest at a party; a party where everyone is drinking and gradually they are becoming quite intoxicated, but for some reason he did not become in the least affected. To be sober when all about you are drunk can be a lonely experience. His friend Ben Routh and his wife, had suddenly disappeared in the middle of the night. Some said he had run away to avoid debts. Others said that he had been stricken by a serious disease and had gone off to Switzerland for treatment. Members of his less immediate family said he had been driven away by the blackshirts because he was part Jewish. Manfred mused to himself, a strong Germany was one thing, but a strong Germany run by the likes of these blackshirt thugs was another matter, entirely.Manfred had only two things in the world that he truly cared about, his son Kurt, and his invention, the engine. His wife Heidi, Kurt’s mother had run off to the bright lights of Berlin eighteen years ago, leaving Manfred to look after the boy.

The year was 1936. The Nazi party was coming to power in Germany and many of Manfred’s friends and acquaintances were hoping for the party’s success and expecting that the glory would spill over into their little town in Moravia. Manfred told Kurt to pack some bread and sausages. They would take two of the firm’s demonstrator motor-cycles and ride out to the countryside.

“Bring some beer, as well” ordered Manfred.They rode east about thirty kilometres and stopped beside the bank of a river emptying into a lake the size of four football fields. Manfred removed his heavy leather jacket and opened his shirt-front to take in the warm summer sunshine. He removed his boots and let his feet soak in the gurgling stream. In a part where the river flow eddied into a lazy circle, he could see hundreds of small fish marching in formation and turning together as if part of a military parade. He watched the fish for fully ten minutes in silence. In his imagination, he saw the school of fish dressed in black uniforms, drilling in unison, and scaring away any other smaller river creatures.

Kurt could sense that something was troubling his father.

“You look worried, papa” he said. “Tell me what is causing your distraction”.

Manfred looked his son in the eye and said he must listen carefully. He was aware that some young men had fallen under the spell of the Blackshirts. If Kurt had loyalties in that direction it would make Manfred very sad, but he could not allow himself to be swayed. He told Kurt that he wanted him to leave Czechoslovakia and when he was safely settled they could perfect the engine in a place where it could be properly financed and protected by patent. He remembered the appraisals of his fellow members at the Institute. “Don’t go to France. The French are in deadly opposition to anything German. After the War, they insisted on cruel reparations while the English and the Americans were much more tolerant. You could try to get to England. Maybe that should be your first destination, in any case”. Kurt asked “Why not just have me set up a branch in Germany? We could get investors in Berlin.” Manfred took a deep breath and told Kurt about his fears for the future, given German ascendancy. “They believe everything must be subordinated to the state. If they take power in Czechoslovakia, we will never see the engine, again”. He told his son that England may be a possibility, or even America. A good compromise might be Canada, they have an English culture and it is close to America. Manfred remembered that several families he had known as a boy had become farmers in Ontario. There had even been a thriving town called Berlin, but it had changed its name in 1918, during the Great War.

Chapter 4.

Kurt arrived in London after a long train journey through Germany and Holland. He took the ferry to Harwich and then another train to London. His Czechoslovakian passport had been studied at several control points along the way, but his father had obtained a letter of introduction to the British Institute of Professional Engineers to support his need to travel to England for study. He had been asked several questions and was detained for forty minutes at the Dutch border, but he was allowed to proceed.

After a few weeks in which he became acclimatized and worked on his English language skills, he was able to get an interview with a motor-cycle maker in Birmingham. He took a train to Birmingham and then had to ask for directions from a ticket collector. He found the bus that would take him to his destination and asked the conductor to tell him where to get off. “Here you are, son”, called out the conductor, “It’s just across the street”. He marvelled at the building that housed the motor-cycle maker’s factory and offices. It was a modern, four-storey, ‘art-deco’ style building with rounded corners and lots of windows. A flagstaff at the front of the main door carried a large British flag. There were green plantings and small trees surrounding the façade. He could see into the foyer through a large glass entry door.

Another visitor, who had arrived a few seconds earlier, approached the sliding glass door, and it opened all by itself. Manny was greatly impressed by the door that opened itself, and started to cross the road to try the door for himself. As he started to cross the road he was startled by the blare of a klaxon horn. He remembered that he was now in England and checked his bearings, just in time to avoid being run down by a large beer truck coming down the hill on the left-hand side of the road. He entered the office through the automatic door and then went back outside to try it all over again. A pretty girl was sitting behind a desk watching him and trying to conceal her amusement at the young man who seemingly did not know if he wanted to come in, or not. He presented his appointment letter to a second, grim-faced young woman receptionist who spoke into a telephone to say that he had arrived.

The Personnel Manager came out and greeted him in the lobby of the firm’s office building. Kurt thought it was a very imposing reception area, quite unlike anything at the workshop he was used to. The interview took place in the manager’s small private office which was cluttered with files and pictures of the firm’s current models as well as numerous historical photographs. The manager looked through Kurt’s documents and the professional reports from the Institute. All this material was written in German or Czech. The manager made no effort to hide the fact that he was unimpressed. There was no job offer.

Kurt was left to find his own way out. He stopped in the lobby that had impressed him on the way in. A new motor-cycle was on display. It was beautifully finished with bright enamel paintwork and gleaming chrome parts. The engine crank-case and gearbox cover had been polished to a mirror shine. He took a special interest in the gear selector mechanism, and then studied the carburettor. He was interrupted by a voice from behind, “I trust it meets with your approval”.

The voice belonged to a middle-aged man smoking a pipe, and wearing a green check tweed jacket. His face broke into a broad smile. He was putting away his pipe and re-furling his umbrella after being caught in a rain shower. “Oh Yes, she is very beautiful”, replied Kurt “In my father’s shop we make cycles with a very similar gear selector.” The man introduced himself, “I am James Beal, I designed this beauty. What is your name”? Kurt told him he was Kurt Koenig and his father was Manfred Koenig, They had a small factory in Czechoslovakia. Beal smiled even more broadly.

“Well I’m blowed! I met Fred Koenig, that’s your father I suppose; it was a few years ago at a motor-show in Paris. How is he?”

“His health is very good, but he worries about politics. He sent me here, but I should be with him. We have no other family, and soon he will be old”.

They spent several more minutes chatting. Kurt explained that he had come to Britain to look for a job and to study engineering. Beal said “Come along with me”, and marched him back to the personnel office. Kurt did not hear what passed between James Beal and the Personnel Manager but within half an hour he was on the payroll at AMC Motorcycles of Birmingham.Kurt wrote regularly to his father. He told him how he had met Jim Beal and secured a junior position in the design shop at AMC. His father seemed very pleased but cautioned Kurt to say nothing about their rotary engines. He admonished his son to perfect his English and try to ‘fit-in’.

After a few months the letters became less frequent and more guarded. Manfred seemed to be writing in code and Kurt followed suit. The newspapers told the story of Germany’s march into what they called ‘the Sudetenland’. Kurt heard that the German Military Governor, General Keitel had seized all the manufacturing facilities in Bohemia and Moravia. The Doktor’s last letter from home was in an envelope that showed obvious signs that it had been opened, and re-sealed. Manfred wrote in glowing terms about the great and glorious occurrences; how fortunate he was to be free from those dreadful, degenerate Czech influences and how he could now hold his head up high. Kurt could tell at once that his father had been writing to please the censor. Toward the end of his letter Manfred wrote that he had given a goose to Hans Toffler. This made no sense unless it was a cipher hint referring to something precious.

In November 1938, the letters stopped altogether.Kurt found the Personnel Manager had now become very accommodating, having been told that he was a valuable asset to the firm. Kurt asked for his assistance in signing up for language tuition and getting citizenship in Britain. To his surprise this, it seemed, was fairly easy because there were quite a lot of refugees finding their way to Britain from all over Eastern Europe. Kurt had a good job and spoke passable English so his application scored well compared against many others. He also decided to legally change his name from Koenig to King. Within ten months Kurt King was watching newsreels and listening to the ‘wireless’ along with millions of other British citizens, to learn that Poland had now been invaded. As the Prime Minister said “... and consequently, this country is in a state of war with Germany”.

Chapter 5.

As a British citizen, Kurt was called up to join the Forces. After his basic training he was drafted into the REME Corps (mechanical and electrical engineers). He was now Craftsman Kurt King. The work was tedious. Kurt was learning very little. He did routine maintenance on army truck engines. From time-to-time he was told to work on a senior officer’s staff car but still he found the work boring.A notice appeared, one day, on the board outside the Orderly Room. It asked for volunteers for special duties. Applicants had to be fluent in the German language and have experience in mechanical engineering. Kurt asked the Company Sergeant-Major to forward his application.

In two weeks he was given a travel warrant to go to an address in London. The address turned out to be a small hotel off Russell Square. It had been commandeered for military use. Two military policemen stood on either side of the front revolving door. Kurt thought they might have been the hotel doormen but for their uniform. Kurt showed one of the MPs his orders. The other one looked on from the side, keeping his right hand conspicuously close to the holster on his left hip.

“Follow me” ordered the first MP, leaving the second one in temporary sole charge of the door. Kurt almost had to run to keep up with the red hatted, white gaitered guide. He was shown into an orderly room at the end of a long passageway, and told to wait. The policeman handed Kurt’s orders to a WREN Second-Officer (Lieutenant) who scanned the contents, then spoke to someone on an old crank telephone. The MP slammed-down his right boot, as if to go through the wooden floor, saluted the WREN officer, then turned, stamped his boot again, and clip-clopped back toward the hotel entrance. “Come in, King” called a voice from an inner office.

“Now then, Private King. I am Captain Woolley. I have read your file and I would like to ask you a few questions”. Kurt was standing to attention and said

“Yes sir, but it’s Craftsman King. I’m REME”. Woolley seemed surprised at the interjection, but he was privately pleased that King had the confidence to speak up. The interview continued in German. Woolley asked some technical questions about various types of engines, gearboxes, valve arrangements and carburettors. He quickly satisfied himself that Kurt was an expert automotive engineer and that he spoke German, fluently. Switching back to English, he asked about Kurt’s home and how he came to leave Czechoslovakia. Kurt described his life at the Institute and then in his father’s small factory.

“I have had no letters from my father for many months. Maybe the Germans have arrested him because he always said he would not co-operate with them if they came to our home. Or maybe some of the Czech patriots harmed him because of our German name. Now, since the War began with Britain, I have no means to contact him”.

Woolley seemed satisfied and said that, if he was selected, he would receive orders within ten days. “When you enlisted, you were routinely vetted but you may as well know that you will now be checked out more thoroughly. You should also know that your training will be quite vigorous”.

Kurt’s orders arrived within a week of his return to his unit. He was given a travel warrant to take him to Victoria Station in London, and he was then to present himself to an officer at a meeting point in the station concourse. He made his rendezvous in plenty of time, and spent half an hour in the W.H. Smith bookstore. He found the officer he was ordered to meet. Manny showed his army paybook to the officer who handed it to an MP. His identity was checked by the military policeman and then the officer told him to go with a corporal to the transport area. Here, he was told to get in the back of a covered truck. There were already three other soldiers sitting on the benches on either side of the truck. They waited ten minutes for two more passengers and then set-off with the corporal sitting on the bench at the rearmost part of the vehicle. Kurt could see through a small window into the cab that the officer was sitting beside the driver. Kurt had no notion of where they were going.They were met at their destination by a Major and a Warrant Officer.

“You men have been selected for special operations training. Some of you may speak foreign languages and this might lead to speculation as to your eventual duties. Right now, we are going to get you fit, and then you will train for parachute qualification. Carry-on, Sergeant-Major.”

Later that day, Kurt had another interview with Captain Woolley.

“I told you that we would need to check your biographical details. What do you know about Dr. Benjamin Routh?”

Kurt had to think for a minute to recall the name.

“Oh, yes. He was a friend of my father’s in Opava. He was a physicist and a member of the Institute. He disappeared in 1936. We never knew what became of him and his wife”.

Woolley continued, “Dr.Routh is working in England and he confirmed your story. We like to cross-check our information, so I need you to tell me everything you can remember about him”. Woolley showed Kurt a formal head and shoulders photograph.

“Is this Doctor Routh?” Kurt studied it and agreed that it looked authentic.

“He has more white hair and seems a little fuller in the face, than I remember. This man’s eyes look tired. When he visited my father he was always joking and his eyes sparkled. In this picture he looks very sad. Of course that was some years back. But, Yes, I think that is as I remember him. Because of his position at the Institute, we were told to address him as Professor Routh, not Doctor”.

Evidently, the security people were checking on Routh as well as Kurt.

After six weeks training, Woolley got his team together in a small classroom. “Our mission is to drop in to northern France and find out what we can about the Germans’ newest Tiger tank. We have reports from the Resistance that there are a few burned-out wrecks and we might get lucky and find one that’s intact. King, you will dismantle what you can and make drawings of the major components”. He detailed the six other soldiers to organize a defence perimeter and set-up a short-wave radio net. “You need to rest all day tomorrow. We leave at 17:00 hours.”

The team boarded one of the new C-47 ‘Dakota’ planes and settled down for a long flight to France. Their route took them out into the Atlantic so that they could approach their Alsace destination from an unexpected direction. The navigator signalled that they had arrived at the jump-point and opened the hatch. Their training had been thorough and they were using static lines. After hooking his line to the static cable, Kurt noted that he had been placed roughly half-way down the line. In the number one position was Captain Woolley. At the other end – the last man to leave the aircraft, sat the Sergeant-Major. Kurt had no doubt that he would throw any man out of the plane if he showed reluctance.

Kurt thought that he would be scared. Certainly, he was excited, but he was re-assured by the precision drill that he had learned. That and the ‘business-as-usual’ demeanor of his new partners. Performing any task in a controlled drill-like way makes it mechanical. It drives away any reticence. He closed his eyes as he left the hatch. He was caught in a violent wind and then tugged by his harness as it reached the end of the static line, and his chute opened like a giant blooming chrysanthemum.

His landing was not perfect. He did not roll onto his side, but rather took his weight on his behind. At least he had kept his knees slightly bent, and he had landed on a soft, loamy grass field.

On the ground they were met by a young man who looked like a farmer. He identified himself to Woolley and they spoke together in French for a few minutes. Kurt heard the word ‘Charbeaux’ and assumed it to be the name of their landing ground. Woolley and the farmer led them on a brisk half run, half walk for twenty minutes until they came to a forest area.

“The Resistance boys say there are three tanks in these woods. Two are completely burned out and the third has the treads ripped off and the turret is gone,”

After another ninety minutes they found the damaged tank and Kurt got inside and started to remove the engine covers. Wooley and the soldiers went off to recce the area and prepare for their exfiltration. Kurt spent four hours taking various pieces apart, making rough drawings and taking measurements.

Hans-Jurgen Froelich was a happy man. He had recently been promoted to Gefreiter – Corporal, after only a few months in the Army. He was so fortunate to be posted to Strasbourg, close enough to his home village on the east side of the Rhine. He had rounded-out his good luck by having met a beautiful young French telegraph operator. He needed to get back to his base before midnight or they would take back his new rank insignia, and maybe even send him off to Poland. Hans-Jurgen loved the land as only a farmer can. He didn’t really care for soldiering but he had no choice. Most of the NCO’s and Officers in his unit were from Hamburg or Berlin. He didn’t like any of them. But he saved his particular antipathy for the Prussians.

Hans-Jurgen knew a short cut. He stumbled through the forest in the semi-darkness caused by the low, afternoon sun and forest growth. He headed toward the main road where he would find a bus, or hitch a ride back to base. Picking his way carefully over the wet earth he sidled past one of the abandoned tanks. Then he heard the soft clink of a small metal tool dropping on metal. He put his head inside the turret opening and saw a man’s dimly visible figure. He seemed to be wearing overalls, or some sort of work clothing.

“Was tust, du?” he called out.

Kurt was surprised but kept his composure. He replied in his most official sounding German. “Weggehen! Ist dies eine verbotene zone”.

Hans-Jurgen recognized the arrogant tone and the annoying Eastern accent. He was inclined to challenge the other man, but he was taken aback by his manner of speech and deportment.

Kurt heard a muffled groan come from the visitor. Then he saw the hand over his mouth. The Sergeant-Major pulled the young German Corporal’s body out of the tank and cleaned off his special three-faced commando dagger.

When it turned dark, Woolley ordered the team to head for a map referenced rendezvous. It was a flat field with six large oilcans. Four were at each corner, and the other two were at the edges of the field and half-way along. At fifteen minutes past midnight the soldiers lit the oil-soaked rags in the drums. They heard the approach of a small aircraft and Woolley took Kurt to the end of the field. He said to Kurt, “When the aircraft lands it will slow down and turn back to face the direction it came from. As it is turning, you are to run alongside on the left side. There will be a small ladder fixed to the side and a hatch door will be open. Throw your kit into the cabin and then get in, yourself”. Kurt asked, “Aren’t you coming, sir?” Woolley replied, “No, We are going back by the scenic route. Now, get on with it”. At first, Kurt was not sure which way the aircraft would turn. As he saw it taxi along the grass on the right hand side of the field he knew it would have to turn left. The aircraft passed him in a slow turn. He waited until the wing had passed him and then he sprinted toward the plane. Over to his right, along the edge of the field he could hear the crackle of small-arms fire. Woolley and the soldiers were engaged in a firefight. He could see the ladder hanging below the fuselage, and an open hatch just barely visible due to a muted orange light coming from inside. He flung his kit-bag into the open hatch and then grabbed for the ladder. As soon as his feet were planted on the lowest rung the aircraft engine roared to full throttle and the propeller wash dragged at his baggy battle-dress trousers. He was inside before the plane had gone fifty feet. He laid face down, on the floor of the plane.

The pilot looked round and said “Welcome aboard”. When Kurt examined his kitbag he saw two bullet holes had torn at the canvas. The slugs had been stopped by the tightly packed soft contents of the bag. He removed the spent shells and thought “That was a near one”. Then his thoughts went to Woolley.As the aircraft gathered speed and climbed-out in a steep turn, the pilot pointed to the single passenger seat. Now Kurt understood why only he had been picked up by the Lysander aircraft. The plane was too small for any more than the pilot and one other occupant. They returned to their base in England without further incident.

“The Tiger II tank is causing us and the Americans a good deal of grief, I can tell you.” The Major at Kurt’s home base was sitting at a long trestle table, with a Captain (not Woolley), two other officers and a civilian. “The Russians’ armour is much more resistant than ours and they seem to be making some progress. Now then, King, what have you got to tell us after your continental holiday”? Kurt unrolled his drawings and reviewed each one in detail. Questions were asked about the vehicle layout, and what could Kurt tell about the engine capacity and the transmission.

His interview lasted for two and a half hours. As it appeared to be wrapping-up the Major asked Kurt if there was anything he could add to his observations. Kurt said

“Well sir, it is a very heavy vehicle. It has a large petrol engine with ‘Porsche’ nametags on the side. Porsche is a very high-standard engineering factory, but some of the workmanship on the tank I saw was rather shoddy. I noted several oil-seals that had started to leak because gaskets had not been properly fitted. Screw heads had been tightened using a wrong-sized tool causing the head to become mis-shaped. I think they are employing unskilled labour in the Porsche factory. The engine cooling system looks as if it was overworked. It seems to me that the cooling fan and the radiator are quite vulnerable. A small shell, or even a rifle bullet aimed to go into the air vent, would rattle around, but then stand a good chance of breeching the radiator. After ten minutes of use with no coolant, the engine will overheat and seize. That’s what happened to the one I saw in France. I was lucky and found a service log in the driver’s compartment. I’ve translated his last few comments. It seems they came under small arms fire; nothing to stop a tank, you’d think, but I also found bullet damage to a ventilator. The last entry in the log mentions the engine running too hot”.

Chapter 6.

V E Day came. Kurt joined the celebrations in front of Buckingham Palace. Everyone was happy – at least for a few days. Kurt wanted to know when and how he could travel to Czechoslovakia to find out what had happened to his father. Captain Woolley was back and tried to help Kurt.

He said “It’s not going to be easy, you know. The Russians have blocked all movement. They are even trying to stop British and American supplies going into the Western Zones of Berlin. I spoke to a friend last week. He was Officer in Charge of a railway train going to Berlin and the Russians stopped it. My friend had to point his pistol at the Russian officer before they let him pass. An additional problem for you is that the Russians will not likely accept your British passport. If they treat you as a Czech national you could be in for a very bad time. We’ve had some pretty disturbing reports about Polish fliers going home.”

Kurt wanted to know how Woolley and his men had faired in the firefight, and how they had returned to England. Had they suffered any casualties? Woolley did not open the subject and when Kurt asked he gave a vague non-answer.

Chapter 7.

When his demobilization orders came through, Kurt went back to his old job at AMC. He found the life in post-war UK to be confining. It was irritating to still be subjected to food rationing, and with so many servicemen returning to civilian jobs he could see little opportunity for advancement. He recalled his father’s advice and applied to emigrate to Canada.

The Canadian Government provided an assisted passage on the RMS Carinthia. His accommodation for the five-day voyage was a small broom-closet sized cabin to be shared with another young man. It sailed from Liverpool and docked in Quebec City. He marvelled at the beauty of the old town. There appeared to be a sixteenth-century castle forming the highest point. Someone said it was actually a modern hotel called the Chateau something, or other. He promised himself that he would stay in that hotel one day. All passengers had to leave the ship to be processed in a large warehouse on the pier. His luggage and tools were examined and he was asked a few simple questions. His passport was stamped ‘Landed Immigrant’ and he was allowed to re-board the ship. After all passengers had been cleared, and re-boarded, the vessel resumed its voyage up river to Montréal. During the Atlantic voyage he had made several friends, most of whom were headed for Toronto. They travelled the rest of the way by train, as a group. The male members of the group had been given vouchers to stay for three days, at the Ford Hotel, a cheap place in downtown Toronto that had seen better days.

He and two of his new pals found an inexpensive boarding house near Bloor and Bathurst. He did not have much luggage but his toolbox was quite heavy and he asked the doorman at the hotel how much a taxi would cost to his new digs. “Oh, about a dollar” he was told. Kurt found just one lonely cab waiting right outside the hotel. This was not the type of accommodation normally used by taxi-going patrons. A short ride up Bay Street and then over to University Avenue. Kurt saw the magnificent pink Legislature building at Queen`s Park, then, along Bloor Street for half a mile. The cab pulled up at the house where Kurt had rented a room.

The taxi driver was amiable and when he learned that this was Kurt’s first week in Canada said -

“The meter says a dollar ten. As you’re new here, just give me a dollar”.

Kurt fumbled with his wallet trying to make sense of the strange new currency. He found a red note on which was written ‘Cent’ on one side and ‘One Hundred’ on the other side. Kurt thought ‘One hundred cents is a dollar’ and handed the bill to the driver. Fortunately, the driver was honest and quickly handed it back along with a quick lesson in basic financial management. Kurt fell in love with Canada.

The Immigration people were very useful in helping Kurt to find a job as a toolmaker in an aircraft plant. The job was in Downsview at a plant on a Government airfield. He enjoyed the work and he was happy to see that more than half of the workers were European; mostly British but several Poles, and some from Czechoslovakia. After demonstrating his technical ability he was promoted to work on the tail assembly for a new aircraft called the ‘Avro Arrow’. But still he missed the freedom that he saw his father enjoy as a proprietor. He soon rented a small workshop and equipped it with surplus machine tools. He put in bids to sub-contract some of the outsourced work on aero engines. The quality of his work was impeccable and the orders began to flow. Within a year he had quit his day job, moved to larger premises, hired fifteen of his former workmates and taken a bank loan to acquire new machine tools.

He hand delivered a contract bid to the Ford engine plant in Oakville. They liked his work quality, and his low prices allowed the procurement staff to brag about their shrewdness.“There’s a barbecue this Saturday. Would you like to come”? The question came from Wally Carter, who’s business card told all the World (especially his female friends), that he was a Purchasing Analyst with the Ford company. Wally was flattered by Kurt’s traditional, ‘European’ courtesy and manners, He took this as evidence of deference but he was mistaken. Kurt was chivalrous and polite even to those who could not be of any social, or professional value to him. When he visited Ford’s office in Oakville he used an elevator that still had an operator, an ex-soldier with one arm. Kurt would greet him, “Good morning. Please to take me to the third floor”, and “Thank-you, very much, sir”, when the door was opened.

The barbecue invitation sounded interesting. “Yes, please. I would like, very much to see a barbecue. But please, am I to bring meat and beer?” Saturday afternoon arrived and Kurt rode his motor-cycle to the house party. The host was Wally Carter’s older cousin who also worked at Ford but in a rather more senior capacity. Kurt had removed his motor-cycle helmet and left it under the seat of his bike. Wally introduced Kurt to his cousin who was standing in a loose circle of wine sippers. Kurt bowed stiffly and shook the other’s hand. Further introductions followed but he could remember only one of the names. Margot Roberts was apparently, unaccompanied. She was blessed with a well-rounded figure and reddish hair. Her complexion was creamy. It reminded him of the Meissen figures that decorated his father’s drawing room at home. She wore little make-up but still had pink cheeks. Kurt knew she spent much of her time out of doors. Her constant pre-occupation was to keep her weight in check. She was, perhaps, fifteen pounds over her target weight but she was healthy and athletic and so, able to keep her figure under control. Kurt was dazzled!

He tried not to be too obvious in his inspection of Margot’s crisp white cotton blouse. He recalled a comment made by Harry McCann, one of his British workers who came from Belfast, about a well-favoured girl; “Sure, it’s like watching two little boys fighting under a blanket, so it is.” Margot caught Kurt’s appreciative look and asked him to get her a fresh glass of sangria. He returned in a few minutes with two full glasses and told her “Good Health!” while looking deeply and without a blink, into her pale blue eyes. “In my country we say ‘prosit’. I guess it means the same”. “And where is your country?” “I am borne in Czechoslovakia. I was able to get away before the invasion and I work in England during the War. You are always in Canada”? he asked. “If you mean, ‘Was I borne here?’ the answer is yes”. Within a few minutes Kurt discovered that Margot was twenty-nine, attending teachers’ college, rode her own horse, lived with her parents, loved chocolate éclairs and had no current boyfriend. Margot found out that Kurt was thirty-five, had his own engineering business, wanted to go back to Czechoslovakia to find out about his father, rode a high powered motor cycle and had never had a serious girlfriend.

Margot’s high-school teacher had noted her as ‘wilful, a sometimes unruly child’. As she moved into adulthood she retained a free-spirited approach to life. At the same time she was a traditionalist who could not tolerate trivial social breaches. A poorly arranged dinner table was not acceptable. Margot wanted to be outrageous but in a most orthodox manner. “Tell me about your motorcycle” she said. “I have a small car for work, but when I am not working I ride my Matchless. When I was living in England I used to make them, but then I could not afford to buy one. The man who designed it is a good friend”. “Are you going to take me home on your motorcycle?”

Margot had visions of being carried off by a knight on a white horse. She came close with an East European engineer on a red bike. As an equestrienne, she understood Kurt when he told her that control of the bike was largely achieved by holding one’s knees together, so as to clamp the fuel tank. When Margot was seated behind him she waved to make sure her girlfriends had seen her. Kurt selected first gear, gently released the clutch and increased the throttle in a smooth, precise movement. The machine accelerated away pushing Margot back into the passenger seat, and causing her to have to grip Kurt’s hips in a most pleasing way. The short ride home was exhilarating for her. Safety helmets were not mandatory at that time and her hair streamed behind her like a ship’s red pennant. Later that evening she returned to where the party had been held to pick up her own small car.

Margot took Kurt riding next weekend. He found an old pair of jeans and an army ‘woolly pully’ sweater. He had driven working horses as a boy, so he was used to them. Riding in a saddle was going to be quite different. When he picked up Margot from her mother’s home, he found her dressed in jodhpurs and high boots. Her riding cap was set at a jaunty angle and she carried a leather-covered crop which she snapped against her boot tops. Kurt was in awe,

“You can stick the bit between my teeth anytime you like”, he muttered. Margot thought this was hugely funny, and told him her gelding would get a whack across the behind from her crop if he didn’t do as he was told.

“You’re not a gelding, are you?”

“No, and I might not always do as I’m told.”

Margot and Kurt became a couple almost immediately. They married after a few months and soon after that, Margot informed Kurt that he was soon to become a father.Kurt thought that his life in Canada was unfolding in a very satisfactory manner. His business was taking on ever more work and making ever more money. He was fulfilled. He enjoyed going to spectator-sports and had taken-up golf and curling. He and Margot had a full social life and a supportive circle of good friends. With his new wife he had added a patina of third-generation respectability to his biography. His one regret was that he was still unable to go to Czechoslovakia to find out what had happened to his father. If he was ever given short-change by a shop assistant, or if a business deal did not work out, he would recall his first week in Canada when an unknown taxi driver showed him how open-hearted and fair-minded his new countrymen were. He loved Canada as much as he loved Margot.

Margot needed the paradox of security and spontaneity that comes with a busy, successful entrepreneur husband. She was careful with money and feared the unlikely prospect of ever being without it. She might buy one summer outfit and one winter outfit each year, but those clothes had to be from the most elegant of shops. She told Kurt to buy only the very best shoes; ‘look after them and they will last for ten years’. She saved money by buying quality. Now that she was to be a mother she would have little time for riding, so the horse was found a new owner. Margot convinced herself that this decision was yet another good example of her frugality. She saw no contradiction when she made a large donation to the Opera Company and a little less to the Ballet.

Chapter 8.

Young Manny made his first appearance at the Oakville Trafalgar Hospital maternity wing in November 1956. Margot insisted he be called Charles (after her grandfather), and Kurt wanted to memorialize his father and chose ‘Manfred’. It soon became clear that ‘Charles’ was an old-fashioned name that would create difficulties for the boy, (especially with a surname of ‘King’. He would be teased at school and called ‘King Charles’). ‘Manfred’ was too foreign but when shortened to ‘Manny’ sounded modern and cross-cultural.

Margot took a half-year off from her teaching job. She wanted to return to teaching as soon as the new school year started. She had the security of her own savings and she enjoyed having her own income from her job. Kurt engaged a Filipina housekeeper to attend to the domestic duties, and to look after young Manny during the day. Kurt took his duties as a father very seriously. At least, he thought so. He researched the reputations of various pre-schools and reserved a place for Manny at a good private school in Oakville. Having provided the nanny and made the financial arrangements, Kurt saw his job as done. Margot was very much the principal caregiver. She taught Manny to read before he started proper lessons. She read stories to him and spoke to him in French. Both Kurt and Margot would have liked more time together – just the two of them – to travel and enjoy each other’s company. But Manny was never seen as an interruption by either of them. As he grew out of babyhood he became more interesting to Kurt. They played together in the local park. Kurt came home with a construction toy and they made a model truck with wheels that turned.

Margot spent many spare time hours preparing her lesson plans. The public library was her main resource. She was checking out half a dozen French classics and dropped her purse. Bill Kitchener was next in line and he picked it up for her. Bill was several years older than Margot but he had followed her around like a sick spaniel when she was in her teens. Whatever drove her remains untold; but she sent him away. Maybe she was just not ready for romance. Maybe the age difference at eighteen was more important than at thirty-five. Bill got over it and married a twenty-six year old and they produced a daughter. Five years into the marriage Bill’s wife died. Margot never found out exactly what happened. She assumed it was cancer. Everyone was getting cancer. Bill was still in love with Margot but he was a gentleman and he respected her status as a married woman. Somehow, without actually saying the words, he let her know that he was ready to take up their relationship if ever Margot became available.

Chapter 9.

Once each year Kurt was invited to join a foursome golf group. Wally Carter was the organizer. If they all were able to take time away they usually booked into a golf resort and stayed for a long weekend. The spring of 1966 saw them take off to a prestige resort called Saucon Valley Country Club in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Kurt was far from being an accomplished player but he enjoyed the social aspects of the game, and it was good to get away from snow, business, and the tedium of family.

Kurt convinced himself that the weekends away with Wally and his pals, was good for business. He partnered Wally coming away with ten over par and a back ache. Wally did rather better and their combined score allowed them to claim victory over the other two golfers. Wally insisted that they all proceed into the lounge to celebrate. They sat at a table close to the bar.

“What’s your poison?” demanded Wally.

“I’ll have a light beer” replied Kurt.

“Come along. You need something a little more substantial".

”Oh! Alright. Make it a single-malt scotch, and make it a good one, if you please.”

Kurt was eavesdropping a conversation between two older men sitting on stools at the bar. He was not interested in what they were saying as much as the way they were speaking in the German language. One of them, a small man of sixty or more years, was speaking in a curious German accent. To hear German spoken, was not, in itself odd, especially (thought Kurt) in this part of the USA. The small man’s manner of speaking was somehow familiar. He looked closely, and thought he had seen the man’s face before. He could not remember where. The accent was puzzling. It was somewhat like the dialect spoken by his father in Moravia. “No”, he thought, “It is more like Austrian German”.

“Hey, drink up Kurt, It`s your turn to pay”, called Wally. Kurt rose and went over to the bar where he ordered another round and paid for it. The older man started to leave with his colleague. As Kurt took his change from the barman he saw that a set of keys had been left on the bar. They could only belong to one of the men who spoke German. Kurt ran after them and called out as they were leaving the lounge.

"Excuse me, sir. I think you may have left your keys at the bar."

The old man felt in his pocket expecting to find his keys where they should be so that he could deny Kurt`s help, and perhaps accuse him of wasting his time. There were no keys in his pocket. Irritably, he took the keys from Kurt, and stopped to thank him. His thanks did not sound very sincere but Kurt was gracious as always. The old man`s drinking partner was not inclined to chat. He turned and said

"Good afternoon, Doctor Routh. I will see you in the morning."

Then, Kurt remembered the photograph that Woolley had shown him, years ago. The likeness was unmistakable.

“You are Professor Routh? I am Kurt King… Kurt Koenig. You knew my father, Dr. Manfred Koenig in Opava.”

The professor seemed confused. Was he trying to recollect his past?

“No,no... Opava, you say. Ah, yes Dr. Koenig. And you are his son? It was so long ago. I must go to my room to think."

“But professor. Sir, please can you tell me anything about my father? Have you been back to Opava since the war?”

“Of course not! How could I? Don’t you know the Russians do not let anyone into Czechoslovakia unless they are on official business. Please leave me alone.”

Wally came out from the bar. “What’s going on?” he asked as Routh scurried away.

“It’s that man. He was speaking German. It sounded a bit like the accent we use in my country, but it is not quite the same. He says he is someone my father regarded as his best friend, but now he can’t remember him. I don’t think he is Ben Routh at all".

The barman took their empty glasses away. As he did so, he fiddled with something that might have been a small camera. Next morning, Sunday, Kurt had an early swim in the pool. Afterwards, he returned to his room where he showered, shaved and changed. He got into the coffee shop at nine-fifteen. He selected a small booth table in a corner, and asked for croissants and a coffee.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” The speaker was a man, fiftyish with a shaved head. He had a large gold coloured ring with some sort of eagle design on his right third finger. He wore designer jeans and a black collerless tee shirt under a black blazer. Pinned to the coat lapel was an American flag badge.

The man sat down in the booth facing Manny.

“Mr. King. You don’t know me. I’m Buzz Fielding. I work for Doctor Routh. I’m his personal assistant.”

“What can I do for you?”

“The Doctor asked me to see you. He thinks, maybe he was a little abrupt, yesterday afternoon. You see, you took him by surprise.

You’re Canadian, right? I met a lot of great guys from Canada when I was in Korea. The Princess Pats.”

“So. How come he says he is Ben Routh when he doesn’t know anything about our home town, or the folks he was best friends with?"

“Doctor Routh had to leave Czechoslovakia, suddenly. He went to work for the British at Cambridge. Then he came to America to work in Nuclear Physics. What with the War and so many changes, he has trouble, sometimes, recalling his younger days.”

Kurt was not convinced.“Where is he now? If he is who he says he is, I need to talk to him about my father. He is the only person I’ve met in many years who might be able to give me some information.”

“I’m afraid that will not be possible. The Doctor had to return to his laboratory first thing this morning.”

“You don’t understand. I have to talk with him.”

“No. You don’t understand. You cannot see Doctor Routh, and it would be very foolish of you to try.

Back off!”

“Well, Can I write to him?”

“No. I am sorry. That will not be possible, either”. Fielding excused himself and stood to leave the table. His arm swept against a menu card and it fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up. Kurt felt a sharp prick at his thigh. It felt like a small mosquito bite. Or, maybe it was just a sharp edge on the booth seat. Fielding had left.

Kurt had to pack to be ready to leave. He went back to his room, and gathered his belongings. He still had half an hour before he had to meet Wally and the others. He sat at the desk in his room and started to write.Their taxi to the airport was on time and they settled their hotel bills. Kurt got into the taxi feeling very tired. They caught their plane connection for Toronto and Kurt sat next to Wally in row three. The flight was scheduled for around ninety minutes. Before it landed at Malton, Kurt was already feeling very unwell. When the plane had taxied to the gate and the Flight Attendants said they could deplane, Kurt was unable to move.

Chapter 10.

Manny King was doing well at University. He was sure he had made the right decision to go for engineering. It was one of the toughest courses but he was motivated and had a natural aptitude for math and science subjects. His gap year was approaching and he had to convince his mother to let him go off to Europe for a few months. Some of his classmates were going to spend some time in London and Paris so Margot found it hard to refuse. Privately, Manny wanted to go to Czechoslovakia to find out what he could about his father’s family. The ‘Velvet Revolution’ had made travel to that part of the world possible, again. Too bad his father never made it. Manny recalled the day, ten years ago, when his father had returned from a golf holiday. He became sick on the plane and when it arrived in Toronto he had to be taken to hospital right from the airport. The doctors had seemed puzzled by Kurt’s illness but they presented a confident front to Manny’s mother.

The Death Certificate gave the cause of death as Lupus Erythematosus. Kurt’s funeral had been a modest affair. Margot had looked dignified. Manny had used the word ‘stoic’ to describe his mother. But once out of sight she wept long and loudly. Later in the day, when the well-wishers had left, she sat beside the window in her conservatory staring into the distance. She smoked a cigarette for the first time in many years. She went down a line of photographs on a display shelf. There was one of herself and her first horse. Another showed Kurt and herself in their wedding clothes. She studied the oldest, a sepia toned studio portrait of Kurt’s father dressed in a three-piece suit with a watch-fob dangling from his waistcoat pocket. The last was of Kurt as a young soldier wearing his button-up-to-the-neck uniform blouse and his dark coloured beret with a metal badge. Bill Kitchener sent a card and later helped Margot settle Kurt’s affairs and sell the business on very favourable terms for Margot.

While in London, Manny had decided to do something about the letter that he had found in his father’s papers. It was addressed to a Captain Horace Woolley but there was no postal information. The letter had obviously been prepared but had not been sent; unless this was just a file copy. It was handwritten on Hotel stationery so it was unlikely to be a copy. It appeared to be quite important, even if it was years past its shelf life.

Manny found the Army records office in Kew. He asked to speak to a supervisor and told her he wanted information on Captain Horace Woolley.

“What Regiment is, or was he attached to?” asked the lady.

“I don’t know. I just have something I need to deliver to him.”After some shuffling and fidgeting, the woman found a computer record and scowled.

“Please wait here for a few moments”.

After ten minutes she returned with a man who appeared to be more senior.

“Why are you investigating Horace Woolley?” he asked. Manny again told them he had something to deliver, - a letter.

“May I see this letter?” asked the man. Manny pulled it out of his case and, reluctantly, handed it over. The man read it (twice) and looked at Manny with a suspicious frown.

“You say this letter was written by your father ten years ago. Why have you taken so long to try to deliver it?” “Well I only found it three years ago – when I applied for University, and I was never in a position to leave Canada before now, and anyway there is no postal address”.

“Even if I were able to locate a record for him, I could not divulge his address. However, the letter does contain details that might need to be considered. Will you wait here for another few minutes, please?”

He nodded to a uniformed Commissionaire hovering by the entrance.Another half hour passed. Manny amused himself by studying the various military prints and photographs in the waiting room. He stopped at a grainy black and white photograph of two British soldiers smoking cigarettes beside an army truck. A road sign indicated they were somewhere in France, or maybe Belgium. Manny wondered who the men were. He wondered about his own father, and what he might have been doing when that picture was being taken. The Commissionaire was still hovering, keeping an eye on Manny.Manny’s mind returned to his now fading memories of his father. He recalled the day when Dad brought home a Meccano construction kit and they had, together, built a truck with wheels and a steering mechanism. A year later, he had helped Manny make his first model aircraft. It was just a basic balsa-wood glider but Manny knew it was really a working Spitfire. His memory of the funeral still troubled him. He wondered if he had shown grief. He began to understand that he had not really known how to behave. He had tried to support his mother, but she was inconsolable. It was almost as if she wanted to bear the pain of her loss, alone, and wept unceasingly. Manny had kept his feelings to himself. He felt the tears welling up and tried to take a deep breath. He was angry that his father had left him. But there was nowhere to direct the anger. God! He missed his father.The man came back into the waiting room. He saw Manny’s reddened eyes.

He said, “Are you alright, son?” Manny stiffened himself, nodded, and waited for the man to go on.

“I think we might have a match, but it would help if you could give me the service number of the person who wrote this letter- your father. They would have to have been in the same unit for part of their service". Manny had left his father’s discharge at home in Canada, but he had copied out the dates and other details. He gave this information to the man who went away again, saying

“Please wait just a little longer. I have to get a clearance.”

After ten minutes, he was back at the counter.

“We’re in luck,” he said. “I have been able to contact Major Woolley. He is not in the Army, now. He retired some years ago. But he lives quite close to here in Richmond. I have one of our drivers ready to take you there if you want to go. We don’t normally do this, you understand. But Major Woolley asked us to make sure you didn’t get lost. He is waiting for you.”

The drive to Richmond took less than half an hour. Even the notorious London congestion seemed to co-operate. The driver pointed to the house and told Manny to go and ring the doorbell. He said he was not told to wait with the car, but the rail station with service to London Waterloo was just around the corner.Manny rang the bell.After two rings, the door was opened by a fresh-faced sixty-year old. He had grey hair that looked as if it might have once been red. His right eye appeared to be made of glass. He was over six-feet tall and straight-backed but he used a walking cane.

"So, You`re Kurt King`s boy, are you?" he snapped.

"Yes, and I want to thank you for seeing me."

"I should tell you, before we begin, that the Records chaps at Kew sent me a fax copy of your letter while you were cooling your heels. I would still like to see the original." Manny handed over his father`s letter.

Saucon Valley Country Club

Bethlehem, Penn.

Captain Horace Woolley, April 16. 1966

I regret that I have not kept in touch with any of my old muckers.

Now that I am living in Canada, I have a very full life and I am sorry that I have let some things slip.

I am writing this to record certain incidents while they are still fresh in my mind.

I hope that I will find a way to get this letter to you. I do not have an address for you.. Perhaps you recall the week I joined your small group. You showed me a picture of a man you said was Professor Ben Routh.

Well, yesterday, at a golf club (See the letterhead), I accidentally met the man in the photograph. The thing is, he doesn’t seem to know anything about our home town, or the people who were my father`s friends. Also, he speaks German with an accent that is not from our country. I think it is Austrian.He has a minder (Buzz Fielding) who threatened me this morning. Told me not to try to see his boss, or else...

I remember my father`s friend, Ben Routh was a gregarious practical joker. The man I saw yesterday was rude and remote. Ben was a physicist. The minder says he was involved in nuclear stuff during and after the war, so I guess he must be a security concern. The point is; I do not think the man in your photo, and the chap I met yesterday, are really Ben Routh.

I have no idea where to go with this information, but I expect you still have contacts. I just hope I can figure out a way to get this to you.

With Best Regards

Kurt King

Woolley let out a low whistle.

"Your father was correct. Routh was put in place by the Russians who wanted to steal the West`s atomic secrets. We figured out what he was up to and we fed him duff intelligence for fifteen or twenty years. The Reds thought he was a star but we had him in our fold right from the start of his mission. He died in America four years ago, by the way. He wangled a transfer to America and we let him go so the Yanks could keep him on the job. Just a few years ago, we got access to the East German records and we found out that the real Routh had been executed by the Nazis. Course the Ruskies got what they wanted from the Rosenbergs."

"What can you tell me about my father?" asked Manny.

Woolley walked over to the fireplace and removed a framed photograph from the ledge. Manny recognized it as a copy of the group picture he had at home.

“That’s him”. Woolley pointed to a soldier on the back row. “He’s easy to spot because he’s wearing a darker beret than the rest of us. Your father was in the REME. Can you make out his hat badge? It’s a horse on its back legs, and a lightning bolt. He was accepted for special service training. We dropped into France and your father made a technical inventory of a German tank. His efforts allowed us to refine our anti-tank tactics. He saved many lives. Did he ever get his medals?”

“I didn’t know he had any.”

“Well, of course, he was entitled to the Defence and Victory medals, as well as a theatre medal for North-West Europe. He was also awarded the British Empire Medal. I know; I recommended him. Tell me, when did your father die?”“It was around ten years ago; just a few days after he wrote the letter to you. As near as I can tell he got sick while on a golfing trip with his pals. They got him back to Toronto but he never regained consciousness. The doctors said he died of something called lupus, or something like that.”

“Lupus Erythematosus... Are you sure?”

“Yes. I think that’s it. What is it?”

“I don’t know much about this stuff, either. But I’m told it’s a disease of the immune system. Any little bug can be fatal. Travelling in aeroplanes is not a good idea. A few years ago, here in Britain, a famous politician died of the same thing. The conspiracy theorists said it was a Soviet Plot to inject him with the stuff and get him out of the running for Prime Minister because he was pally with the Americans and his rival was chums with the Russians.”

“Are you saying my father was murdered because of what he says in your letter?”

Chapter 11.

Manny got a cheap excursion flight to Vienna, and then a train took him to Prague. He over-nighted in a student hostel, and then took a local morning train to Opava. Following the `Velvet Revolution`, Prague had made great efforts to present an attractive face. House fronts were painted, trees were planted and cafés had coloured lights and bunting strung outside. This was not just to encourage tourists. The local people had a long tradition of fine arts, gaiety, music and literature. Prague was ready to wake up, to sing and dance again after the Soviet influences had waned.

Opava was different. Manny found a run-down, industrial town with factory gates padlocked and windows shuttered. This had once been a thriving centre of business, but it was now just a squalid backwater town.His first stop was to the Town Hall. This would be difficult, he thought. He spoke not a word of Czech and just a smattering of German. Eventually, he found an assistant who could speak English.

“I am visiting from Canada. I came here to see if I can find out what became of my grandfather. He lived in Opava before the war.”

“Can you please give me his name?”

"Yes, he was called Dr. Manfred Koenig. He owned an engineering company. They made automobile engines.”

Manny knew he had to provide enough information to identify himself and the reason for his interest, but he remembered Woolley’s advice. Woolley had stressed that any inquiries about pre-war property might be met with opposition.

“Anyone trying to recover money or land, or any other assets would be a threat to the people now holding that property. Even if they had said, at the time, that they were just holding on to it for safekeeping, they might well feel a sense of entitlement after fifty years. Some of the most intransigent are government agencies as well as individuals.”

“Can you help me?” Manny asked the clerk.

“Perhaps we can find records. You must come back in the morning.”

Manny sensed he was getting a runaround, but he had no alternative but to go along with the system.He returned to the small hotel that he had found close to the railway station. He needed a beer.The barman at the hotel recommended a local beer. Manny found it clear and refreshing. Better than anything he had tasted in Canada.

In broken German (on his side) and broken English (on the barman’s side) he explained that he was trying to locate his grandfather’s remaining friends and family.

“You say he was an engineer. Why not ask at the Engineering Institute?” offered the barman. Apparently, the Institute still met regularly although its membership had diminished to less than a dozen old-timers who met to socialize. The barman went into the back office and returned with the location of the Institute’s meeting place. A meeting was due to take place in two days.

Manny decided that he had done enough for the day. He located a small restaurant close by. His goulash and roasted chicken meal was wholesome and included a couple of glasses of red wine that tasted remarkably full-bodied. The whole thing cost him less than a Big Mac at home. He returned to the hotel. He slept until after nine the following morning. After breakfast he went back to the Town Hall. He thought he might as well go through with the charade. The same clerk met him and, again, found reasons why no information could be found.

“Perhaps if you return, tomorrow”, she said.

He spent the next day wandering round the old town. There were a few nice looking shops selling local needs and one beside the station that served any lost tourists. It had a good selection of glassware and local handicrafts. Most of the other shops and businesses were run down, or closed up. He saw several small manufacturing plants, but most were just empty shells. Obviously, Opava had seen better days. From the number of workshops and closed factories, Manny could see that this had once been a thriving industrial centre. After his wandering, Manny returned to his hotel room and tried to make some sense of his experience. If his father had been murdered, it could mean that Buzz Fielding was a U.S. security officer charged with protecting Routh, or controlling his access if he was a traitor. Or he could be a Russian operative protecting Routh’s alias. And what about Routh himself? The main thing that had bothered his father was Routh’s German accent. But people who move around alter their speech patterns. Manny had met several newly settled British immigrants in Canada. Within months many of them were supporting the Maple Leafs and speaking about elevators (not lifts) and streetcars (not trams). If Routh had been threatened and coerced by the Russians he may well have lost much of his carefree attitude, as well as his accent. Maybe his father just simply picked up a bug and died of natural causes. Maybe Routh was an honest scientist who was attracted to America and the Brits tried to minimize their loss by saying he was a mole. Every answer seemed to be accompanied by a dozen new questions. Manny did not sleep that night.

Next evening, he found the Institute meeting at a small tavern. He asked if anyone could speak English and was surprised when several of the men – there were no women present – replied that they could. He told one of them that he was the grandson of one of their old members, Manfred Koenig. An old man said that he remembered the ‘Herr Doktor’ very well.

“Like so many of our people, Manfred disappeared during the war. Some of the technical people were taken away by the Germans to work for them. After the Germans retreated the Russians came in and stole everything that was left, if it could be moved. Even the toilet seats.”

“The only person who may know something could be Hans Toffler. He was your grandfather’s assistant. But I must warn you, he is very old and his memory is not what it was.”

Manny bought all the men a drink and spent an hour with them telling them about Canada and the career in mechanical engineering that he hoped to pursue. They told him about the research that had been conducted in Opava before the war. How the region was second only to the Saarland and how the metal smelters and mines in the district had once been the source of great wealth. One of the men gave Manny directions to Toffler’s address and an introduction note, which he stuffed into his wallet.

Next morning Manny walked the three kilometers to the Toffler house.

Manny checked the address against the card he had been given the night before. He inspected the place from the roadway. The house was placed at the corner where a small side-street joined a much wider road. The address on Manny’s card was for a side gateway accessed from the smaller street.

The house was quite large but it was in need of a paint job and a month’s attention by a good maintenance carpenter. It was surrounded by shrubbery and plantings that had been neglected and now grew wild. A low stone wall with a wrought iron fence defined the perimeter. An iron gate led from the street to a narrow pathway, and then to a green painted door with tarnished brass fittings. He walked up the pathway, and rang the bell. After two minutes, he rang again. Through the bushes, Manny could see a wider approach on the other side of the house. The other pathway led from a double gate opening to the wide avenue. It was overgrown with weeds and was obviously unused.

Toffler lived with a sixty something widowed daughter, Maria. She opened the door just a fraction and squinted at the visitor. Manny introduced himself to her with the help of the card he got from the Institute, and Maria replied in German that her father did not usually have visitors. He persisted and with some reluctance, she let him in and directed him to a small sitting room. As they approached the sitting room Manny caught sight of a large drawing room through a half-open doorway. It could have been the reception area for a large city hotel. It had three matched ceiling chandeliers that Manny thought looked like the ones in some of his father’s photograph collection in Canada.

Hans Toffler seemed to be asleep. Maria told Manny that the ‘Doktor’ had been taken away by the Germans and the factory was stripped of all the valuable tools and machinery. Whatever was left was later taken by the Russians. He had no family here after Mister Kurt had gone away.

“I am sorry Mr. Koenig (she used his grandfather’s name). There is nothing we can tell you. Now, you must go. My father needs to rest. Please leave us alone”

Manny told the sleeping old man “Danke” and turned to leave. Maria had already gone to open the door for him. Toffler opened his eyes. He studied Manny carefully.

“You say you are the Herr Doktor’s grandson". He spoke slowly, in heavily accented, but easily understandable English.

“I was told you speak only Czech and German!” said Manny.

“Yes, that’s what Maria thinks. Quickly, before she comes back. Are you Koenig’s grandson?”

Manny told him how Kurt, his father, had left to go to England and then to Canada. How he had been a soldier in the War and had been given a medal by the King. He said his father had died while still quite young

.“Let me see you” said the old man. He studied Manny from his chair. Then he rose painfully, and moved toward the window.

“Let me see you in the light. Yes, you have Manfred’s eyes. What is it you came here for?”

Manny told him, truthfully, that he had no motive other than to discover his ancestor’s fate.

“And you say you are an engineer like your father and grandfather?”

Manny told him about his studies at Waterloo. He had another year to go but his marks were good and he would graduate with honours.

“Come with me!” said the old man. He found his walking cane beside his seat and shuffled toward the door. Maria called out to him. Manny could not understand the words but the attitude was the mixture of bullying and caring that only a daughter could express. Toffler replied with a rude insult.

Behind the house was a garden shed. Toffler unlocked the door and opened it. They went inside. Toffler told Manny to move a heavy workbench away from the wall. He scraped away years of accumulated dust and debris. He told Manny to get a pinch-bar and pry up two floor boards. When he had done this Toffler bent down and handled a large steel box. It was too heavy for the old man to raise so Manny did it for him. Then the old man went to a cupboard which he unlocked with a key he took from his vest pocket. Inside the cupboard were several measuring tools and instruments. Among these articles was another key. He gave the key to Manny and told him to open the box.

Inside the box Manny found a small machine. It looked a little like the super-charger for a modern high performance car engine, but it was smaller. There were no labels or maker’s name on the machine.“What is it?” asked Manny.“Look at the drawings” replied the old man.Manny unrolled a sheaf of onionskin paper. The papers were old-fashioned blueprints. He studied the technical drawings. They were created by a professional and competent draftsman. He gazed at the drawings admiring the technical perfection. The notations were in beautiful stylized German text, and the arrowheads were precise and uniform. If the drawings had been Monet oil paintings hung in a Paris gallery, he thought, they could not have been more perfect.

“They are your grandfather’s work.”

Manny cast an expert eye over the drawings.

“They appear to be the specifications and elevation drawings of the motor in the box. But the dimensions are wrong.”

“The engine you see here is a working miniature model. The prototype was bigger.”

Toffler seemed to have taken on more energy since they came into the shed. He looked twenty years younger, his eyes glistened and his cheeks had some colour. Even his mane of white hair seemed to have regained its bounce. He told Manny that the Germans took away the prototype together with most of the technical drawings. Doktor Koenig was taken to work in Essen. We heard that he died while in Germany. He died naturally from a sickness that made him vomit and left him with no energy. Perhaps it was for the best. If he had lived to see the end of the war, the Russians would have sent him away to re-settle in Bavaria. They made all ethnic Germans go to Bamburg. Toffler said he left behind the model and a set of drawings which he entrusted to him.

“So, now I have returned them to their owner. They are yours Mr. Koenig.”

“Thank you, sir” said Manny. “But what, exactly is it? I can see it is some sort of motor but why was it worth hiding so carefully, and for so long?“

"It is a rotary compression engine. It runs on gasoline and it develops very high revolutions with hardly any vibration. There are no valves, and no reciprocating parts to stop and start several thousand times every minute. The acceleration is instant. The Germans took the prototype away to the big auto factories in Stuttgart and Essen. I heard someone say they have recently marketed the engine under another name and they even sold a production license to the Japanese."

Toffler and Manny spent the next two days setting-up the engine on a test bench. They rigged-up a gasoline supply from an elevated two-litre bottle and Manny carefully cleaned and lubricated the rotor shaft. If he were making the engine, today, he would discard the brass bearings and replace them with precision needle-roller bearings. Maybe there could be other improvements available using up to date materials and processes, thought Manny. Once the engine was started, it ran without vibration and with a low whine instead of the staccato roar of a piston engine.

He was not sure what he could do with his new engine. If he tried to take it with him it would surely be discovered and seized. Even if he could get the engine back to England or Canada, he would not be able to develop it because the German post war companies would have stuck patents all over the place. He had no resources to launch an international patent challenge. Toffler seemed to read his thoughts. "We Czechs have learned that sometimes you have to accept adversity. If you cannot fight them, it is sometimes best to be agreeable and survive. I believe your grandfather was a fighter. He said he would never co-operate with them and now he is dead. Those of us who are not so brave are still here. But what sort of life is it we lead?”

“I have more to tell you,” he continued.

“Your grandfather also made a steam version of this motor. I helped him with the construction and fitting-out. The design was entirely your grandfather’s work. As you may know, we have many mineral mines close to Opava. The Herr Doktor told me he had found a substance that could be made to heat water into steam. He had a similar motor worked by steam compression instead of gasoline. I never saw the engine run because your grandfather said the exhaust from the uranium boiler, as he called it, could make a person sick. In the end, when the Germans were taking over he took the motor and dumped it in Areálu Hlučín, it is a large lake about thirty kilometres east of here. I think the conceptual drawings are here somewhere.”

The End

Toffler had seen endings like this, before. Kurt Koenig had left so long ago, full of youthful vigour and irrational enthusiasm. He said he would take his father’s ideas and send for the plans to build the engine very soon, when he was settled. He never returned. The Herr Doktor had been forced into his ending. The men in black shirts made him run the Opava factory to produce military vehicles. He objected at first, but finally refused only when they demanded that he employ forced labour from the Ukraine. In Manfred’s ending, they took him away to Essen with his prototype gasoline rotary engine. He never returned.

Now Young Manny was about to leave. He would take the plans but not the engine. Maybe he would finally succeed in making Manfred’s idea a practical reality. Manny would go to England before returning home to Canada. He wanted to try to find John, or was it Jim Beale, whose letter Manny had found in his Dad’s records. He also had a date with Horace Woolley. The Major had promised to help Manny get his Dad’s medals.

Toffler saw that Kurt and Manny were within weeks of the same age as they each began their respective journeys. Manny had a large backpack as his only baggage. Kurt had taken several cases and was dressed in his best suit, a baggy, double breasted affair set-off by a tight blue tie, and a floppy fedora. Manny looked like a poor farm-boy dressed in denim trousers and a loose cotton jacket. Other than their dress style they were an identical pair. Manny strode with the same careless assurance that Karl had shown. Just as his father had, Manny waved and grinned at Toffler and Maria as he started out for the train station.

He would not return.

No-one ever returned.

NOTES:

The Sudetenland was initially put under military governorship, and was divided, with the southern parts being incorporated into the neighbouring Reichsgaue Oberdonau administration, with General Wilhelm Keitel as Military governor. Following the German collapse Czechoslovakia became a Soviet satelite. In 1989 the Velvet Revolution restored democracy. This occurred at around the same time as the fall of communism in Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary and Poland. Within three years communist rule was extirpated from Europe. Unlike Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union, the end of communism in this country did not automatically mean the end of the "communist" name: the word "socialist" was removed from the name on March 29, 1990, and replaced by "federal".In 1992, Because of growing nationalist tensions, Czechoslovakia was peacefully dissolved by parliament. Its territory became the Czech Republic and Slovakia, which were formally created on January 1st, 1990.

The 2nd Battalion of Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry received the Presidential Unit Citation (Korea)) and the Distinguished Unit Citation (now Presidential Unit Citation (US)) from thePresident of the United States to recognize its stand at Kapyong during the Korean War in April 1951. The Patricias, together with the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Australian Regiment, which received the same honour, held up the Chinese forces for three days while United Nations forces withdrew to a new defensive line

Saucon Valley Country Club is a country club in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, United States. The club's facilities include three 18-hole golf courses and a six-hole beginners course.

Hugh Gaitskell (Leader of the opposition Labour Party) died in January 1963 aged 56, after a sudden flare of Lupus erythematosus; an autoimmune disease. His death left an opening for Harold Wilson in the party leadership. The abrupt and unexpected nature of his death led to some speculation that foul play might have been involved, the most popular conspiracy theory involving a supposed KGB plot to ensure that Wilson (alleged by the supporters of these theories to be a KGB agent himself) became prime minister. This claim was given new life by Peter Wright's controversial 1987 book Spycatcher, but the only evidence that ever came to light was the testimony of Soviet defector Anatoliy Golitsyn.

From 1940, the British Empire Medal for Meritorious Service could again be awarded for gallantry, but now also for acts of bravery (not in the face of the enemy) which were below the level required for the George Medal