Chapter 2

December 8, 1942

London, England

The large German transport plane lumbered down towards the waiting runway, looking for all the world like a pregnant duck. She wasn't as heavily laden as the men waiting to unload her thought, for she hardly bounced as her pilot set her skillfully down on the tarmac, then let her waddle her way along the taxiway to the nearby terminal.

Heathrow hadn't been an RAF base, but its runways were long enough to accommodate the massive Arado 232, and the airfield was in London itself. The Germans hadn't hesitated to commandeer the facility for their own use, conscripting out-of-work Englanders to load and unload the planes for them. And those Englishmen cursed to think that yet more German soldiers were arriving to occupy their country, the same way that France and Holland had been garrisoned.

Only the slim young WAAF corporal smiled at this landing, as she waited beside a staff car with her German escort. Mavis Newkirk could hardly contain her excitement as she waited in the bright midmorning sun. There she'd been, sorting useless paperwork at her desk, but who was complaining? It was a job, when so many of the auxiliary forces had been let go at the end of the hostilities. She persevered, even though it was apparent that her immediate English supervisor didn't like her. She hadn't realized that her department's German overseer had even known of her existence. But, there she'd been…

"Mavis?" Leftenant Harrow's receptionist tried to get the young corporal's attention quietly, but, Lord, how that girl would get herself into her work… "Mavis!" she called louder, bringing the dark head up sharply, turning those green eyes her way. "He wants you in his office, pet."

"Harrow, Gladys?" Mavis asked, just to be sure, as she picked up her sweater and bag and prepared to face her nemesis.

"No, pet. Himself, the Major. Bachmann." That stopped Mavis in her tracks, but only for a moment. If the German wanted to see her, it was all the more reason to hurry. Their new overlords weren't known for patience, although no one in her office had had any experience with Bachmann yet. She, it seemed, would be the first.

Lucky her.

She hurried out the door, ignoring her leftenant's glare as she passed by his open door. The hallway seemed longer than usual as she hurried to the large office at the end. Major Erik Bachmann had been in place over this department for two weeks now, just long enough for her coworkers' speculation to grow extravagant. Well, she'd be able to set them right very soon now. She tapped at his closed door; almost immediately she heard called-out permission to enter. Some German, she smirked, it was good to know.

"Hierin," he called, his voice level and calm-sounding.

With one last breath for courage, she opened the door and entered the lion's den. Cool gray eyes studied her as she walked towards his desk, coming to attention and saluting as was proper. Many of the girls wouldn't, Mavis knew, although she thought they were being foolish. Much better to keep things on an impersonal military footing.

Gravely, the major returned her salute, then motioned towards a chair. "Fräulein Newkirk? Be seated, please," he instructed, waiting until she had settled uncertainly on the hard wooden surface. Once more he glanced at her, then shifted his attention to a folder on his desk. "You record here is…contradictory, Fräulein," he began in a carefully modulated tone. "During the war, you received only exemplary ratings. Lately, though your work is still exceptional, you have been given very poor reviews. There is a problem with your supervisor?" His eyes came up to study hers again. "It would appear that…someone…is trying to cost you your job. You have other income? Family that can support you, should this occur?"

"Sir, begging your pardon," she tried to keep a civil tone, although she could feel her temper threatening to boil over. "That's a personal problem, an' I'll thank you to…" She cut herself off and tried again. "I appreciate your concern, Herr Major, but I'll just have to deal with it the best I can." She kept her head high, her eyes expressionless.

"I can see where you might think this none of my business, but if it costs me a highly trained, skilled worker, that is my concern, Fräulein. Harassment that affects efficiency will not be tolerated. I will see to this myself… although that is not why I asked you to come here.

"It says here that you have a brother, a Corporal Peter Newkirk, who was a POW held in Germany. This is so?"

Mavis took another long, slow breath, fighting for patience. "Sir, if that's me file, you already know that," she replied, her accent starting to slip back to her native East-End Cockney.

"Humor me, Fräulein." He smiled slightly, not taking offense. "Not all of these records are accurate, and I would prefer to be certain.

"Your brother is due to arrive in…" he paused to check his watch, "about two hours. I just received this notification from my superiors; apparently one of our generals thought you should be advised of this. If you would care to meet the aircraft, I can arrange a car and driver for you. An escort is advisable, since your authorities have been blocking these releases at every turn. This is the first planeload to come back to England." He stopped and passed her a clean handkerchief, not commenting on the tears that filled her eyes.

"Thank'e, sir; I…" Mavis began, once she had started to regain control.

But the Major stopped her with a brief wave of one hand. "Think nothing of it, Fräulein. I must speak to Corporal Newkirk after he arrives anyway; this way, he will see that you are well and will have one less worry. He is in no trouble; he just needs to report in." He paused and looked thoughtfully at her for a long moment. "How much do you know of your brother's activities during the war?"

She paused, trying not to look panicked at this question. "Well, sir," she began cautiously, "'e was a gunner on a bomber, sir. Then 'e was shot down an' spent the last two years a POW---a bit more than that, really. Sir."

He nodded, a grim smile on his face. "Ah, yes; the official version. And his POW years? Do you know where he was and what he did while there?"

"They said 'e was at Luftstalag XIII, sir," she answered readily enough, even as she wondered what this man knew. "As far as what 'e were doin' there, I s'pose 'e did what all POWs did."

He laughed, truly amused. He had never seen such a convincing display of ignorant innocence in his life, and he'd seen some very good actors during his career in Abwehr. If he hadn't known better, he would have believed her. However… "Fräulein Newkirk, I know that you were one of the radio operators who monitored transmissions from the various underground units working against the Nazis." He kept his voice gentle, for he did not want to frighten her more than this subject would. "We know this, and we know that the GOLDILOCKS unit—your unit—monitored the frequencies used by PAPA BEAR, based at Stalag XIII. You may safely admit that; no one will be in trouble for it. PAPA BEAR has already been tried; his men all have pardons for the sabotage that they did at his orders, so your brother is safe from us for those activities.

"However, part of his pardon includes the requirement that he report his whereabouts once each month, and that he report in every time that he travels. So this he must do, before he can try to find somewhere to stay. I suspect that your authorities will do nothing to help any of these men get settled. We will be providing billeting for them at first, until they can do for themselves. But there is no sense in putting temptation before as canny a man as Corporal Newkirk.

"So, you may go with the car to collect him. In fact," Major Bachmann paused, a genuine smile in his eyes, "you, Fräulein, may take the rest of the day off, once I have spoken to Corporal Newkirk. I am sure that you have much to catch up on, and you can, perhaps, help him find someplace to stay."

"'E'll stay at my flat, 'til 'e can find a place of 'is own." There would be no arguing with Mavis on that account.

"That will do admirably," Bachmann agreed. "So. You should, perhaps, go now, if you wish to meet the plane. Traffic can be surprisingly heavy near the airfield."

"Yes, sir. And sir? Thank you." Mavis smiled back at him, genuinely grateful. She stood, saluted, and gathered her things…then paused, looking slightly uncertain.

"You may go; the car will be at the main entrance by the time you get there," Bachmann said, reading her hesitation correctly. He placed her file to one side of his desk and turned his attention to another stack of papers, clearly dismissing her. He looked up and smiled again momentarily as the door closed behind her, then turned back to the never-ending paperwork.

o-O-o—

The transport came to a stop at the terminal, and a tall set of steps had been wheeled into place at the open door of the plane. Then men appeared at the opening, carrying small bundles. The first one down the stairs, almost as if it were the place of honor, was Corporal Peter Newkirk. He paused a moment, looking around; then his mind registered motion near him, and he turned just in time to catch his sister up in his arms. "Eh, Mavis, luv," he crooned as he held her, understanding that the tears streaming down her face were tears of joy. He felt like shedding some himself, although he wouldn't do that out here, in public. "What are you doin' 'ere, pet?"

"Our supervisor was sending a car to pick you up," she finally got enough control of herself to reply. "He thought I'd like to come and meet you. I suspect," she added, a mischievous gleam lighting her eyes despite the dampness in them, "that he thought you'd come along more readily if I were here, than if he just sent guards to meet you."

"Still working for Intelligence, then?" Peter asked, startled to hear this.

"Surprisingly, yes," she said, but got no further as two distinct groups of men approached the disembarking POWs. One group, slightly behind the other, was clearly comprised of reporters; they had pads of paper, and bulky shoulder-slung wire-recorders, with microphones already out. There were photographers there also, already starting to take pictures of the new arrivals.

The leading group, though—they did not look at all happy. The first in that group came over to Newkirk scowling. "Here, now, what's all this? Where are your entry permits? You can't just come in here like this, without going through customs. There are regulations, you know."

Newkirk just laughed. "You'd best take that up wi' th' German Bloody 'Igh Command, mate. We just go where we're told t' go. You best step aside, or these nice Krauts 'ere are like t' shoot you for interferin'. They got orders, y'see."

"But…" the man sputtered; then the reporters reached them, and Newkirk was in his glory, describing the paperwork in his file that had been returned to the Germans. And he laughed even more as he watched reporters taking pictures of the officials slinking away, their metaphorical tails between their legs. Then German military police came to see what the hold-up was. Oh, yes, but th' guv'nor's general had had it right: it was going to hit the fan right proper, it was. And he could just imagine how they'd squawk when they learned about the other five planes, larger planes, that had landed at various old bomber bases, scattered across the countryside. Cor; his flight had only had fifty of them crammed on board; those big ME-323s were carrying 120 blokes each! Happy Christmas, you bloody Commies. Now see what 'appens, once John Q. Public finds out what you were doin'. And these were just the start.

So thinking, Newkirk finished his impromptu interview with the statement that the Jerries had promised that they'd have the Brits coming home, and here they were, despite all obstacles put in their way. More would be coming now, every few days, until all were home who could be sent. Hitler might have been a 'ruddy liar,' but the Jerries in charge now meant what they said and kept their given word when at all possible. And on that note, he helped Mavis into the waiting car and slid in after her, watching his fellow POWs climbing into commandeered London buses for their ride to temporary housing.

He kept up his cocky exterior until they were well away from Heathrow Airfield and any prying eyes or camera lenses; then he slumped against the seat-back with a sigh. Mavis looked at her brother in concern. "Are you all right, Peter?" she asked, trying to mask her alarm.

Newkirk grinned at her, although he let his eyes remain closed. "Oh, yeah; I'm just tired, luv. It were a long flight, an' that ruddy plane weren't tricked out for passengers. It's a bloomin' cargo plane, after all, though they made sure we 'ad plenty o' blankets. I'll be glad, though, once I've seen whoever I 'ave to an' can get me some sleep. 'Ope you don't mind, pet."

"That's all right, Peter," she said, relieved just to have him home again and looking so good. She'd half-expected a ragged scarecrow… And she smiled gently when she realized that he'd drifted off to sleep just that fast.

o-O-o—

He felt someone shaking his arm. "Come on, Peter-luv; wake up. We're here; you have to wake up and go inside. Peter…"

"I'm awake; enough," he sighed, peeling one eyelid back to peer at his sister in resignation. "Do y' know where I'm s'posed t' report?"

"Major Bachmann said that he needed to talk to you," Mavis offered hesitantly, then grinned at Peter's long-suffering sigh.

"Right, then. An' if I'm s'posed t' be someplace else, I'm sure my guards'll tell me… «won't you, Lads?» he switched to German as he noticed the driver glancing at him in his rear-view mirror and trying not to grin.

«Die hübsches Mädchen has it correct, Herr Obergefreiter,» the driver, a Soldat with plain shoulder-boards, confirmed, his voice surprisingly polite.

"Watch it, mate. That 'pretty girl' is me sister," Newkirk started hotly in defense of his sib. The driver and the second soldier merely grinned; the second man sighed dramatically.

«My Luck is like that also, Englander: The pretty ones that like me are all related to me. Perhaps I will be more fortunate here; surely the Ladies won't all hate us—or not forever, at least.»

"You can 'ope, mate," Newkirk laughed back, thinking how surreal this bilingual conversation was. Mavis obviously didn't speak or understand German, for she had a puzzled look on her face.

«Best go in, Herr Obergefreiter; der Major is waiting for you, and he will know that you are here; his Aide's Office overlooks this Street.»

"Right. Ta, then, chaps. Keep yer 'eads down." He waited until the second Soldat had come and opened the car door for them, slid out, then handed Mavis out afterwards. She giggled at the gesture, which only made his smile widen. "Let's go beard the lion in 'is den, shall we, then?" he said, and escorted her into the building.

She had them go up the back stairs, which raised Peter's eyebrows, but that only made her sigh before explaining. "If we go this way, we can get to the major's office without having to pass by Leftenant Harrow's office. I'd rather avoid him if at all possible, for as long as possible. The man seems to hate me for some reason," she told Newkirk, who seemed not to be listening at first, but then he suddenly stopped and looked up at her when she climbed three more steps before realizing that he'd stopped.

"'Arrow, you say? That wouldn't be Archibald 'Arrow, would it?"

"Why, yes; it is. Do you know him?"

"Oh, yeah, I knows 'im. I knows 'im right well, an' if 'e's givin' you a 'ard time, luv, it's probably on account o' me. I ran wi' 'im when I were young an' stupid, an' new t' th' service. 'E was gettin' into things I wanted no part o', though, so we parted ways after some words. If 'e's botherin' you, Mavis…"

"No; it'll be all right, Peter," Mavis hurriedly tried to defuse this situation before her overprotective brother made things any worse. "Major Bachmann said he'd be looking into this himself." She chewed her lip, a sure sign of nerves from her childhood, and Peter nearly grinned at that memory.

"I'll be speakin' to this major o' yours on several things, then," was all he'd say as he began to climb the stairs once more.

Mavis tapped quietly at the office door they'd stopped in front of, not wanting to be heard further down the hallway. It was clearly loud enough inside, though, for within moments the door was opened by the major's aide, a young blond Gefreiter who came to a relaxed attention in deference to Newkirk's rank. Peter looked at the youth curiously, but said nothing and stepped inside when the young man moved back to clear the path to the desk.

The man waiting for them was about the colonel's age, Newkirk guessed. His sandy-brown hair was thinning just slightly, but his gray eyes were clear and full of a lively intelligence. Newkirk sighed; there'd be little chance of pulling a fast one on this man, or he was no judge of character. He stopped in front of the desk at attention, saluting reluctantly, and announced, "Corporal Peter Newkirk reporting as ordered, sir."

The major smiled, then gravely returned the salute. But it was Mavis he turned to, ignoring Peter at first. "Thank you, Corporal Newkirk—and, yes, I can see where we might have a problem here. You may return to your work. I will have you sent for when I am finished with your Bruder."

"Yes, sir," she answered, clearly disappointed to be excluded from the upcoming discussion. But she was too well disciplined a soldier to argue the matter, even though Peter certainly would have. Saluting again herself, she turned and left the office to return to her own pile of paperwork.

"And now for you," Major Bachmann said, turning his full attention to Newkirk at last. "Your papers, please." He held out his hand, ready to accept the folder that Newkirk pulled out of his tunic's inner breast pocket, but the Englishman hesitated before turning them over.

"One question, sir," he said, trying to keep his voice polite. "Is this where you'll be keepin' me papers? Th' main office, like?"

Bachmann eyed this brash young corporal thoughtfully as he leaned back into his chair once more. Why, he wondered, would this matter? But it clearly did; so… "This will be considered your 'home of record'---London, that is, until further notice. So, yes, this office will be keeping your files. Why?"

"Well, sir, y'see, there's a problem 'ere in yer office. An' I've one bit o' paper 'ere---a further proof o' ident that's not t'be sent out to any but me main office. General Mann'eim's orders, that last. I just don't want that t' be leakin' out."

"A problem? What sort of problem, Corporal?" Bachmann was concerned to hear about any sort of possible security leak, and this Newkirk had only just arrived. What could he have learned in such a short time?

"There's an officer 'ere; I knew 'im when I were young an' reckless an' not respectin' any authority. 'Im an' me…well, th' sayin' 'thick as thieves' fit us just right. Only, I could see big trouble the way things were 'eadin' an' got out. Th' thing is, sir, 'e's in a position where 'e could cause me more'n a bit o' trouble. And you, sir, if 'e's got access to th' accounts or payroll 'ere. 'E'd sell 'is mum for a copper; can't imagine what 'e'd do for a quid."

"This wouldn't be the officer who's giving your sister a hard time, would it?"

"Yeah, it is, but that's not why I'm tellin' you. 'E would'a liked t' sell secrets, early in th' war—I know you know about me safe-crackin' skills—but I weren't up for that. I 'ad some honor, even in those days. An' now 'e's 'ere, in an office just full o' bloody secrets.

"I know you need proof, sir. You want, I'll find you that proof. I've 'ad enough experience, ticklin' out secrets what want t' stay hid."

"I…see." Oh, yes, he did see, and it made sense, too. The department to which Harrow was assigned had had a reputation for being as leaky as a sieve. There'd been no proof, though, and then the war had ended. Bachmann frowned as a further thought struck him: Just who had recommended Harrow for his present position? His gaze focused on the Corporal in front of him. "So you are saying…what, Corporal Newkirk? That you will work for me, to catch this traitor? You will be—how do you say it—my man?"

"Eh…no, sir," Newkirk hedged, but his voice held a certain something that was hard to describe. "I'm Colonel 'Ogan's man, an' always will be. 'E gave up 'is life for me an' th' rest, an' I'll never be forgettin' that. I'll be doin' this for 'im, 'cause I know 'e'd want me to do."

"So tell me, Newkirk," Bachmann said, intrigued despite himself at the workings of this man's mind. "How does General Mannheim fit into the picture?"

Peter looked down a moment, then grinned. "Well, sir, th' Colonel, 'e's Mannheim's now, on account o' 'e 'ad to be, t' save th' rest o' us. So if I'm 'is, and 'e's the general's, then I guess I'm the general's too, more or less."

"I see," Bachmann gravely commented, though he was fighting not to laugh at this. "I suspect that, in your case, Newkirk, it's more a matter of less, than more. But, enough. Whatever the reasons, you must report to this office for the next four months, at the least. So I might as well make use of you, since you are willing. You will be reporting directly to me. Use the excuse of visiting your sister for access here, if you need to. I will arrange pay for you. Unfortunately, it will only be at half-scale, since you are unofficial. You will need to stay in uniform for that time anyway, unless you are otherwise directed.

"Now, your papers, if you would."

"Oh. Yes, sir. 'Ere you go, sir," he said as he calmly handed over his identity folder with a grin. "Mavis says that I'll be stayin' at 'er place 'til I find a place o' me own."

"That is acceptable. Now, one last thing," the major said, looking up from the packet. "This says that you now bear a bondsman's tattoo. You will show me."

"Right you are, then," Newkirk cheerfully agreed as he pulled up his right sleeve to expose the string of numbers. At the German's nod, he let his sleeve slide down again, then eased the left one up a bit and removed his watch. "There's this one, too, Major," he said, his voice lowered now. "It's not in me papers, but all o' us Bear's Cubs got this one now. I got a note 'ere from General Mann'eim about it." He displayed the still-healing tattoo of a small seated teddy bear, then covered it with his watch once more.

"The Bear's Cubs?"

"Yes, sir; that's what Gen'ral Mann'eim an' the guards at Stalag XVI called us, die Bärenjunge---those o' us as were PAPA BEAR's men. It's 'ow you can tell us, if someone claims t' be one o' us, sir."

"And that is why no one outside this office is to know," the major finished that thought with a smile. "Very clever of whoever thought that up. I see that this is a recent development, well past the end of the war."

"Last week, sir. It seemed a good idea at the time."

"I agree. But, enough. Go and get yourself settled… Unterfeldwebel Newkirk. Report back if and when you have something for me—yes, I'm Abwehr—or I will see you sometime the first week of January for your routine report-in. You are dismissed."

"Yes, sir." he stood and saluted, then left as he saw Bachmann picking up the phone.

He got as far as the hallway; then the door to the smaller adjoining office opened, and the young aide beckoned him inside. Curious now, Newkirk complied.

"Deine Schwester will hier you choin (join)," he struggled to say.

Peter took pity on the youth. «I speak German, if that's easier for you, Gefreiter.»

«Oh, ja, veile dank. Corporal Newkirk will join us here to escort you out until Security can be notified of your Status,» the young German explained happily. «I have your Ration Books for you, and Back Pay for this Month. Herr Major's Orders. So you will have a little Money, at least, until you find Work. You will find that they will try not to give you the Back-Pay you are owed; we have heard strong Rumors to that Effect already. If you have any Questions, Unterfeldwebel, I will do my best to answer them.»

«Do I change the Stripes on my Uniform?» He didn't know why he asked that---curiosity, most likely.

«Yes, but you will have to use the American-type Stripes---they call it 'Staff Sergeant.' You do not have the correct Equivalent in your RAF.»

«In that Case, I'll leave my old Stripes on. Too confusing otherwise.»

«As you wish; it will be harder for us to show you the proper Respect, though.»

Whatever Newkirk meant to answer went unsaid as Mavis tapped at the door and entered.

"All right, luv; ready t' go?" Peter asked his sister, letting his exhaustion show once again.

"Let's just get you home, shall we? Thanks, Johann. I'll see you in the morning."

"Ja, Fräulein Newkirk. Im Morgen." And the young man gave her a gentle smile before returning to his own work, not even watching as the two sibs left his office.

Mavis snuck both of them down the back stairs again. There was no car for them this time, but Peter's duffle of gear wasn't all that large, so they caught a bus instead of wasting money on a taxi. Newkirk had no intention of advertising the fact that, at the moment, money was not one of his concerns. Mavis assured him that the ride wasn't long, nor would the walk from the stop be either, and that was good enough for him. It was such a luxurious feeling to be officially outside a barbed-wire pen, even if he had seemed to acquire a pair of shadows since leaving the records department. He decided to ignore them and just concentrated on his feeling of freedom on this surprisingly pretty December day.

The walk from the bus stop was only two short blocks—for London—but he eyed the old walkup they arrived at with some trepidation. Five stories it was, but it turned out that Mavis' flat was on the first floor(1), so he only had one flight of stairs to cope with. Exercise he'd had, but that hadn't included stairs in far too long.

Mavis started apologizing for the flat before they'd even reached the door, but Newkirk just smiled. It would be neat as a pin, if his sister had anything to say about it; he'd willingly bet on it—and he wouldn't be the loser, either.

"Luv," he said, one hand on her face so he could look into her eyes, "I've just spent me last two an' a 'alf years in a POW camp: drafty wood barracks, not enough 'eat, mattresses so thin they might's well not even been there. The blankets, too. I'm not tellin' you about our laundry situation. An' the tunnels were bare earth. You'll 'ave nothin' 'ere for me t' complain about."

"It's only two bedrooms, Peter," she started again, a small worried crease between her eyes as she scowled slightly. "My roommate has the second. You'll be stuck on the couch."

"A roommate, eh? Is she pretty?" Peter's attention was definitely snagged by this.

"I suppose so, in a slimy sort of way. Oh, she's nice enough," Mavis hastened to amend her answer, but unhappiness still came through loud and strong. "She's going to be quite cross, though. To find you here, I mean. She hasn't too much say; the lease is in my name. But, Peter, she's always bringing men home these days, so I can hardly come out of my room of an evening. And they're up to all hours; it's little better when they do 'retire.' At least the men are usually gone when I get up for work in the mornings."

Newkirk frowned. "If she's up most nights like that, when does she work? Or does she work?"

Mavis sighed. "She used to; she was an auxiliary sergeant, but they let her go once the armistice was signed. She got away with so much here, because she outranked me. Thank God she wasn't in my section. Now, though, I think that she takes 'gifts' from her 'gentlemen.' And I do use that term loosely. I had to put a lock on my bedroom door, you know, so I could sleep without worrying at night."

"Oh, lovely. She 'ere now?" Newkirk hoped not, but he knew there'd be no avoiding the woman forever.

"Most likely. She usually gets up about now, goes I-don't- know-where all afternoon, then comes home mid-evening and… well, you know what I mean." She blushed as she said this to her brother.

"I doubt she'll bring any men 'ome as long as I'm 'ere, so I think I'll just take me time findin' me own place. Now why don't you be th' luv an' let us in, hmmm?" he asked as he gently nudged her towards her flat's door.

"I'm glad you're home, Peter," she said as she fished her key out of her handbag and unlocked the door. As he'd expected, the flat was neat and clean, the only jarring note a pair of shoes against the wall next to one closed door.

"You can put your bag in my room for now, Peter," Mavis pointed to the other closed door, then turned to hang up her coat in the vestibule closet. Peter complied, but no sooner had he returned to the sitting-room than the fireworks started. An attractive young woman came out of the other bedroom and stopped short at the sight of Mavis.

"What are you doing back here at this hour?" she demanded in a cultured voice. Peter hated her instantly.

"My supervisor gave me the rest of the day off. I'd like you to meet my brother Peter. He'll be staying here for a while, as he just got back from a camp in Germany. Peter, this is…"

But she was cut off by an indignant squawk. "And just where do you expect him to sleep? There are only two bedrooms here, and I'm not about to give up mine," the woman snarled, her face twisted and ugly.

Mavis wasn't backing down; Peter decided to keep out of it for now, since this confrontation obviously had been a long time coming. "'E's sleepin' on th' sofa, not that that's any o' your mind. If you don't like it, you can be th' one t' be leavin'! I'm not 'avin' me brother, an' a 'ero at that, sleepin' out in th' street!"

She looked magnificent, Peter thought, with her eyes flashing, her face flushed with the anger that had brought her Cockney accent to the fore. Pity she was his sister. And a good thing the other woman backed down, because he knew that Mavis was a very accomplished street-wise fighter who pulled no punches when she was forced to fight. Where they'd grown up, you had to be, or you didn't survive.

"I'll be back later," the roommate said as she flounced out of the flat, slamming the door behind herself.

"Oh, lovely," Mavis groaned as she slumped to the settee next to her brother. "Now she'll be late with the bloody rent again, just out o' spite."

"So get a different roommate," Peter suggested helpfully, but Mavis just scowled.

"I can't. The bloody Germans 'ave a 'ousing freeze; you 'ave to apply for a change like that, an all parties involved 'ave to be willin'. And she won't be, just out of spite. The soddin' heifer."

"Just keep your chin up, girl; I might be able to 'elp you wi' that." But he cut himself off as the flat's door opened and the Roommate from Hell stalked back in. She left the front door wide open as she crossed to her bedroom, locked that door, then left again without saying a single word. Newkirk was unable to hide his surprise as he stared after the departed woman. "What's got 'er knickers in a twist?" he finally managed.

"Oh, she started doing that to get back at me for locking my door at night," Mavis laughed. "It's rather silly, actually; she only locks it when she goes out during the day."

Newkirk stared at his sister as if she'd grown three heads, then laughed. "Mavis, me luv, you may work for Intelligence, but you're no agent. That sort 'o thing tells me that she's got somethin' to 'ide. It makes me itch to know just what she's got in there…and I aim to find out."

"Peter, I really don't think that's necessary…" Mavis began, but trailed off as he shook his head.

"Sorry; if I wasn't livin' 'ere with you, that might pass, but there's no tellin' when German Intelligence might take it into their minds t' search this place, and any contraband found… Well, you'd be implicated, since th' lease is in your name."

"Oh, dear," she murmured, taken aback. "I hadn't thought of it that way. But won't she hide anything like that?"

"Me luv, I'm an expert at 'idin' stuff. Lots of experience I 'as, from 'idin' stuff in camp. The Jerries never found what we wanted 'id…at least, not 'til that last, an' they found that by sheer bloody accident. If she's got anything in there, I'll find it."

"But Peter, she locked her door," Mavis tried one last protest, then remembered some of her brother's less socially acceptable skills.

"That's not a problem."

"I don't think that I want to know about this," she stated emphatically, with a scowl.

Peter laughed at her. "Mavis, d' you still like takin' those long, 'ot bubble-baths that Mum used t' fuss so at you for?" His grin widened when she nodded. "Well, then, you go take you one o' those, whilst I see what's t' be seen. I'll call you when you can come out. That way, if I don't find anythin', you can honestly say you didn't know what I were doin'. If she finds out, but I doubt she will. If I do find anything, you call the coppers straight away, 'ear me?"

"Yes, Peter," she said, reminiscent of their childhood. She knew it, too, and they shared a laugh at that before she went into her room to gather her bath things. Peter was just thankful that Leutnant Weber actually had returned his lockpick once he'd been processed into Stalag XVI. He waited until he heard the tub filling, then went to examine that intriguing bedroom door.

The "trap" was ridiculously simple, and he found it right away. Thirty seconds later, he was in the room, and the search was on. Fifteen minutes later, he was tapping at the bathroom door. "Mavis, I need you out 'ere; I've already called the authorities. German Bloody Intelligence is comin'; this is beyond th' coppers." His voice held a serious note that Mavis could not recall ever hearing before; the war had changed her brother in unexpected ways.

She wasted no time drying off and dressing, and a good thing that was, for the knock on the door came a mere ten minutes later. She had had no experience with the Gestapo, but the cold eyes of the men who entered when she opened the door frightened her terribly. Newkirk put himself between his sister and the officers.

«I called you,» he said. «I'm Peter Newkirk, Mavis' Brother,» he told them, trying to head them off. He caught their attention, that was for sure, for his accent was much like Hogan's, who'd taught him, and not like the Hoch Deutsch taught in the schools outside Germany.

The Oberleutnant in charge of the detail looked at Newkirk closely, trying to elicit a nervous or guilty reaction, if any. The girl was clearly terrified of them, but this Peter Newkirk didn't fear them in the least, despite being military—or perhaps because of it. «And why did you call us?»

«I just got here today from Germany, Sir," Peter explained, trying to keep a civil tone. «My Sister hasn't had the Experience needed to see it, but her Roommate made me suspicious by some of the Things she did in the short Time I saw her. I…did some Espionage in the War, Sir; it's in my Records, and I'm registered with both Abwehr and Security as a Bit of a Hazard. But the War is over, and we have a lot of rebuilding to do. And we have a Common Enemy to fight now. None of us need small-minded Traitors messing things up for all of us.»

The officer studied him a moment in silence, trying to weigh the truth of his words. Then, «Your papers,» he demanded, his hand outstretched. His men watched as this Englander carefully reached into his tunic to pull out his ID folder, then, surprisingly, pulled up the right sleeve of his jacket.

Mavis gasped, for she'd never seen an ID tattoo before. She'd heard what had been done to the Jews, of course, but few had really believed those rumors. Now, though…

Newkirk looked back at her and grinned. "It's okay, Mavis; this was done voluntarily, at General Mann'eim's request, on account o' what we done durin' the war. It's just t' prove that I'm who me papers say I am, since it's so ease to forge those things." He looked back over to the Oberleutnant and grinned. «And no, I'm not afraid of you or your Men, Sir. I met the old Gestapo and SS and survived. Abwehr is civilized, especially compared to those bloody Brutes.»

«I see. Where is this Evidence that must be inspected?»

Oh, yes, Peter thought; the topic change was a good idea. «Over here, in this Bedroom. I'll show you what I found. I didn't disturb anything, once I saw what she was into. This is the Roommate's Room. She was formerly a Sergeant in the Women's Auxiliary, but she's unemployed now, living on the Generosity of her…Gentlemen Friends, let's say. I think she's getting a lot of this from them, but they probably don't realize what she's doing, either. I don't know any of their Names; I've never met any of them. I just don't want my Sister in Trouble from this, because she didn't know about any of it. The Woman kept her Door locked when she wasn't here, and Mavis is a good Girl; Locks keep her out---unlike myself.» He ushered the group into the bedroom, pointing out the telltale on the door, then stood back, watching as they searched the room with professional care.

They did an expert job, missing nothing that Peter himself had found. All the while, the German officer kept one eye on Mavis where she waited in the sitting room. Finally, he turned to Peter. «We must search the other Room now,» he said, half-expecting the Englanders to protest and declare their innocence. They all did, very loudly, as if sheer volume could make them more comprehensible. He looked almost shocked when Newkirk nodded amiably and stepped back out of the room, moving toward his sister.

"They've got t' look in your room, too, ducks," he told her as he sat down next to her. "That's to prove you've got nothin' t' do with all this." He looked up as the two men went in, calling out in German, «The Duffle in there is mine, Mates, not my Sister's.»

«I should hope not!» one called back, laughing, as he opened the bag and found Newkirk's pinup calendar. He put everything back semi-neatly when he was done, though, instead of trashing things the way the Gestapo had used to do. His companion soon joined him empty-handed, shaking his head at coming up negative.

The lieutenant looked down at Newkirk thoughtfully. «You are surprisingly tolerant for having been a Kriegie(2), Corporal,» he began, but stopped at Newkirk's smirk.

«She's the Obergefreiter; I'm an Unterfeldwebel» he corrected blithely. «And I'm still bitter, but you haven't done anything to upset me yet; you're just doing your Job, and doing it well, too. Besides, I'm the one that called you here, remember?»

«I remember,» the German said, carefully holding onto his temper. Orders, after all, demanded that they try to keep a low profile and not antagonize the local population if reasonably possible. «Do you know where this Woman is now?»

«Sorry. I'd tell you if I did,» Peter replied and truly meant it. «My Sister says she usually goes out all Afternoon and early Evening, coming Home with Company then. There is a Curfew here, right?»

«Yes. All but Military Personnel must be in by 2100, unless they have a Pass. Surprisingly, you are not so limited. I wonder why?»

«Probably because it'd be too hard to enforce it for me; this way, I don't break any Laws. That's my Guess, anyway.» He managed not to laugh, but the German heard the humor anyway and answered with a tight-lipped grin.

«Probably. Where will you be, Herr Newkirk?»

«I'm staying here for now. Any Change of Address will be reported through Herr Major Bachmann's Office.»

«Very well. We are through here for now,» the officer said as he watched his men removing the incriminating evidence. «Someone will be watching for her this Evening; she will be taken into Custody then. We will be in touch if we need you for anything else. Auf wiedersehen, Herr Unterfeldwebel, Fräulein.» He gave a half-bow in Mavis' direction and followed his men out, carefully closing the door behind them.

Mavis gave a sigh of relief that they were gone and that she'd survived the encounter. After what she'd heard… She looked at Peter. "How could you stay so calm?"

"I've met worse than those, pet. Told th' leftenant that, too. Those boys 'ad manners. Plus, I knew we'd done no wrong, and I'd only have to get word to th' Guv'nor; he'd've set 'is General on 'em. Piece o' cake." He laughed, but it sounded melancholy as he remembered Carter and how he'd never said that right. Piece of pie, he'd always said, because he liked pie.

He was really going to miss the others.

_________

1- second floor to Americans; our 'first floor' is the 'ground floor' in England

2 – Term sometimes used by Allied POW's, derived from the German "Kriegsgefangener" – literally "war-prisoner".