A WWII p ri s on er of w ar, a res i s t an c e heroi n e,

THE NOTE THROUGH THE WIRE

an d t hei r i n c red i b le t rue s t or y

THE
In the heart of Nazi-occupied Europe, two people meet
fleetingly in a chance encounter. One is an underground
resistance fighter; the other a prisoner of war. A crumpled
note passes between these two strangers and sets them on
a course that will change their lives forever.

The Note Through the Wire is the true story of Josefine Lobnik, a
Yugoslav partisan heroine, and Bruce Murray, a New Zealand soldier,
who, due to a succession of near-impossible coincidences, discover
love in the midst of a brutal war.
NOTE
Woven through this tale of great bravery, daring escapes, betrayal,
torture and retaliation is the remarkable story of a love that survived
against all odds. This is an extraordinary account of two ordinary people
living through the unimaginable hardship of Hitler’s barbaric regime.
THROUGH
THE
WIRE ‘An unforgettable love story set in perilous times.
I can’t recommend it enough.’ Heather Morris,
The Tattooist of Auschwitz

www.allenandunwin.co.nz DOUG
Design: Megan van Staden GOLD

DOUG GOLD
 First published in 2019

Text copyright © Doug Gold, 2019

In memory of Bruce Murray and Josefine Lobnik,
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including who found love in the midst of a bloody conflict
photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Allen & Unwin

Level 3, 228 Queen Street
Auckland 1010, New Zealand
Phone: (64 9) 377 3800
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.co.nz

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065, Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

A catalogue record for this book is available from

the National Library of New Zealand.

ISBN 978 1 98854 709 1

Design by Megan van Staden

Set in Baskerville
Maps by Area Design
Photographs on page 5 from the author’s family collection
Cover imagery by Nicola Smith/Trevillion Images, Suparat
Malipoom/Getty Images and Maravic/iStock
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.

FSC® promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
C009448
management of the world’s forests.

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.

FSC® promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
C009448
management of the world’s forests.

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 Cha p t e r On e

Bruce, Stalag XVIIID,

15 February 1942

H e was nursing a sledgehammer hangover. It took Bruce Murray

several minutes to reorientate himself. The hut gradually came
into focus—the rough timber of the walls, the muddy floorboards,
the grimy window in the door.
It was Sunday. That was a good thing. That was a bloody good
thing, considering the state he was in. He imagined what it would be
like if the German guards came hammering at the door, as they did
on most other days, ordering him to fall in for a compulsory work
detail at some Slovene factory or, worse, at one of the railway sites
near the Maribor POW camp.
He shuddered. Disconnected pieces of the previous evening came
back to him. Shouts of laughter. The fug of smoke, of course. The
eye-watering burn of the homebrewed hooch—some infernal potion
the boys had concocted in secret from filched potatoes and hoarded
sugar, or so he understood.

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 Lofty. That’s right. It was Lofty Collier’s twenty-first birthday, and That’s where Frank Butler found him.
this had seemed like enough of an occasion to break out the booze. ‘Get up, ya ugly sod,’ Frank said.
Bruce had had hangovers before, more than he cared to remember, ‘Piss off, Frank,’ Bruce replied.
but this one was a real doozy. It felt as though a pneumatic drill was ‘Come on, Brucie. Get off yer arse. Let’s take a turn, blow out the
boring through his temple and there was a coating of cement on cobwebs.’
his tongue that fixed it to the roof of his mouth. Now his guts were Frank grabbed Bruce’s arm and heaved him to his feet. It was
churning. their routine on Sundays to take a stroll around the perimeter of
He groaned. Stalag XVIIID: partly for the exercise, partly because it gave them
The mood had swung wildly over the course of the evening. First another opportunity to taunt the goons with jibes as barbed as the
there was hilarity—jokes and laughter and good fellowship. Then wire surrounding them, mostly to relieve the unrelenting boredom.
it had developed a hard edge, when the latest outrage committed ‘Cor, you look a right bloody mess,’ Frank said, eyeing him
by some guard or another riled the men. Inevitably, it had grown sideways. Insults were the stock-in-trade of their conversation, but
maudlin, as stories and reminiscences of home were shared. Towards Frank meant it. By this hour of the morning, Bruce was usually
midnight, they had rallied, and the singing had begun. Some time freshly scrubbed, his hair combed and slicked down, and he would
and several tin cups of grog later, the joy had leached from it all have done what he could with his clothes. Not today.
again as many hoarse throats joined a chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’— It was all Bruce could do to grunt in reply.
it sounded more like ‘Old Lands Shine’ in their rendition. There They walked in companionable silence, an inch of fresh snow
were tears. Bruce might have shed a few himself. squeaking beneath the soles of their boots. The gloom overhead
After that, he didn’t remember much. thinned a little and the light brightened. It was agony on Bruce’s
The hut reeked. His shirt reeked. He reeked. He had to get out. bleary eyes. He closed them tightly and gritted his teeth.
Bruce heaved himself into a sitting position and swung his legs ‘Hello,’ Frank breathed softly beside him. ‘What have we here?’
over the edge of the bunk, his coarse grey blanket slithering to the Bruce opened his eyes.
floor. The hut spun, and Bruce belched ominously. Steeling himself, They were thirty yards from a point on the southern perimeter
he lurched to his feet, averted his eyes from the hazy scrap of mirror, fence that was out of the direct eye-line of the guards in the
pulled on his boots, shrugged into his greatcoat and staggered to watchtowers. There was a figure standing motionless on the other
the door. A gust of freezing air greeted him as he opened it, and side of the wire—a brave or desperate thing to do since, needless
he screwed up his eyes against the glare from the snow. Perhaps, to say, the guards didn’t exactly encourage interaction between the
he thought, sitting out in the bitter wind would purify him, purge locals and the camp inmates. It was an old woman, to judge from
him of the toxic aftermath of the night before. He sat heavily on her attire—she wore a shapeless woollen dress and a black-fringed
the upturned Red Cross crate where he sometimes sat in warmer knitted shawl.
weather, drew his coat about him and wondered whether a ciggy Her presence there was something out of the ordinary, something
would make him feel better or worse. that stood out from the monotony of camp life.

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 ‘Come on,’ Bruce said. ‘Let’s see what she wants.’ witnessing a miracle, as the old crone straightened, hitched up the
Frank looked all around them carefully. There weren’t any guards skirts of her dress and set off like a gazelle down the gentle slope
in sight, but that meant little. A goon might appear at any moment. towards the trees a hundred yards away.
‘Best not,’ he said. ‘They’ll shoot you if they see you.’ ‘Halt!’
‘Nah,’ said Bruce. ‘She’ll be right.’ Bruce turned and saw one of the guards stalk past Frank, working
The hangover had relented a little. He had regained his will to live. the bolt of his rifle. The guard waved at Bruce to get out of the way,
Frank stayed where he was. Bruce walked briskly to the wire. but he stood his ground. The guard stepped to his left to try to clear
Unlike most prisoner-of-war camps, which had two wire perimeter his line of fire. Bruce stepped to his right to block it.
fences, one inside the other with ten yards of dead ground between ‘Halt!’ the guard yelled again, his voice cracking with fury.
them, Stalag XVIIID had been a Slovene Army barracks and was ‘Run!’ yelled Bruce, still facing the guard. ‘Faster!’
surrounded by only a single high wire fence. Despite the dangers, the The dogs began barking, a wild, savage sound. The guard made
locals occasionally traded items—eggs, bread, woollen mittens—for to step past Bruce, but Bruce lowered his shoulder and shoved him.
rare luxuries such as the tinned meat or chocolate bars that came in Instead of firing at the fleeing girl, the guard rounded on Bruce. His
Red Cross parcels. face was white with rage, and he spluttered something in German.
The woman watched him approach. Bent and shapeless as she Bruce grinned at him. The guard levelled his rifle, but when Bruce
was, she reminded Bruce of old Sis Moore who used to terrorise the didn’t flinch he lowered it, changed his grip and jabbed at him with
kids of his neighbourhood when he was growing up. It was rumoured the butt. Bruce twisted and took the blow in the small of the back.
she would beat—and even eat—kids who strayed onto her property. ‘Bastard!’ he said.
‘Hello,’ he said, as he neared the wire, and smiled. She stepped He was feeling fully alive now, his hangover quite gone. He and
forward, and held out her hand towards him. His smile faltered as he the guard faced each other, their breath steaming in the air between
met her eyes—green and unmistakeably youthful beneath the fringe them. After a few moments, the guard swore, spat on the ground and
of the shawl. marched off, hell-bent, Bruce had no doubt, on making trouble for
‘Bitte,’ she said. ‘Bitte hilf mir.’ him.
She said more—a few sentences in a low, urgent voice, the He rejoined Frank.
voice of a young woman—but Bruce didn’t speak German. He ‘Did she make it?’ he asked.
understood the appeal for help, but he didn’t understand the rest. ‘Dunno. She was going like the clappers. She came a real cropper
He shook his head. just before she got to the trees. Must have hurt herself. She crawled
‘I’m sorry—’ he said, but stopped. Her gaze had shifted past his the rest of the way in. She’s a goner if they let those dogs go.’
shoulder, and her eyes—beautiful eyes, he registered—widened slightly. The dogs were still barking. But as Frank and Bruce resumed
‘Bitte,’ she repeated, and thrust her hand at the wire again. Bruce their stroll in a show of nonchalance, the growling began to subside.
reached out and felt her fingers press a scrap of paper into his. Then Someone shouted at the animals in German. A minute or two later,
she was gone. Another observer might have imagined they were the camp was quiet again.

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 ‘Well, was it worth getting your arse kicked?’ Frank said. ‘What
did she give you?’
Bruce surreptitiously opened his palm to show Frank the paper.
‘You was robbed,’ Frank said.
Bruce didn’t say so, but he was still thrilled with the encounter. If Cha p t e r Two
nothing else, it was something out of the ordinary. And his hangover
was cured.
Josefine, Maribor,
12 to 15 February 1942

O n the day that everything changed—12 February 1942—

 Josefine Lobnik was walking through the streets of the old
part of Maribor towards Vetrinjska ulica, affecting innocence. She
was dressed in typical Slovene fashion: a black high-waisted, ankle-
length skirt, a white embroidered blouse and a red silk-lined jacket.
A lace-trimmed head-scarf concealed the lovely fall of her jet-black
hair, and concealed in the lining of her jacket was a package of
documents she was carrying from one partisan group to another.
As she neared Glavni trg—like most Slovenes, she refused to
call the town square Adolf-Hitler-Platz as the Nazi occupiers had
decreed—there were suddenly German soldiers everywhere. Her
breath caught in her throat. The documents she was carrying would
not only sign her death warrant if they were found, but likely lead to
the unmasking of dozens of other Slovene patriots besides.
The soldiers used their rifles to herd everyone into the central

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