A Kiss for the Enemy

David Fraser

Part I 1958

Part II 1937–1939

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Part III 1940

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part IV 1942

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part V 1944

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part VI 1945

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part VII 1958

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

A Note on the Author

All is fair in love and war …

Brought together by a drunken brawl in Oxford in 1937, Anthony Marvell and Frido von Arzfeld found friendship even as the threatening clouds of war were gathering over Europe. Then their families-sisters, cousins-found love against a background of growing hate and strident war cries.

From the false idyll of pre-war England and Germany, through the desperate fall of France in 1940, across the ravaged mountains of North Africa, to the savage carnage of Stalingrad, the Marvellls and the von Arzfelds played their parts in the war and saw the bonds that had united their families put the final test.

A KISS FOR THE ENEMY – a staggeringly powerful novel of action and destruction, an unforgettable story of a world at war.

‘I told you that you'd yearn for speed, itch for an autobahn, get frustrated! Narrow roads, having to remember to keep left – terrible!'

They were, indeed, driving slowly but the older man, an Englishman, joked only to relieve the tension which lay between them. His companion, younger by twenty-three years, caressed the steering wheel of the Mercedes with the tips of his fingers, unsmiling. It was a hot day, the Sussex roads certainly narrow. When the younger man spoke he took up an earlier thread of conversation, undeflected. His English was excellent, his accent that of a foreigner but agreeable, a little soft. His voice was subdued. He played an imaginary scale upon the steering wheel.

‘My generation find the Nazi period hard to understand, you know. People at home, people in Germany don't much like discussing it. It's a mystery. The frightful, horrible things done – some people say they can't believe them.'

The other sighed. They drove another twisting mile or two, talking quietly, painfully about those times. Across downland and shimmering in heat haze the English Channel now and then appeared, a sliver of distant coolness beneath the afternoon sun.

‘Was it just a misfortune, Uncle, that a gang of scoundrels persuaded enough Germans to let them run the country, fooled them, a disaster which might have happened anywhere? Or did German history make something like that inevitable?'

‘I'm not sure.' Indeed, the older man was unsure. His mind went back twenty years to a certain street bedecked with blood-red banners. To the bullying, loud-mouthed prejudice on the one hand, the smell rather than as yet the stench of hatred and persecution. And, on the other, to the enthusiasm of the young: the absolute identity, at a certain level, of Volk and Führer. There had been intoxication at that time in
Germany, a sense of purpose, unity and hope, no question about it. Turn that coin over and on its other side everything repelled, was vile.

How could one explain all this without sounding like some sort of naïve apologist for a criminal régime, murderers of so many, destroyers of so much, destroyers in the end of all he'd loved?

He looked at the young man. All they'd loved.

‘I'm not sure.'

But after a few more exchanges he knew that he had to bring the conversation back to their own lives, their own hearts. From the general to the very, very particular. The terrifyingly particular. Now, therefore, he began talking with a different note in his voice, asking quiet questions, nodding to the answers, talking softly, the gentle purr of the Mercedes' engine distorting his words not in the least. The young man gazed straight ahead, controlling the car with expert delicacy, absorbed, frowning a little. Suddenly he turned his head, looked full into his companion's eyes and smiled.

‘Uncle–'

‘
For God's sake get over to the left
!'

‘Nothing to choose between them! Murdering buggers! One lot backed by bloody Bolshies, the other by bloody Huns! Shits all, Spanish shits, Iti shits …'

‘Shut up, Freddie. You're pissed.'

It was a warm, June afternoon in The Broad, at Oxford. A gaggle of undergraduates had emerged unsteadily from Trinity, continuing into the street, it seemed, an argument about events in Spain where Civil war had erupted the previous year. It did not seem the level of discussion had been high.

‘… Balkan shits, English shits –'

‘
Shut up, Freddie! You're pissed!
' It was a pacific voice, although slurred. But Freddie – whose declamation at the top of his voice had already attracted a number of onlookers moving along the pavement from the direction of Blackwell's bookshop, curious, disapproving – was not without support.

‘Dead right, Freddie!' yelled another voice, a voice afflicted with what sounded like hiccups. ‘Murdering buggers, dead right! And there's a bastard at Balliol who's having a party in his rooms to get support for them.'

‘Support for who?'

‘Not sure.' The Hiccupper elbowed his way toward Freddie. He was a large young man, face red with drink, small ill-tempered eyes gleaming, the urge to violence plain. ‘Not sure. Let's break the bloody thing up. That shit Rivers's rooms.'

‘We've not got time,' said the pacific voice soothingly. ‘Come on, we're due …'

‘Of course we've got bloody time. Rivers is a Communist anyway.'

‘No,' said a voice uncertainly, ‘I think he's a Fascist. Bloody blackshirt or something.'

‘No, I know he's a Red.'

‘Well, whatever he is,' bawled Hiccuper impartially, ‘let's break up his bloody tea party.'

There were eight of them and by now a dozen or so spectators; a cluster keeping its distance.

‘I've got to get back. Come on Freddie, we said …' It was the pacific voice, fighting a losing battle.

‘More money than sense,' a man called angrily from the edge of what was now a small crowd. The man did not look as if connected to the University. He addressed nobody in particular. Heads turned.

‘Balliol, boys!' shouted Freddie, suddenly clutching at Hiccupper for support in what appeared an attack of vertigo.

‘More money than sense, that's you!' the same man called offensively. Several voices said,

‘That's right,' not very loudly.

The man's words penetrated the fuddled brain of Freddie.

‘What bastard thinks I've no sense?' Very unsteadily, challenged, he broke away from restraining hands. This was bound to be a row. This was bound to be fun.

‘This way to Balliol, Freddie!'

‘This bugger to settle first,' Hiccupper called encouragingly, joining his shoulder to Freddie's to shove through the little knot of people towards the man who had shouted at them. The latter now said, less loudly and with a nervous note in his voice –

‘Come on, then!'

Anthony Marvell was making his way along The Broad towards the Sheldonian Theatre and stopped, without particular interest, to see what was up. He recognized with no surprise the inebriated voice of Freddie Barnett, an acquaintance but certainly not a close friend, a generous and unstable youth given to this sort of thing, one whose money attracted sycophants. Anthony stayed well clear of the knot of people enclosing the actors in this little scene and spilling over from pavement to roadway. Traffic was light, but Freddie's voice and antics would at some time attract the notice of police or proctors. Anthony had no wish to be caught up in the absurdity of a Freddie Barnett brawl.

‘So you think I've no sense,' yelled the Barnett voice. ‘Hey, where is he?' Anthony, about five yards away, saw that
Freddie's progress, supported by the Hiccupper, was blocked, perhaps unintentionally, by a slender form in a rather long-skirted grey coat of curious cut, his back to Anthony. It was not a back that Anthony recognized.

‘You aren't the bugger who thinks I've no sense, are you?' shouted Freddie.

‘No,' Hiccupper roared, ‘not this one. You, get out of the way, would you?'

He was clearly in a mood to pick a quarrel with anybody in his path. Grey coat showed no signs of moving. Something in his demeanour appeared to inflame Freddie, pushing past towards his adversary. He blinked uncertainly and said,

‘Who are you, anyway?'

‘My name is von Arzfeld.'

‘Your name is –' Freddie was now distracted from pursuit of the man who had called his intelligence into question. Hiccupper, too, stopped pushing and glared. Freddie belched and said,

‘You a Hun?'

The young man in the grey coat was about twenty years of age, tall, with a handsome, intelligent face and a very serious expression. He was a dark young man, with a brown complexion and a certain air of attentive puzzlement, as if he were determined to record and comprehend every strange circumstance brought to him by life. Anthony had moved a few paces to the left to observe the stranger's face. He had never seen him before. A visitor, presumably. He found he did not want to take his eyes from that face, so gentle, so withdrawn.

‘I am a German,' said the young man very calmly. ‘I am residing here for one month.'

Hiccupper suddenly said, ‘I don't think I like Huns.'

‘Shut up,' said a new voice. ‘This chap's a visitor. And for Christ's sake come on, if we're to break up that shit's party at Balliol. Freddie –'

But Freddie, who had now apparently forgotten the earlier insult he had been moving to avenge, stood his ground, swaying. He belched again, and said,

‘I don't think I like Huns either. What did you say – Von Ars, von Ars –'

‘Von Arzfeld.' The voice was still very quiet.

‘Well, Mr von Arse-whatever-it-is –' At this moment Anthony, who had levered himself into the crowd and was not a yard from Freddie Barnett, stepped forward.

‘Hello, Freddie,' he said pleasantly, ‘I didn't know you two knew each other. This is an old friend of mine.' He took Von Arzfeld's arm with an engaging smile.

They walked up the Cornmarket. Freddie and his companions had melted away in various directions, the foray into Balliol apparently forgotten, bibulous and apologetic expressions of friendship having replaced drunken insult and suspicion, invitations to further meetings falling thick upon the summer afternoon air. Frido von Arzfeld had said nothing when Anthony first led him away, said nothing but looked at his companion, thoughtful and enquiring.

He saw a young man of about his own age, tall, pale, with hair as dark as Frido's own, but with a very fair skin. Anthony Marvell was broad shouldered and long limbed, bones delicate, mouth a shade sulky. As they walked Frido noted that Anthony always turned, swinging his uody round towards him, when he had something to say, at whatever risk of cannoning into a passer-by. He was restless, too, this Anthony Marvell. It was hard to imagine him in repose. He talked fast, with a slight but attractive stutter. His eyes were brown and Frido soon noticed that when Anthony was talking to someone he gave his whole attention, fixing his companion with an unwavering, concentrated stare. This could be enchanting. It could be unnerving. ‘He is serious,' thought Frido with a feeling of contentment. ‘He has mind and heart.' And as they strolled, on that first of many evenings, towards Carfax, Anthony suddenly stopped dead, turned to Frido and smiled. It was a smile of great charm.