A Kiss for the Enemy (15 page)

‘Has she answered?'

‘Yes. She is at the moment, she says, trying to find work in Vienna. She has, of course, difficulties. She is an alien – an enemy alien. She has already been arrested once, and released. Countess Rudberg told me of it. The police have discussed her case with the Rudbergs, quite amicably. She is not to be interned because the betrothal, although not a marriage and having no legal effect upon nationality, apparently puts her in a particular category.'

‘Where Marcia,' thought Frido, ‘always belonged. And always will.'

‘Because she was formally pledged to marry a citizen of the Reich, she is not to be interned. Apparently, she has to report regularly to the Police but her movements are not, at present, restricted. She could travel here provided, of course, that the authorities were informed. Her difficulty will be to find work.'

‘It looks, Father, as if Werner has managed to protect her – posthumously. He's managed to get her into this special category.' Frido found difficulty in speaking. He loved his brother deeply, wept for him as only a brother can. At the same time he could not dismiss from his mind the image of Marcia, seen so seldom, desired so deeply. God forgive him, but was he glad that the Poles had rid him of the man who had won Marcia's body and heart?

‘
Leutnant von Arzfeld, Herr Generaloberst.
'

‘I'm glad to see you, von Arzfeld. I heard somebody call your name. Your brother was on my Staff in Poland. I wanted to tell you he was a brave and most efficient officer.'

‘Thank you,
Herr Generaloberst.
'

General von Kleist looked at Frido.

‘I knew your father well in the old days. In the cavalry. It pleases me to meet any son of his. In uniform.'

Frido knew that von Kleist had written to his father from Poland. Now he was on this front, in the west, although not, Frido thought, their own Army Commander. He was, Frido had heard, leader of some group of Panzer divisions, but not including their own 7th. 7th had just acquired a new divisional commander who had visited them, radiating energy, shooting out questions like a machine gun: but above that Frido's knowledge of generals did not extend.

‘
Herr Generaloberst.
'

Von Kleist spoke softly.

‘Your brother spoke to me, as his Commander, about his intended marriage, you know. I hope that matter has not caused distress to your father.'

‘No,
Herr Generaloberst
, I do not think so.'

‘I heard in Vienna that the young lady has formed another attachment. Well, good luck. And give my regards to your father.'

Frido saluted. Von Kleist smiled and walked to his car.

‘Good news, von Arzfeld,' said Frido's captain that evening. ‘We've got three days' leave the weekend after next. Then we've got a tough progamme, river crossing training, several big exercises, hard work right through to the summer. So make the most of three days off.'

Frido's short letter to Arzfeld announcing his imminent arrival crossed one from his father.

‘My dear Frido,

I have heard from Vienna that Fraülein Marvell would like to visit Arzfeld. I have said that she is welcome. There are, of course, formalities to complete but I am sure the authorities, when they understand the situation, will not trouble her or us. I am naturally confident that any intended bride of Werner's will be entirely reliable.'

‘But less confident,' thought Frido, ‘that this letter will not be examined by the censorship. Hence this unexceptionable sentiment.' He continued reading.

‘Fraülein Marvell arrives here next Thursday. Lise remembers her with affection and it will be company for her. Lise is also going to enquire if there is any work in the hospital for which a novice could be trained. She thinks it is possible. So far this war has been merciful to most, but battles are not fought without cost. God be with you, my dear son.
Kaspar von Arzfeld'

So Marcia would be at Arzfeld! Frido's mind scratched at General von Kleist's words about ‘another attachment'. Not that it was surprising, Frido thought, with a disagreeable sense in the stomach, only surprising that it had come to the ears of a general and not one, as far as Frido knew, resident in Vienna. But when he thought of Marcia at Arzfeld his blood raced in his veins. The week passed slowly.

Then he was again driving with Franz up the familiar dusty road.

‘All well at Arzfeld, Franz? My father well? Any news?'

‘All was perfectly well, Franz said. ‘It's odd to see Herr von Arzfeld in uniform again – and he's as trim as ever, he doesn't put on a kilo. Is this war going on long, Herr Frido? We've settled the Poles now. What are we all fighting about?'

‘The French and the English won't accept it, Franz. That's the trouble.'

‘Ach, the French!' Franz grunted sourly. Then he said, ‘English! We've got an
Engländerin
here, now, of all things!'

‘You are speaking of Fraülein Marvell, Franz, who was to marry Herr Werner, had he not fallen in battle for Germany. You will speak with respect.'

Franz was unabashed. He had been long years at Arzfeld.

‘Of course, Herr Frido. It just seems odd, that's all.' They drove on. Arzfeld came into sight round a bend in the road. ‘Late March, and the trees starting into leaf,' thought Frido. ‘A perfect time! A time to treasure in the mind!' War, even so placid a war as had so far been Frido's, gave peculiar sharpness and beauty to every beloved scene, gave a sense that it should be valued, savoured, stored, could not be taken for granted, might not last.

Kaspar greeted his son with quiet affection.

‘The girls will be back later. Franz is grumbling at making two journeys but it is nothing. Their train arrives every evening at seven o'clock. Often Lise walks to the station in the morning.'

‘How are – they?'

‘Fraülein Marvell has been here a week as you know. She is charming and Lise is fond of her. It is, of course, not easy – for her. She must miss her own family. One has to say it. And – I suppose – her own country. I have had a talk with the authorities here. She must report her movements, but there is no reason why she should not work at the hospital – in a very subordinate capacity, naturally. It has already been arranged. She will make her home here.'

Kaspar was pleased when Frido gave him General von Kleist's regards. ‘We were together as young cavalry officers, long ago!'

Frido made no mention of Kleist's reference to Marcia. And when she arrived in the trap, with Lise, his heart jumped as
it always had on the infrequent occasions when he had seen her. His mind went back to his visit to England, to Marcia's laughing, teasing proximity at dinner at Bargate, to her flushed dishevelment when pursued by that elderly satyr, her uncle. And she looked, after a day at the hospital, a train journey, a drive, as lovely as ever.

‘It is her colouring,' thought Frido, ‘it is the texture of her skin, smooth like a rose petal. Above all, it is those eyes, so full of laughter and meaning.' He had prepared a few formal words about Werner – about
their
Werner. Werner had been, after all, her fiancé. But Frido's speech was pre-empted. Marcia jumped fom the trap, squeezed his arm and held up her face to be kissed.

‘Darling Frido! Wonderful to see you again!' He blushed.

‘You – you have started to work with Lise I hear?'

‘That's it. Florence Nightingales, we!'

‘Who is that?' said Frido puzzled.

But Marcia disappeared toward her room and Lise wanted to have him for a while to herself. She took his arm.

‘It's light enough for a little walk.' She, too, squeezed his arm. It was, thought Frido, a sisterly gesture. As they strolled Lise spoke with enthusiasm of Marcia.

‘I know she really loved Werner. I feel her to be my sister, even though they weren't married.'

Frido nodded. So far so good.

‘You know there's someone else now. I don't blame her. She's young, Werner was killed seven months ago. She's lovely, every man must be after her.'

Frido said, ‘It seems rather soon.'

‘There's a war on. People can't stand back from life, mourning. Father doesn't guess anything of course.'

‘Who is it?'

‘It's a cousin – another Rudberg. Met her in Vienna, at Cousin Rudberg's house, where she was living. This one is Toni Rudberg. He's a Panzer officer, just like you.'

‘In a Panzer Division?'

‘Yes, 2nd. I know that because Marcia – well, to be honest, she finally decided to come here because Toni's Division's now in the west. She hopes he'll get leave some time, and be within reach. He seems to be mad about her.'

Frido digested this in painful silence. 2nd Panzer Division had been stationed in Vienna before the war: in fact it was known as the ‘Vienna Division'. He'd seen nothing of them but he had an idea they were in von Kleist's command. Beneath his attention though such things might be, the old cavalryman might, Frido supposed, have heard gossip in Vienna or elsewhere about the condition of Count Rudberg's heart.

‘He's older than Werner – he's a captain,' said Lise. ‘I don't think he's actually a relation of ours although of course his Rudberg cousins were related to Mama. He sounds very attractive, I must say.'

With the part of his mind still capable of reflection Frido knew that the minutes spent in a small rubber boat crossing the river Meuse on 13 th May 1940 were the longest he had ever experienced.

7th Panzer Division's march through the Ardennes had not been particularly eventful. There had been some fighting against French covering forces: mostly cavalry, from what Frido had heard. Then there had been a day or two in which they had all rumbled forward, checked now and then by, presumably, some minor action at the head of the Divisional column. But never for long. If a way could be found to bypass an action and keep up momentum it was taken. If a vehicle broke down it was pushed off the road without ceremony. Frido prayed that none in his company would suffer this fate. None did.

But then – only two days after crossing the frontier and starting this remarkable adventure – they had started to wind down the twisting, overhung roads to the valley of the Meuse. Much of the country hitherto had been high plateau, comparatively open and level, chequered by large woods. Here, by contrast, the trees and gradients prevented any movement of vehicles off roads. Traffic flow could be disrupted all too easily by accident or casualty. And here, for the first time, Frido tasted something recognizable as battle. Already his Regiment had advanced seventy miles. As their vehicles moved in the half-darkness of early morning toward the lip of ground below
which ran the Meuse, French artillery shells began to fall near the river bank.

The
Panzer Grenadiers
of Frido's company jumped from their vehicles and moved down toward the assembly areas where assault boats were to be collected and carried to the water's edge. They knew that all bridges had been blown, in spite of earlier hopes that somehow a crossing might be rushed. The necessity for an assault across the water had been anticipated, and the operation rehearsed a good many times. Day was already breaking, although a thick mist hung along the river. ‘When that lifts,' thought Frido, ‘we'll be sitting ducks.'

Everybody moved fast. The company's organization was efficient. Practice had paid. Rubber boats were being inflated as fast as the men could manage and the first flight was being manhandled to the water. Heavier assault craft were being marshalled. No shell had fallen for five minutes.

Then Frido heard a sound with which he was to become sickeningly familiar – the rushing, whistling screech of an enemy shell about to explode in the near vicinity. Two men near him threw themselves flat. Frido did not know, afterwards, whether his own instinct to remain upright stemmed from inertia, inexperience, stupidity, some sixth sense that told him the shell would explode at a safe distance, or bravado. The soldiers picked themselves up, exchanging hasty glances, unsure whether they had disgraced the Wehrmacht. More reports sounded from the west bank of the river. Frido shouted an order and the next flight of assault boats were lifted forward. Each boat was meant to carry four men.

‘The lieutenant's a cool one!' he heard one man mutter admiringly.

Then, without remembering exactly the sequence of events, Frido found himself on the water. For the first thirty metres, miraculously, there was no hostile sound or sign. The morning mist was still lying mercifully on the river but he could see the shape of the early sun through it, its light masked but its outline clear and menacing. At any moment the protective haze would be cruelly dispersed, thought Frido. He nodded to the soldier wielding the paddle and smiled. Conscious of little but fear and fatigue the man nevertheless registered gratitude. ‘Some of them would shout at you,' the soldier
thought. ‘As if anyone would be pouring out less than his guts to get to the other side!'

It was in mid-stream that Frido could first see clearly the dark line of the west bank. And it was in mid-stream that the French soldiers in bunkers and weapon pits along the line of the west bank could see him. The current was not fast but the boats seemed to be making agonizingly slow progress. The first noise was of French artillery once again. Some shells fell on the east bank.

‘The following flights will catch it now,' a
Feldwebel
called out. ‘They won't hit us on the water!'

There were some nervous laughs. Then Frido heard the sound they all dreaded: from the south, from their left, the insistent, clattering sound of French machine guns on the west bank. The men needed no exhortation to keep as low as possible in the boats but every soldier felt ten feet tall and wide in proportion.

‘Ah-h-h!'

It was a long drawn-out scream from the boat next to them. Frido saw a soldier topple into the water, limbs still moving convulsively. The man wasn't dead. As he hit the water there appeared to be nothing but a scarlet mask where his face had been. There was another scream, as he threshed with arms and legs, blinded, in agony, about mercifully to drown. The west bank, their destination, looked very far away. There was still some mist. It thinned and thickened here and there, altering their chances minute by minute.