A Kiss for the Enemy (42 page)

It was a typically tactless and direct approach, but it was just.

Anthony said, ‘It goes in waves. At my last camp I was, actually, part of the tunnel party but we were moved. Here there've been two pretty well-staged attempts. The first was “blown” – a search upset it the evening before it was due to start. In the second, five chaps got out, all were recaptured. I wasn't in either party.'

‘And do you feel, now that we seem to be winning here in Europe, that it's not worth while?'

‘Sometimes I feel like that,' said Anthony slowly, ‘to be truthful. But talking to you has made me restless.'

Anthony resumed the subject of the escaper's third and great problem – where to go and how to get there.

‘Wherever one decides to go there's a fundamental choice – is one going to try to get by with a bogus identity, be prepared to talk to Germans, face routine police checks, that sort of thing? If one is, then obviously one can move fast. One can go by train. Or is one going to avoid contact with any sort of people – avoid it like hell? That probably means lying up by day, travelling on foot by night, keeping out of towns, villages. Safer. Some people here would tell you it's the only way. Too many fellows have been hauled back and found themselves in the punishment cells because they gave themselves away on a train or in a shop. But it's much, much slower. And, obviously, it can be more of a strain on health and strength.'

‘I suppose,' said Robert, ‘that some chaps only speak English and feel ill at ease in any atmosphere in which English isn't being talked. They'd stand out. Their nerves wouldn't take it. Isn't that so?'

‘Yes, some people couldn't possibly pass muster, as you say. But you've got to remember that there are plenty of foreign workers in Germany. Imperfect German or a blank stare doesn't necessarily give you away. But you're right,
movement by night and avoidance of contacts is simpler, safer and probably better for the nerves.' Anthony added, ‘Of course, the autumn's the best time for all this – weather's not yet too foul, longer nights in which to walk, some fruit and potatoes to pick or grub up without too much difficulty. I think a mid-winter break would be hell, and in the summer the odds are on the pursuer. He's got light on his side and there's too little time to move in every twenty-four hours. If one's going overtly, using trains and so forth, obviously the season matters less.'

They strolled on.

‘And the fourth problem?'

‘The fourth problem,' said Anthony, ‘is how one actually crosses the frontiers of the Reich. Or, of course, the German front line.'

‘Your German's pretty good, isn't it, Anthony?'

‘Yes, I think you could say that. What about you?'

‘Not bad,' said Robert, ‘but I'm out of practice.'

‘You can get practice here,' said Anthony softly. ‘There are facilities for that, and you should start right away. If that's the way it's going to be.'

The two overalled electricians moved their wooden ladder to another of the light posts between the German compound and the prisoners.

‘It's Whiskers and his mate,' said Oliphant languidly. He was, as usual, observing the labours of others with the air of one relieved that he did not have to share them. It was the last day of October. Oliphant was always immaculately turned out and Anthony, who had got to know him as well as any (for Oliphant was intimate with none), admired a man who seemed so entirely suited to imprisonment. Oliphant appeared so congenitally idle that the enforced inactivity of Oflag XXXIII plagued him little. He did the work apportioned to him by the Mess with goodwill and a charming smile. He pursued no hobby, studied none of the subjects organized by the prisoners within the camp to keep their minds from vegetating, played no games. He read a good deal and occasionally wrote a letter. Within days of his own arrival, Robert expressed irritation with Oliphant.

‘It's unnatural for a man to show such inertia as Charles Oliphant. He's rotting. He'll end up good for nothing, physically or mentally.'

‘I'm not so sure,' said Anthony. Oliphant often showed an even-tempered normality which surprised and a little shamed them all. Now he was sitting by the hut window, watching with good-humoured amusement the German electricians at their work.

‘It's remarkable how often they have to climb up their little ladders and do something to those lights. I thought the Goons were meant to be mechanically efficient.' Germans were Goons to the prisoners. ‘Do people have to change light bulbs or whatever it is as often as that at home?' Oliphant sighed, concerned at so much effort, even though made by others.

It was generally the same electrician, christened ‘Whiskers' by the prisoners. He and his colleague seemed to be about sixty years old. They moved at all times from one electrical fixture to another like priests at the altar, solemn, dedicated, expert. Whiskers derived his name from a luxuriant grey moustache. The other, who limped, was clean-shaven and taller. Nobody had ever seen them speak to each other.

‘I thought they only appeared on Tuesdays and Fridays. A routine contract. I'm sure I've got that right.' It was a Wednesday, and Oliphant frowned, as over a matter of high importance. Anthony responded.

‘I expect if there's an actual defect they get Whiskers up any day of the week. Tuesdays and Fridays he makes routine checks.' And this desultory speculation was confirmed by the guard, known to all as Hermann. Hermann was a local man. Hermann was also heavily compromised. He had always been a cynic about National Socialism and the prisoners had enough on Hermann to hang him in his own indiscretions many times over. And Hermann was a tobacco baron. He had grown sleek from his dealings.

Hermann, in spite of his nation's admiration for hard, methodical work, dutifully performed, much admired Oliphant. The latter's appearance, Hermann acknowledged to himself, was what an officer's should be. This could be said about few of the prisoners. Gaoler though he was, Hermann
felt warmed by Oliphant's condescension. Oliphant hailed him on his next visit in his usual half-bantering way.

‘Hermann, you know Whiskers –'

‘Whiskers?'

‘The electrician who potters about changing the same light bulbs over and over again.'

‘Ah, that is Johann Meister. The one with the big moustache. The other is his brother, Fritz Meister. They have worked in the village many, many years. They have a small repair business.'

‘I thought they came here two days a week, Tuesday and Friday. That's what I've always observed.'

‘That is correct.'

‘Now he's here on a Wednesday. Captain Marvell thinks he must have a duty to come whenever he's needed. Surely that makes his life most difficult?' Oliphant spoke with great seriousness. Hermann replied in the same tone,

‘The Meisters have an agreement. If there is a failure they must come. It is true. But they do not like it, you are right. They are sometimes taken away from other work to do something small, maybe something on a Sunday which could wait until the Tuesday. Naturally, if there is an emergency they come. But often, they are called when there is no emergency. That they do not like.'

‘You know them well?'

Hermann laughed. ‘Ever since I was a little boy. Everybody knows the Meisters. They are like part of the staff here. And everyone in the village knows them. They resemble their father.' Hermann laughed again and made an expressive gesture, implying that the brother electricians had a weakness for the bottle.

‘That must be awkward in their profession,' said Oliphant sternly. ‘It needs great precision, good eyes, a steady hand.'

‘Better when there's no emergency on Saturday nights!' said Hermann, chuckling. ‘Only twice I remember them out here on a Saturday, and they broke three fuses on the lavatory wall light box trying to replace one! It could have waited, too, but the Commandant noticed a defective light on his morning inspection and there was hell to pay.'

‘Do we always get electricians to replace light bulbs?'
enquired Anthony. It sounded more like some British Trades Union practice than the National Socialist State. But Hermann became serious and said that the electrical system needed professional attention, even in small things. Some fool had fused all the lights once and it had taken the Meisters two hours to get out from the village and put it right.

‘Meanwhile Oflag XXXIII was in darkness, eh?' said Oliphant.

Hermann looked at him thoughtfully. ‘No,
Herr Hauptmann
,' he said. ‘There is an emergency generator, although it does not come into action automatically. It was dark for only about four minutes. Perhaps five.' He seemed to feel he had gossiped enough, and shuffled away.

It was Saturday evening, 8th November, and already it was almost dark. The Main and Forest Gates of Oflag XXXIII were to be closed punctually at six o'clock. Thereafter, there would be no ingress or exit except by specific arrangement or on the authority of the Commandant.

The Meister brothers appeared at the Main Gate at seven minutes to six in their working overalls, their familiar small boxes of tools slung over the shoulder of each, their faces as expressionless as usual beneath their caps. The sentry on duty had seen them on previous occasions about the camp. He did not know them personally, but he was familiar with their reputation. Johann Meister was ‘Whiskers' to the prisoners: to the more informed soldiery he was ‘
Rotnase'.
Fritz Meister, a more shadowy (although, if Hermann were to be believed, an equally self-indulgent) figure was always, simply, ‘
Der Bruder'.
As the Meisters approached the guardhouse, fumbling for their passes, the sentry chuckled inwardly. He caught a powerful aroma of schnapps.

The sentry, Krebs by name, looked perfunctorily at their gate passes.

‘Evening, Herr Meister, I didn't know we'd had an emergency. I suppose you came in by the Forest Gate?'

‘Naturally,' said Johann gruffly. ‘And it wasn't much of an emergency. It could have waited. Now we'll be walking back by the lane to collect our bicycles from the other gate. You
shut both damn gates at six and we've not time to reach the other through the camp before it's closed!' It was true. Bicycles had to be left outside, and no sentry was allowed to waive the strict orders on keeping gates closed in order to convenience such as Meister. The Forest Gate was at the opposite corner of the camp, and a man needed a good ten minutes to reach it on foot.

‘Ah, well, it's only ten minutes further by the lane, Herr Meister!' said Krebs pacifically as he entered the pass number and time on his log sheet.

‘Only ten minutes! Wait till you're over sixty!' The Meisters strode off, a trifle unsteadily. Krebs, a kind-hearted man, thought of offering to telephone to the Forest Gate to request a stay in closing time but he knew there was no hope. Gate time was rigid. All he'd get would be a balling out from the
Obergefreiter
at the Forest Guardroom for making such a grotesque suggestion. What the hell did it matter that the elderly Meisters had a longer walk in the twilight – unnecessarily? What did that matter to Krebs, the
Obergefreiter
would yell. Anyway, why couldn't the two boozy old buggers have left their bicycles at the Main Gate?'

So it would go on. Krebs looked at his watch. In three minutes the guard would fall in, the gate would be locked, evening sentries would be posted, evening routine would begin. Krebs thought again of
Rotnase
with an inward chuckle tinged with envy. A walk in the night air would probably do them a lot of good! And it was perfectly true that they could have moved their bicycles to the Main Gate once they knew what and where the trouble was – and it was presumably on this side of camp. Come to think of it, why hadn't they?

Krebs picked up the telephone and asked to be connected to the Forest Gate. His mind never worked particularly fast, but something told him he would be happier if he could with complete certainty report to the
Gefreiter
of the guard that the Meister brothers, whose names were on his log sheet, were walking round by the lane to collect their bicycles at the Forest Gate. He could do so already, of course, but nevertheless –

He did not recognize the voice that answered the telephone. Not one of his mates.

‘Krebs here, Main Gate. Just to check that two bicycles, property of the electrician brothers Meister, are outside the Forest Gate. The brothers are walking round by the lane to collect.'

‘Wait.' After ten seconds the voice returned.

‘No, no bicycles.'

‘Poor old devils,' said Krebs. ‘They must have had their machines stolen! Thanks.' He felt sad.

‘It's not my responsibility to guard their damned bicycles. Anyway, why leave them here? They must have been drunk as usual. They've not been in this way. They've not booked in.'

‘Not booked in?' said Krebs feebly. He felt the beginning of nausea. It was in the stomach now and moving northward with each second. The voice from the Forest Gate was still snapping.

‘Not booked in! They must have entered by the Main Gate. So why leave bicycles here? Stupid old boozers.'

‘Thanks,' said Krebs again. He rang off. The
Gefreiter
in charge of the guard moved out of the guardroom in a purposeful way. The light shone on the top of his steel helmet. In sixty seconds the guard would parade and the gate would be locked. Krebs marched up to him and stood stiffly to attention, right palm pressing against trousers, heels together, left hand holding sling of carbine over shoulder in regulation manner, logsheet held between fingers of right hand. He spoke to a point in the middle of the
Gefreiter's
helmet.

‘Permission to check the gate list from earlier hours of duty.'

‘What the hell do you want to know, Krebs?' said the
Gefreiter
irritably.