A Kiss for the Enemy (5 page)

‘Hasn't Marcia got three syllables? What about “Mar” in future?'

‘Perhaps you'd rather “Anton”?'

‘I think I would, Marse.'

It was good-tempered, nursery wrangling. Anthony found Marcia, separated from him in age by under three years, a perfectly ageeable companion. They had crossed France, driven into Germany via Belfort and wandered eastward through the Palatinate in high good humour. Anthony's car, an elderly Morris, a source of pride but with an erratic reputation, had behaved with stolid docility. Except for the rich, and the Marvells would have been astonished to be so classified, foreign travel was a comparatively rare experience for Anthony's and Marcia's generation. At least when young.

It was near the end of April, 1938, a clear fortnight before Anthony was due to return to Oxford. The elder Marvells had attempted to place an embargo on the venture, appalled by the German invasion of Austria one dramatic March weekend. It had all appeared peaceable, with German columns photographed amidst ecstatic Austrian crowds, tanks decorated with evergreen branches rather than braced for war. But all Europe had shuddered, and it was fortunate from the younger Marvells' point of view that the opinion of Cousin Francis Carr in Vienna had been sought. He had written an encouraging letter. Everything, in both Austria and Germany, appeared perfectly calm. Although not welcoming the ‘Anschluss' he doubted whether the peaceful assimilation to the Reich of a friendly, German-speaking Austria, itself in a parlous economic condition,
betokened the imminence of a European war. In great spirits, Anthony and Marcia had crossed the Channel.

‘Ant, what's the name of the place we thought of reaching tonight?'

‘“Anton” if you must, damn you! Herzenburg. Look east from Stuttgart on the map.'

‘What's east?'

‘Right, you half-wit! Move your finger several inches to the right.'

He drove on.

‘I don't think it's marked.'

‘God, women!' said Anthony, happily. It was a beautiful spring day. It was agreeable to be driving this doubtful machine across Europe, with as pretty a girl as Marcia beside him, even though she was his sister. The country was green, the dark red roof tiles of the small towns and villages harmonious. Anthony was astonished at the sheer beauty of Germany. He had expected dourness, a grey, Teutonic face, a land with a scowl. Instead there was on all sides colour, vivid enchantment, a fairytale quality. The half-timbered painted houses, the sharply etched peaks of wooded hills, the enclosed valleys, somehow conveyed a different, an older, a half-mysterious world. They had been driving in this country for only two days, and had spent but one night in it, at a small, clean
Gasthof
near the Rhine. Nowhere, yet, had either felt any sense of menace – menace which, they had half-imagined, would strike them immediately the frontier was passed.

They rounded a corner. Their way ran through woods of birch and larch.

‘I've found Herzenburg,' said Marcia contentedly. She sat well back in her seat and tilted a large straw hat forward to shield her eyes fom the April sun. The weather, she thought, was remarkable. It was a summer hat.

‘This,' said Anthony, ‘is going to take some time.' He braked and reduced speed to a crawl. He noticed that the petrol gauge showed low.

Ahead of them was a moving column of bicycles. The dusty road twisted through the trees but at least a dozen were visible. Each was ridden by a boy of about fourteen, and each boy wore a khaki-coloured shirt and pair of shorts identical with
those of his companions. This was an organized, a disciplined expedition. Anthony began slowly to pass. As he did so, most boys smiled broadly, raising right hand from handlebar in a wave of salutation. Eventually, they reached the head of the column, where the leading bicyclist was riding a machine adorned by a small, triangular pendant. It was red, with a white circle. On the circle was embroidered the swastika: the ‘
Hakenkreuz'.

The Marvells drove on in silence. There was little traffic on the road.

‘They look happy.'

‘Oh,
they're
happy! They're children. What do
they
understand?'

Anthony felt older, experienced and yet confused.

‘Hitler's put a spell on a whole generation. And on enough of their elders who should know better.'

‘Let's keep an open mind,' said Marcia. ‘We said we'd try.'

They pulled into a filling station. There were tourist vouchers to be used: pre-paid, privileged. An attendant moved towards the car. He looked surly.

‘
Grüss Gott
,' said Marcia, an Austrian ski-ing holiday well remembered. The German of both brother and sister was fluent but haphazard as to grammar and correctitude. She gave the man a smile. Few failed to respond to Marcia's smile. This particular Swabian was one of the few. He looked at her suspiciously.
Ausländere
! and trying their idiotic Bavarian on him! He fiddled with the petrol cap.

‘
Guten Tag
,' said Anthony.

‘
Tag
–'

Petrol began grudgingly to flow.

‘We've come from England,' said Anthony. ‘It's our first visit to Germany.'

‘England!' said the man in neutral tones. Anthony saw for the first time that he had a wooden stump instead of an ankle protruding from the left trouser leg.

‘I expect you were in the War. When we were enemies.' Anthony smiled as he said it and the man nodded with something like an answering smile. He finished filling the tank of the Morris and moved to Anthony's window to inspect the coupons.

‘Mein Herr, you are too young to remember! I left my leg in Belgium fighting you!'

‘My father,' said Anthony, ‘was also a soldier. He also carries wounds and always will. And he was in Belgium. Ypern.'

‘Ach!' said the other, with feeling, ‘Ypern! It was the worst place! They talked about Douaumont, about Champagne. But Ypern! We were never dry. British shells, mud, hunger, never dry! It was the worst place!' How curious it is, thought Anthony, that he gets visibly friendlier as he recalls those hostilities, those sufferings.

‘Mein Herr, we never want that again.'

‘We certainly don't! My father would agree with you,
vom ganzen Herzen
.'

The man accepted a fifty pfennig piece with a nod of something like goodwill. At that moment, the column of bicyclists appeared. They were singing. Despite the effort of pedalling and the extended column, the harmony of at least the first half dozen was admirable.

‘
Ein schifflein sah ich fahren
,

Käpitan und Leutenant
,

Und drinnen waren geladen

Drei ganzen kompanien Soldaten
–'

They waved another cheerful greeting to Anthony and Marcia without slackening pace or rhythm –

‘
Käpitan, Leutenant
,

Fahnerich, Serjeant
,

Nimmt das Mädel …
'

The petrol attendant had appeared to take no notice of them and had busied himself finding a sponge and paying some perfunctory attention to the windscreen of the Morris.

‘
Nimmt das Mädel bei der Hand
!' he muttered. ‘That's all they're good for.'

‘They seem happy youngsters!
Sorgenlos
!'

‘
Ach, ja, Sorgenlos
,' grunted the man. He grimaced and turned away.

‘I think Herzenburg is about two kilometres, Anton. If we are where I think we are.'

‘Then I don't think we are, darling sister. We've just passed the “Herzenburg” town sign. We must be coming into it now.'

‘How odd!' Then they were both silent. Ahead of them, five hundred yards away, high walls extended each side of a tall brick gatehouse. The walls, also of dark red brick, were crowned with tiles along ancient ramparts. The gatehouse was built over a narrow way, penetrable by only one car at a time and regulated by an incongruous traffic light. A few modern houses had been built outside the walls of Herzenburg. Within, under the sharp but fading light of late afternoon, the place held promise – or threat – of entry to an earlier, an enchanted age. Behind those walls, which the Marvells' guidebook assured them still entirely surrounded the mediaeval town, surely anything might happen.

‘I want a photograph of this before the light goes.'

There was space to park in front of the great gate, and Anthony dismounted with Leica camera and walked away from the walls to compose a shot. Marcia strolled to the gatehouse itself and inspected it. Its barrel roofing extended to a surprising depth. These were formidable walls, massive, serious. The town might have prettiness,
gemütlichkeit
within. Through the gateway Marcia could glimpse a narrow street, steep gables, brilliant window boxes and gaily painted shutters. But the place had been built to withstand war.

Her attention was caught by something on the outer wall itself.

‘Anton, come and look at this.'

Nailed to the wall, about seven feet from the ground and distanced some five yards from the gateway so that it could not fail to catch the eye of every traveller entering Herzenburg whether by car, bicycle or on foot, was a rectangular wooden board some three feet tall. It was varnished to withstand weather. In the centre of the board was painted, with some skill, a bearded face. The face, surmounted by black ringlets, was dominated by a huge, hooked nose and adorned by a grinning mouth and hooded eyes. Within the limits imposed by his crude medium the artist had conveyed, with a good deal
of ingenuity, a countenance of avarice, lechery and cunning. It was a horrible face.

‘What a ghastly thing!' said Marcia, laughing uncertainly. ‘Who's it meant to be? What's it advertising against? I can't ever read that writing of theirs.' For beneath the caricature were lines in heavy Gothic script. Anthony translated them slowly aloud.

‘I am a Jew.

I suck the blood of Christian merchants.

I exploit German workers.

I
verderbe
German maidens. (“What's that?” said Marcia.

Anthony was not sure – “‘Corrupt' I think. I'll check.”)

‘I make my home, like a maggot in the flesh, in the German

State,

In order to destroy it.'

‘Charming,' said Marcia, shakily. ‘Do you suppose the City Fathers put that up?'

‘The Party, I expect,' said Anthony. It was the most disturbing phenomenon they had yet seen and it revolted them both.

‘I'm going to photograph it.' It was already getting dark but Anthony was skilled with camera and the photograph was to come out all right.

Next morning they explored Herzenburg. The previous evening had been highly enjoyable. Lamps set in fantastically wrought iron brackets had lit the narrow streets from one
Bierstube
to another. In each there had been singing, the music of the accordion, stamping of feet, an atmosphere of exuberant welcome. Marcia's face had sparked instant but generally good mannered attention, and their adequate command of German had quickly brought brother and sister on easy terms with the large number of young people celebrating the evening.

‘Is it always like this?'

‘No, they told me at that last place. It's some sort of special jamboree – a traditional thing, an anniversary of the town's liberation from somebody or other in the seventeenth century. In the Thirty Years' War, I imagine. Or from the French, perhaps.'

‘Well, at least that's a long way away from the Party, and all that,' said Marcia. They almost succeeded in forgetting the old Jew hanging outside the town wall as they moved to yet another cheerful, musical crowd of handsome young.

As next morning they walked out into the town's main street Marcia stopped with a sense of shock.

‘Was it like this when we drove in?'

‘Of course not. They've been busy overnight.'

From one end of the street to the other, from tall ceremonial poles, blood-red banners were suspended. The poles were placed at intervals of about twenty metres so that the impression looking up the street was of a continuous riot of crimson colour on either side. In the centre of each banner was a white circle, and in the circle was the swastika. The effect was dramatic and dominating.

Anthony recalled a verse of the
Horst Wessel Lied
, so often heard on the wireless and sung more than once the evening before –

‘
Wann wehen die Hitler Fahnen

Über allen Strassen

Dann bricht der Tag

Der Deutschen Freiheit an
–'

He gave a snort and spoke rather loudly.

‘The Nazis seem to have taken over the triumphs of the Thirty Years' War.'

A group of four young men were passing at that moment. They wore khaki shirts and ties, peaked caps with strap beneath the chin, brown breeches and high brown boots. Their leader looked sharply at Anthony and gestured to his companions to halt. He had heard the remark. He approached Anthony and stood in front of him with a polite smile. His right hand shot up.

‘Heil Hitler!'

‘Heil Hitler!' said Anthony with a deprecatory grin.

‘You are English?' said the young man, in English.

‘We are. I can see,' Anthony said in German, ‘that you speak excellent English but I need to practise German. It is our first visit to your country.'

‘And do you like it?'

‘It is beautiful.

‘We are making all things new,' said the young German. ‘We are rebuilding our country. We are doing it all together, the men, the women, the rich, the poor, the old, the young. Especially the young. We are all working, all helping each other, making a new, happy Germany.'

‘How admirable.'

‘This is being done under the guidance of the National Socialist Party. It is a party of all the people.'