A Kiss for the Enemy (51 page)

‘Any difficulties at Schloss Langenbach?'

‘No,
Herr Obersturmbannführer
, none at all. They've got the village school there, you know, and the young Frau Langenbach seems to manage well, doing enough work for three women – and three men, for that matter!'

‘The family have never shown much – much warmth toward the Party, you know,' said Schwede sorrowfully. His tone was moderate, judicious.

So that was it.

‘I didn't know,' said the Police Lieutenant politely. ‘There's never been any suspicion of wrong-doing, no breach of regulations over farm produce and so forth. And of course young Frau Langenbach is very popular here.'

‘I dare say. Nevertheless it is possible the Schloss may be ordered to be searched.'

‘Searched,
Herr Obersturmbannführer?
Why?'

‘If there's an order it's to be searched, and police support is needed, that's enough for you.'

‘Of course.'

‘And not a word of this. I'm only warning you of a possibility.'

He got up to leave. He doubted if an ordinary search was the answer here, and anyway they'd got enough on Anna Langenbach for his purpose. Meanwhile, if any whisper reached her at the Schloss and she started to make some sort of nervous move – he couldn't imagine what – he'd have killed two birds with one stone. He'd have made that wretched bunch at Langenbach show their hands, and he'd have identified an indiscreet or disloyal Police officer. He was still undecided how to attack Anna most painfully. Through the child, probably.

The Police Lieutenant escorted him through the main office to the street door. Schwede's eye was caught by a list of unfamiliar names pinned to one of the walls amid a crowd of other notices. Against each name was a photograph.

‘What's that? Usual wanted list?'

‘No, it's the list of escaped prisoners of war – the ones
who've got out of camps in the last six months. The Armed Forces send the names to all Police Districts.'

‘With photographs?'

‘In most cases. We've never picked any up, although Oflag VI is only ten miles southwest of here, and a big Stalag's just east of Hanover. One must be vigilant.'

‘What are the orders if one is caught?' asked Schwede. He was not particularly interested. His mind was still at Schloss Langenbach.

‘Orders would be given for their collection by Military District Headquarters if it's a soldier, Luftwaffe command if an airman, and so forth. Of course, each of our Armed Forces looks after its own prisoners. Simultaneously, we'd notify all police stations so that the names could be removed from the lists. We've had no removals for a long time, unfortunately.'

‘I take it Gau Headquarters would be informed at the same time?'

‘Certainly,
Herr Obersturmbannführer.
'

‘Well,' said Schwede, ‘one must be vigilant. As you say.' He nodded without friendliness and moved to his car.

They had talked hurriedly, feverishly, on the Sunday evening.

‘I will tell her you were a visiting cousin, she knows I have many relations. But the woman hates me. She knows you were in a locked house. She'll let her suspicions run loose.'

‘Darling, I can never forgive myself –'

‘It can't be helped. It happened. But she'll talk. My love, you must go tonight.' Kaspar was due to arrive on 5th February and Anthony's departure had been fixed for 3rd February. They had postponed the decision, the break. Love had struggled with prudence.

‘You must go tonight!'

That Sunday night, 28th January, there was no moon. Anna let Anthony out of the back door of the Schloss. They held each other a last time in the darkness.

‘I'll come back. I'll come back for you one day soon. I promise.'

‘God keep you. I love you.'

Then, as they had agreed, Anthony walked not towards
Kranenberg but southward. He had his ‘tally', his prisoner of war identification tag; and he had Jan Vogt's papers. Jan Vogt was still making for the Ruhr. Anthony's plan, endorsed by Anna, was much as before – to take slow, stopping trains westward. He had in his rucksack a makeshift sleeping bag, contrived by Anna with great ingenuity. He had talked to her at such length about conditions in Germany, he had become in a curious way so much a hidden part of the life of Schloss Langenbach, that he felt little anxiety about evading notice in the community. Knowledge in Oflag XXXIII had been good: improved by tutoring at Anna's hands, Anthony's sense of how to behave and what to expect was, he was sure, now excellent.

He felt greater anxiety about resisting cold. He knew that he was still weak, and soft from the enforced conditions of a fugitive's life. Escape in January was a different matter from the adventure he had shared with Robert in the autumn.

Anna knew the country perfectly, of course. She had investigated, and given him instructions how to find several barns as refuges which would see him through the first two days. The plan at first was to walk, by day, down tracks exactly described to him, not attempting to cover too much ground; and to sleep under cover by night. Then he should, on the fourth day, reach Wexter, a small railway station at sufficient distance from Kranenberg and Langenbach to invite no particular connection with them. From Wexter it should be possible to take a train north to Hanover, and from Hanover to board a succession of slow trains, changing as often as seemed prudent, by Osnabruck and Rheine towards northern Holland. Then real activity would start; and nothing could be planned in advance. They had decided, with little but guesswork about the war situation to guide them, that northern Holland offered the best chance.

Anthony trudged through the darkness, aiming to reach the first of Anna's sanctuaries in time to get some more rest before dawn and the day's march. She had found a good local map for him and he still had his escaper's compass from Oflag XXXIII. His thigh was sorer than he had expected once he began to walk any distance, to step or climb over obstacles, to stretch his legs. It was essential to put the first hours to good use, to put distance between himself and Langenbach.
Thereafter, Jan Vogt, even if detected, even if identified as Captain Anthony Marvell of the British Army, might have come from anywhere, have taken any route on the long march from Oflag XXXIII. He was setting off on Sunday night. He aimed to reach Wexter, to catch a train, on Wednesday or Thursday. It was necessary to remain alive and undetected from Sunday to Thursday, and to cover by farm roads and forest tracks a distance of just over thirty-five miles. They had agreed this ought to be within his powers. Mercifully, there was no snow on the ground. Walking should not be hard. The greatest hazard might lie in where to spend the third and fourth nights. If the weather became worse the temptation to seek refuge under cover, perhaps imprudently, would be strong. Anna had been realistic about this – ‘There's no point in freezing to death to avoid capture, my darling!' But he knew that however brave her words and her spirit she longed for him to be undetected and far, far away.

Anthony found the eight or nine miles a day walking, which the plan involved, to be hard going. By evening each day he was exhausted. His body was inevitably soft. Nevertheless, he reached and identified the first two of what he thought of as ‘Anna's barns'. On the third night he reckoned himself extraordinarily lucky. A woodman's hut in a forest had an unsecured door. There would be no visitors before morning, and the place was not only dry but had clearly been warmed by a forester's stove the previous day; and the warmth lingered. Anthony ate some of his provisions, tried not to think about the soreness of his thigh, and wondered when he would see Anna again. The first heart-quickening challenge of being again alone, walking, in a hostile world, had been succeeded by a greater sense of loneliness than he ever remembered. How extraordinary, how idyllic had been those weeks, cared for by Anna in a dusty attic, surrounded by improbable furniture, convalescent, confused and on the run, yet deeply, passionately in love! But as he reflected on this time he felt not only loneliness and deprivation but a certain peace. One could not be discontented if loved by such a woman.

It was almost warm in his sleeping bag in the forester's hut. The weather seemed to have become appreciably milder after the sun went down that Tuesday night. Anthony slept well.
At about four o'clock in the morning he was woken by a gentle, insistent sound.

It was snowing.

Anthony climbed out of his sleeping bag and looked outside the hut. Snow was already lying. If he moved while it was still coming down his footprints would soon be obliterated. The foresters would not be alerted to the fact of a stranger having used their hut, would not be able to follow up suspicions. Furthermore, the more snow that fell, the harder the going would become. He must move.

He shouldered his rucksack and stepped into the forest clearing. Snow was falling so thickly it got into his mouth and nostrils. It was hard to see anything, but a certain paleness of sky indicated a break in the trees and he thought he could identify from that the broad ride he hoped to follow. He had marked it before nightfall the previous evening. The difficulty was that this ride was likely to be used by foresters and their carts, and nobody could fail to be suspicious of a man lunatic enough to be walking alone in a forest in the middle of a snowstorm. Anthony walked for some time, making little distance in the deepening snow, wondering whether he might be found, a frozen corpse, when the snows melted in the spring.

After an hour the snow fall lessened and a few minutes later stopped. Anthony took advantage of the break to rest. He dumped his rucksack, sat on it under the friendly branch of a huge beech, got out his map, compass and torch, and considered his future.

The map seemed to indicate that there was a village about three miles to the south-west of where he thought he was sitting. He was fairly confident about his approximate position because although tracks were not marked on his map the forest was, and it was not large – apparently the spur of a larger
stadtforst
further south. The map might be out of date in this respect, because of cutting and planting, but Anthony could see no alternative to trusting it. He peered as closely as he could. If he walked westward he should reach a public road, a marked road running north and south, within about two miles, clear of the forest.

Anthony's plan, firmly recommended by Anna, had been to
use farm roads and forest tracks, to stay clear of even minor public roads unless in emergency. But according to the plan, too, he needed to move south some eight miles this day. He was unlikely to find another friendly hut, even were it safe to use one. The snow was lying thickly. He knew he wouldn't make it if he tried to walk down forest paths – but that he might, just, reach the public road itself provided that it existed and the map did not lie. This, Anthony thought, was an emergency! A flake fell, followed by another; it began to snow again.

Anthony picked himself up and set off along a track running roughly in the direction he wished. He could identify which was west and this track ran just north of west. The snow began falling more heavily. He must, he knew, move and keep moving. There should be about two hours to dawn.

It was at about nine o'clock the following morning, aching and stumbling, feeling little except exhaustion, that Anthony emerged from the westward rim of the forest. God knew, he thought, how he'd done it. He had fallen twenty times, slipped into the snow dead tired and only with appalling difficulty forced himself up and on again. His rucksack felt like a sack of coals, his clothing was soaked, his face was frozen, his leg hurt damnably. But he was, for better or worse, clear of the trees, standing in deep snow on a straight narrow road. The road was edged by a ditch and a line of telegraph poles. If he walked south he would ultimately, he supposed, identify for certain where he was. Then he could plan a move towards Wexter and its railway station, moving now by road. In this snow it seemed the best hope. Meanwhile he knew that he needed some sort of refuge, cover and rest. It might be for a short time only but he needed respite. He was all in, he thought, and started to walk heavily down the road to the south. The sky was very grey.

After about thirty minutes he saw the roofs of houses: steep roofs already heavily clad in snow, red brick houses with snow on every ledge and lintel. There might be, there must be a barn with an open or unlatched door. The huge barns which stood behind every substantial house in such villages would provide admirable cover – dryness, darkness, even hay on which to sleep. He dragged his legs towards the edge of the
village. The word ‘barn' dominated his mind: he fixed on it, muttered it like an incantation. These barns were witnesses to an ancient system of husbandry, to communities of small farmers grouped for protection, for commerce, for society, for mutual assistance, each family going out from the village, tilling its own strip and growing, carting and storing its own produce. Anthony knew such barns. In weather like this families would be working in them, and as often as not the living rooms and a ladder to the upper floors opened off the barn itself. But Anthony would, he was sure, be lucky. He moved like a sleep-walker towards the village, now only a hundred yards away.

The first house – a house which acted, it seemed, like some sort of guardhouse to the village, a little detached from the rest – had exactly the sort of barn he envisaged. It extended from the back of the house, immense, beckoning. In front of the house an avenue of trees marked the beginning of the village street. Anthony, indifferent to all but physical discomfort and fatigue, supposed without concern that it was a pretty place. Amid the falling snowflakes it looked welcoming and romantic. Trying to look to right and left, to move with circumspection, Anthony walked towards the rear of the house, the end of the barn. It was all he could do to get one leg past the other, careless of whether he was trampling over garden, paddock or waste land. He could not believe he was as feeble as he had turned out to be. The hours of walking in deep snow had totally exhausted him. ‘I'm a mess,' he thought, ‘but after an hour or two in here, I'll be all right.'