A Kiss for the Enemy (6 page)

‘And the celebration today – it is an historical event, is it not?'

‘Yes, it is the celebration of the liberation of the town from their enemy, from the French. The National Socialists have brought a new era but they also believe Germans should know and value their own history. That is very important. So every traditional event of this kind is supported and encouraged by our Party. You may like, perhaps, to contribute to our funds? It is to help old Party workers who can no longer help themselves. Maybe they are sick.' He extended a tin and Anthony put a mark in it.

‘
Vielen Dank
! Tell your friends in England what we are doing.'

‘I will,' said Anthony, ‘I will indeed.'

With a further ‘Heil Hitler' and a bow to Marcia imitated by all three companions, the young man took his little group on their way. Brother and sister walked on in silence.

Marcia pointed to a shop window.

‘Look, Anton!'

In the window – repeated in a number of alternative wordings to the same effect by more than half the shops in the street – was a large notice.

‘
Juden unerwünscht.
'

‘Pretty categoric!' muttered Anthony. ‘Jews not wanted!' Then, ‘Who are these? We've not seen these before.'

Coming towards them on the pavement marched a knot of seven or eight young men in black uniforms, with side-caps and armbands bearing the ubiquitous swastika. Their buttons were of silvertoned metal. Swinging from the belt against the left buttock each carried a short, white rubber truncheon.

‘I think these are what they call “SS”. Sort of private Nazi army.'

More groups of SS men passed. All looked young, cheerful and confident. Marcia drew admiring glances. Several exchanged remarks as they passed and there was some broad laughter.

‘Back to the car!' said Anthony. ‘We said we'd reach Frido by this evening. We've quite a way to go and we know how slow some of these roads are.'

‘Don't you think we ought to stay a bit, Anton, and see what happens here, at their celebration?' Already they could hear the insistent notes of a band, the intoxicating, rhythmic throb of a military march from what seemed to, be a square, two hundred yards ahead.

‘No,' said Anthony, ‘I think we'll go. I think, just for now, I've had enough of Herzenburg.' They had already loaded the Morris and soon were on their way.

Anthony let his thoughts run. In these uniforms, banners and slogans, in this posturing and stridency, there was something curiously unreal, theatrical. It was as if a large part of the population had decided to put on fancy dress and enact a series of dark, mediaeval charades – and then found themselves caught up in the enactment, somehow enchanted, intoxicated, unable to break the spell and return to the more prosaic, the drabber, liberal modes of thought and life they had been bewitched into deserting.

The Shylock looks of the Jew caricature hung in his mind, as did the sneering hatred which seemed to drift like a gas from the heavy black, Gothic characters of the texts all over Herzenburg. He was reminded of other faces of exultant onlookers, at the Crucifixion or some comparable scene of cruelty and pain, as depicted by early Flemish artists – that grinning enjoyment of others suffering, that incapacity for pity which, if the painters were to be believed, must have been a hideous counterweight to the simple beauty of so much mediaeval life. Had Germany reached back, and reverted to such types? Anthony drove into a filling staton.

‘We need some oil.'

The garage attendant, another elderly veteran as was clear from heavy military moustache and erect bearing, had beautiful
manners, and kind, courteous eyes. To exchange the briefest of greetings with him was to feel more at peace.

Frido von Arzfeld walked back towards his home through woods bursting into leaf. Winter was surely over, he thought, although last year there had, remarkably, been a heavy fall of snow in the first week of May. He was content that the Marvells should see Arzfeld in the spring. He loved it at all seasons but spring and autumn were best. He knew Anthony and Marcia were driving north from Franconia. They might arrive at any time from mid-afternoon.

Frido thought of his last meeting with them, of Bargate. Anthony had shaken his hand and looked into his face with what was, he knew, real affection, although, with the English, one could never be absolutely sure. And Marcia – his mind's eye saw Marcia's flushed face in the billiard room, the glinting eyes of that unpleasant, ill-mannered Deputy, the uncle, Herr Paterson, clearly a man of disgusting morals. He remembered Marcia's broken shoulder-strap, her bare shoulders, her dishevelment. How lovely she had looked! Had she led that old lecher on? Had she meant it when she had said goodbye to Frido, had pressed his hand, held his eyes with hers and said, ‘I can't wait until the spring, until our visit to your home, Frido'? But with English girls, too, thought Frido sadly, perhaps one could never be sure.

He heard his name called –

‘Frido, Frido!'

It was Lise. Good heavens, had they come? It was past five thirty. He started to run towards the house. Lise appeared at the iron gate which connected the wood with the vegetable and fruit garden, fenced against deer and hare, which lay behind the house itself. He could see her, but two hundred metres separated them and he couldn't make out what she was calling.

There was no formal flower garden, nor lawns at Arzfeld. All appeared practical, functional, part of a way of life deeply rooted in the soil, of a culture untouched except lightly by the decoration, the elegant artificiality of the eighteenth century. The house was large and plain. It looked both farm and manor. Arzfeld had beauty, but beauty in which man's work was so
harmonious with nature as almost to seem part of it. The deep red of those brick walls which were not whitewashed, the darker red of the tiles, the faded, peeling yellow paint on the shutters were all colours whose tones blended perfectly with the varied greens and browns in Arzfeld's background of tree and meadow. House, stable, farmsteading, extensive barns, dusty cart road running to the courtyard before the main entrance – all seemed as if they had been in place for ever, interlocking parts of a whole dedicated to the management of animals, crops, timber; inseparable from husbandry and the land. The atmosphere of the place was, the Marvells later decided, mediaeval. The word was expressive but inexact. Certainly, Arzfeld could be imagined at any time in German history, backdrop to any scene of peasant serfs, armoured
landsknechte
, wandering friars. But the house in its present form had been chiefly built in 1555. The von Arzfeld of those days had been touched by the inspiration of Luther. He had devotedly supported his lord in the league of Protestant princes, and an imaginative eye might deduce the fact from his building. The place was lovely but austere.

Lise was shouting something about a telephone. It seldom rang at Arzfeld.

‘Who, Lise?' Frido shouted back. ‘The Marvells, yes, but from where? Where are they?'

But it was not the Marvells.

‘Werner has telephoned. He is arriving here this evening. He has seven days' leave, unexpectedly. Wonderful!'

Lise's eyes shone. She adored both her brothers but Werner, now twenty-five, and Frido's senior by several years, was her idol. Infrequently at home, Werner's value was enhanced by rarity. He was an officer in the Army. His cadet training had been cut short because German military expansion had led to an urgent demand for more young officers. Werner had thus been a lieutenant for nearly four years. He was stationed in a small garrison town in Bavaria, between Munich and Garmisch.

‘When does Werner come, then?'

Today. By train. I've asked Franz to fetch him from the station. He'll be here for supper.' Most trains stopped at the small town on the railway only three miles from Arzfeld. Franz,
elderly farm bailiff, drove a horse and trap, and picked up the infrequent visitors. Frido demurred.

‘I can go in the car.' It was Frido's proudest possession.

‘I thought perhaps – the Marvells –'

Frido agreed. Best see how the evening went, at what hour Anthony and Marcia would arrive. The plan could always be changed. And Franz covered the distance to the station remarkably quickly.

‘Did you tell Werner we are to have visitors?'

‘Of course. Friends of yours. He was surprised.'

‘I hope he wasn't upset.'

‘No, I'm sure he wasn't.' But Lise was not really sure. Werner must have wanted his family, his home, peace, no strangers. He'd not been to Arzfeld for months and months.

‘Just as well,' said Frido, ‘I know he'll like them very much.' He loved his brother. Werner's visits were occasions of joy. But now he felt a touch of cool at the heart, he could not say why.

He smiled at Lise and thought how attractive she was. They were all dark complexioned, with smooth, olive skin. In Lise's case this was unusually combined with fair hair, silkily framing a face of exceptional prettiness, with brown eyes and a small, tilted nose.

‘Perhaps Anthony will fall in love with Lise,' he thought. ‘That might be symmetrical. Symmetrical but difficult.' Then he thought of Marcia again. Of recent days he had thought of little else.

They walked together toward the house. By a side door a tall figure was standing. Grey breeches, black riding boots; left sleeve of a green collared jacket tucked into a pocket, pinned there, as all knew. Face lean and lined, high cheekbones, thin mouth, a permanent limp since 1917. Kaspar von Arzfeld stood very still.

‘You have heard that Werner's coming? We can hear about this Army of ours! And I want to speak to him of next season's planting plans. I have spoken of them to you, Frido. Not to Werner. It should be done.'

‘Exactly so, father.'

‘He will be here for supper. Perhaps we shall eat late this evening. Is that not so, Lise?'

‘Yes, exactly, father.'

‘At what time will the English family arrive?'

‘It is not certain. They are coming by car.'

But at that moment Kaspar von Arzfeld cocked his head and said, ‘I think I hear something.'

The clock in the stable block struck six. Two minutes later, Anthony's Morris came into sight round a corner of the wood, followed by a cloud of dust.

Anthony Marvell looked thoughtfully from his host to Werner von Arzfeld, the elder son. Anthony's German had improved in the last few days. He and Marcia shared a facility for languages, and enjoyed them. Despite a childhood almost entirely free from foreign travel, both were competent in French and German, the work of governesses at an early age, farsightedly employed by Hilda against the protests of the young. Their fluency owed little to formal schooling. Now Anthony felt at ease, anticipating with pleasure practice and conversation in an entirely German household. He was already talking much faster – more like his pace in English.

Kaspar von Arzfeld, however, insisted on speaking a slow, careful English. His vocabulary was sound, his grammar excellent, his grasp of pronunciation imperfect. He, too, had looked forward to a chance to practise again a tongue learned in youth at which he had once been unusually proficient.

‘I was determined, Herr Marvell, that my sons should learn both French and English. Does Frido speak correctly?'

They had supped in a low-ceilinged, white-painted room, with heavy oak furniture and antlers of many stags adorning the walls. Now they sat before a huge open fire in the central hall of Arzfeld, a room not dissimilar from and serving the same purpose as the inner hall at Bargate. Chairs were more upright, but had the same comfortable shabbiness. On a long refectory table was a flat, circular bottle containing a white wine from the banks of the Main. It was new to the Marvells, a post-prandial drink, delicious.

‘Frido speaks English very well indeed. Perfectly!'

‘Ach! Perfectly!' Werner von Arzfeld said it softly, with a smile. His expression was both sardonic and affectionate. ‘How
superb looking he is!' thought Marcia. ‘Like Frido, but every feature stronger, more definite. Harder.' Werner had said little at table. He had held a long conversation with his father before they had gone to supper, murmuring apart while Frido and Lise chatted to the Marvells. At supper Kaspar had spoken knowledgeably about the state of agriculture in Europe, and the problems of forestry. Now and then the conversation had taken a turn leading, it seemed, to a dead end unless some essentially political issue were at least to receive acknowledgement. At such moments Kaspar pursed his lips and opened another line of talk.

Anthony was determined to extract from his host some comment, however neutral, on the European scene. The older man could not be drawn. Werner at times shot at Anthony a look with a sly smile behind the eyes. ‘I know what you're after,' he seemed to be saying, ‘but you won't get this old one to say much.'

Lise spoke little, now that conversation was general, but sat with a slight smile on her gentle rather submissive face. The atmosphere at Arzfeld was essentially, almost brutally, masculine. The long widowerhood of Kaspar contributed to this, but it went deeper, had persisted far longer. This was a house for the forester, the huntsman, the warrior, a place of horns and saddles and armed men.

Kaspar drew on his cigar.

‘Herr Marvell, there is a famous English poet, Andrew Marvell. You are of the same family?'

The question was not uncommon.

‘I believe we may come from the same origins, yes. My father says there is a connection. But we are not descended from him.'

Kaspar had prepared himself.

‘
And now the Irish are ashamed

To see themselves in one year tamed
–'

He stopped suddenly, appalled. Was it not, perhaps, dangerous, delicate, insufferable manners, to speak of the Irish to this young Englishman? Was Ireland not still a rebellious province? He simply could not remember how matters stood, but felt that his choice of quotation had been boorish, inept. To his relief, however, Anthony completed the verse –