The Farmer's Daughter (12 page)

He spent the rest of the day wondering what his reception would be like. Could he and Jean return to the easy relationship they had had before, or had Otto spoilt it all? It was, he realised, important to him, though exactly why that was so he would not allow himself to speculate.

Jean was gathering eggs, helped by Lily. The child loved to follow her about the farm, chattering away about school and her friends and the games they played. ‘Terry got detention today, for talking in class and answering back,' she told her. ‘Miss gave him the cane.'

‘I don't think you should tell tales, Lily,' Jean said. ‘You wouldn't like Terry to tell when you are naughty, would you?'

‘I'm not naughty.'

‘What? Not ever?'

‘Only sometimes. You've missed one.' She pointed to an egg lying in the hedge.

‘So I have.' She picked it up and put it in her basket. ‘Do you think you can carry this back to Auntie Doris for me?'

‘Course I can.' She took the basket and trotted off.

Jean turned and saw Karl watching her. She hadn't heard him arrive and gave him a broad smile. ‘You are back. I am so pleased.'

‘And I am pleased to be back. You had a little helper, I see.'

‘Lily. I shall miss her when she goes home. You get on with children too, don't you?'

‘Yes. I like their innocence. They are not corrupted by greed and politics. They say what they think and they don't judge like adults tend to do.'

‘I try not to judge.'

‘I know, I wasn't thinking of you at all, just people in general.'

They talked as they worked in easy harmony, confiding in each other their hopes and fears. Hers were about the farm and her worry over her father and Gordon; his were about what was happening in Germany.

‘Have you heard from your parents or Heidi yet?' she asked him.

‘No, nothing. I worry about them. It is dreadful to say, but I have almost forgotten what Heidi looks like.'

‘You have her picture.'

‘Yes, but when I lie in bed in the dark and try to imagine her face, it comes to me as a blur. I used to be able to see her clearly in my mind but it has gone now.'

‘It will come back when you see her again.'

‘I hate this war,' he said suddenly. ‘I hate everything about it. People on both sides being killed and injured, separated from their families, cities destroyed, the countryside ruined, you and I enemies and for what …'

‘You are not my enemy, Karl, though your Hitler and those fanatics that do his bidding most certainly are.'

‘He is not my Hitler. Please do not class me with him. I hold no brief for him.' He paused. ‘I should not have said that. It is disloyal to my country.'

‘You can say what you like to me, Karl, I will not betray your confidence. It is a pity more people don't think like you do. They might put a stop to it.'

‘They would have to kill the Führer to do it and no one has succeeded yet.'

‘But would Hitler's death make any difference? He has men around him who are just as fanatical.'

‘But none with his magnetism. There are men in our camp who think he is invincible, more like a god.' He gave a cracked laugh. ‘Religion went out of the window when the Nazis came to power.'

‘That is dreadful.'

‘I should not be talking like this. I could be in serious trouble.'

‘I believe you have already been in trouble, haven't you? The week you didn't come to work, you weren't sick, were you?'

‘What made you say that?'

‘The man who came in your place told me. His English is not as good as yours but I understood the gist of it. Your friend, Otto, accused you of being a coward and a traitor and for that you had to be punished.'

‘It was nothing. He should not have told you. I should not have talked as I have. I am German and I love my country, but if the regime could be toppled we might have an armistice and the slaughter would stop.'

‘Churchill and Roosevelt have publicly said they would entertain nothing less than total surrender.'

‘Then we fight on to the end, until one or other of us is totally annihilated. Such a waste, such a terrible waste of lives.'

He looked so miserable, she put out a hand and laid it over his. ‘Perhaps it won't come to that. Try to stay cheerful. Don't give up hope.'

He looked down at her hand as if wondering how it had got there, then picked it up with his other hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘I am glad I have you to talk to, but we will speak of it no more, will we?'

‘No. I have already forgotten it.'

The population of Little Bushey watched in mounting apprehension as more and more prisoners were herded off trains and marched through the village to the camp, escorted by a handful of troops. Dirty and unkempt, they were not cowed, but arrogant, singing as they marched and giving anyone they passed a mocking bow.

‘The villagers are up in arms,' Jean told Karl. ‘They are afraid the prisoners will break out and run amok in the village and we've only got one local bobby.'

‘Bobby?'

‘Policeman.' It was easy to forget that he was unfamiliar with English slang, though he was learning all the time. She hardly noticed his accent now, but that may have been because she had become used to it. ‘Do you think they will try anything like that?'

‘I do not know, Jean. I keep to myself and I am here most of the day, but if they did breakout, they would soon be rounded up again.'

‘Bill has written to our Member of Parliament about the danger but he has had no reply. He says he's going to write to all the newspapers. There are others in the village who will back him up.'

‘What does he want done?'

‘He wants the camp shut down. He says it is too near the village.'

‘I doubt they will shut it down, Jean. They have to find somewhere to accommodate all the prisoners they are taking. Our camp is a seething mass of men and a lot of them are sleeping in tents. Anyone with building skills is being put to work building more huts but they are not ready, and with so much overcrowding, fights are breaking out over trivial things – who has precedence for the showers, the theft of soap and accusations of favouritism and unequal rations, that sort of thing. The weather doesn't help.
Keeping belongings dry in a tent is not easy, especially when the ground outside it is so wet and muddy.'

‘It doesn't help the farmers either.'

‘I know.'

‘Would you go along with a breakout, Karl?'

‘I do not know,' he said slowly. ‘If I thought there was a chance of getting home to Germany and finding my parents, I might be tempted to take it, but I do not think that is likely. No one has managed it yet. Talk of escape is all
Latrinenparolen
– latrine talk.'

He returned to the camp one evening to find more prisoners had arrived. It was evident that the careful segregation that had been practiced with earlier prisoners was being performed perfunctorily and sometimes hardly at all. He soon realised that some of the new intake should have been labelled ‘black'. Among them was a sergeant calling himself Hans Schmidt who stood out from the rest because of his huge moustache and arrogant posture. Karl recognised him at once as Major Gerhard Richter. He had been in the same cavalry regiment as Karl's brother and Karl had met him at the regimental passing out parade. He had been an enthusiastic member of the National Socialist Party then and Karl had no reason to suppose he had changed.

Schmidt had not been in the camp long before he formed a coterie of men who felt the same way as he did and they would huddle in groups talking quietly. It looked as though he meant to take over the camp and undermine the easy-going Major Schultz. Karl guessed there was more to it than that, otherwise why had he taken a false name and a non-commissioned rank when he could have enjoyed the privileges of an officer POW?

‘What's going on?' he asked Otto one evening when they were strolling round the compound before lights out.

‘I don't know, do I? No one tells me anything. But Schmidt is talking to everyone who works on the outside.'

‘Has he spoken to you?' He and Otto had been through so much together, it seemed childish to remain at loggerheads.

‘No, but I expect he will. And you, too.'

‘We don't have to go.'

‘Are you joking? No one defies
Feldwebel
Schmidt if he wants to keep his balls intact.'

Karl's efforts to avoid Schmidt proved difficult; he seemed to be everywhere and would hold court in the hut he occupied or out in the compound, always surrounded by sycophants, and summon people to his presence. Otto returned from one such meeting to tell Karl, ‘He wanted to know everything I had seen while working outside, what Gould's yard was like and what sort of stuff he kept there. He asked particularly if he stored explosives on the premises.'

‘Does he?'

‘I never saw any.'

‘What is he planning to blow up?' Karl mused.

‘The guards' quarters, perhaps?'

‘Are you prepared to go along with that?'

‘Yes, if it gets us out of here and kills a few
Engländern
in the bargain. He wants to see you next.'

‘I'm not going.'

Otto shrugged. ‘Please yourself.'

Karl left him to go back to his hut where he picked up the camp newspaper and flung himself on his bed. It contained the usual notices about events: the latest offering at the theatre, a schedule of football matches between teams from the huts, foreign language lessons, grumbles about the building work and the food. They were always grumbling about the food, though it was the same as the British troops were given. He let the paper drop and
was half dozing when Joachim Hartmann came into the room.

‘
Feldwebel
Schmidt wants to see you. He said he'll be waiting by the wire near the ablutions.'

‘He will have a long wait then.'

‘He wants to discuss something with you. You had better go before he sends his boys to fetch you.'

‘Tell him if he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me.' He picked up his newspaper again and pretended to read a review of a concert performed the week before.

Hartmann left and a few minutes later Hans Schmidt arrived. Karl discarded the newspaper and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Good evening, Major Richter,' he said evenly. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘You are mistaken, I am
Feldwebel
Schmidt. Whoever this Major Richter is, he is not I. Shall we take a walk outside where we will not be overheard?'

There was no one else in the room but Karl knew he was thinking about hidden microphones. Curiosity led him to obey.

‘Did you think I would not recognise you?' he asked, as they strolled across the compound.

‘It is unfortunate that we find ourselves in this situation, Muller, but I am sure I can rely on you not to betray me to the commandant or to any of the others.'

‘I am equally sure you would not have demoted yourself without a compelling reason.'

‘I am obeying orders, as every good soldier does.'

‘Oh, and what would they be?'

‘To make as much trouble as I can for the enemy. The war is not lost, my friend. Our beloved Führer has more than one trick up his sleeve and we, here in England, have our part to play. We must be ready.'

‘Ready for what?'

‘I cannot tell you yet. Suffice to say I require your wholehearted co-operation.'

‘Why the false identity?'

‘Simple, my friend. I needed to get into a camp for other ranks where the men are sent out to work. Officers don't work, they simply sit around in idleness waiting for the war to end. That would never suit me. When surrender seemed inevitable, I took the clothes and identity of my sergeant who had been killed in the battle for Falaise. He was a good man to have at one's side. I mourned his loss, but he is still of use to the Fatherland, even in death. I intend to find out all I can about the British countryside, roads and rivers, where the army camps are, what vehicles and armaments they have, where the airfields are, what aircraft are kept there …'

Karl chuckled. ‘Are you planning to steal an aeroplane?'

‘I might. I transferred from the cavalry to the 6th Parachute Regiment early in the war and part of our training was learning to fly.'

‘Good luck to you. I hope you are not shot down, but I do not see how I can help you over that.'

‘No, but that is not all. I need information, lots of it. I need to know about the trains and buses and their timetables. Also who in the neighbourhood has a vehicle. I need reliable maps, English money …'

‘And you think I can help with those?'

‘I am sure you can. Your English is very good and I am told you work on a farm where you are made welcome. I am reliably informed there is a young lady who might be sympathetic …'

‘Your informant is mistaken,' he said, thinking of Otto. ‘I am guarded the whole time. There are several members of the family watching me, not just the
Fräulein
.'

‘Then you must find a way of slipping your leash.'

A klaxon sounded across the compound warning the prisoners they should retire to their huts, that lights out would be in ten minutes and anyone caught outside after that risked being shot. Karl had never seen anyone shot by the guards, but the threat was ever-present. ‘Do not forget I am Hans Schmidt,' the major said, as they bade each other a hasty goodnight. ‘I will speak to you again.'

Karl went back to his hut. He could smell trouble and it bothered him.

Jean chuckled as they divested themselves of the thigh-length waders which they had been wearing to clear out a ditch. They were both filthy and smelly.

‘Why are you laughing?' he asked.

‘You have mud on your nose.' She picked up an old towel hanging on a hook in the barn where they were stripping and reached out to wipe it off. ‘And on your cheek.'

‘So have you,' he said. ‘But you are still beautiful.'

‘Oh, Karl, I am not. I am very ordinary.'