The Farmer's Daughter (19 page)

He knelt to help her. The ewe's twins were born, cleaned up with straw and put to the mother. She was prepared to accept one, but not the other, nudging it roughly out of the way whenever it came near.

‘I'll have to hand-rear it.' She laughed. ‘Goodbye restful nights.'

‘We could put it to the ewe that lost her lamb.'

‘She won't accept one that's not her own.'

‘We can deceive her into thinking it is.' He fetched the dead lamb and rubbed it all over the live one. ‘I have known shepherds skin a dead lamb and dress the live one in the skin to trick the ewe,' he said. ‘But perhaps this will work.'

He carried the hungry little animal to the ewe and set it down close to her udder. ‘Go on,' he murmured. ‘Have your breakfast.' He watched carefully in case the ewe tried to kick the little one, but she stood unmoving. He held the lamb close to the nipple and squeezed it. Milk squirted over its nose. With Karl's help it began to suck. He left the pair and went round the flock to see if there were any more ewes ready to give birth, but though some were not far off, they did not appear uncomfortable. He returned to Jean. ‘I think that's all for now. Tomorrow there will be more.'

‘Right.' She stood up and flexed her aching back. ‘Do you think you could fetch a spade from the shed and bury that one?' She indicated the dead lamb which had enabled another to live. ‘I'll go and feed the pigs and chickens. The poor things are left so much to their own devices nowadays.'

He fetched a spade and dug a grave under a hedge for the little
lamb. It made him sad. He didn't know whether his sorrow was due to the loss of the lamb or the situation in which he found himself.

The men were grouped around the illicit radio when he returned that evening, listening to the German account of the latest news on
Deutschlandfunk
. The Red Army under Marshal Zhukov had been halted at the Oder river and the American advance had been held up when the Schwammenauel Dam was opened, making it impossible to cross the Ruhr. The bulletin went on. ‘The Führer has appointed General Wenck to command the new offensive to the east of Berlin and the Soviet army will be sent back to where they came from in disarray. There have been heavy air raids on many German cities, but it cost the Allies dearly in men and machines. Factories and industrial plants have not been affected and are in full production.'

‘What did I tell you?' Otto said. ‘We're not done for yet, not by a long way. The English exaggerate as they always do.'

‘Guard approaching,' the lookout warned them.

There was a wild scramble to hide the wireless and any other incriminating evidence and by the time the corporal entered the hut, they were all engaged in innocent pursuits.

‘
Feldwebel
Muller, Colonel Williamson wants to see you,' the guard said without coming in any further than the doorway. ‘Now.'

Mystified, Karl followed him out, aware of the muttering going on behind him. If, on his return, he could not give a good account of why he had been sent for, he would be in more trouble.

Lieutenant Colonel Williamson could see part of the compound from his office window. There were men strolling about, others playing games, some working on the little gardens round the huts. The camp was like a small town, except there were no women, no
children. It housed the good and the bad, the meek and the brash, the strong and the weak, the hopeful and those with no hope. Since the December breakout and the departure of the troublemakers it had been relatively peaceful.

There had been much discussion at government level about what to do with the prisoners when the war ended. They would have to be repatriated, but that would not happen overnight. Transport would have to be found for them which would take some organising. The Home Office and Ministry of Agriculture were in favour of keeping the prisoners as long as possible; the Home Office wanted builders and the Ministry of Agriculture needed farm workers. ‘Their labour is crucial,' someone from the agricultural ministry said at one of the interminable meetings he had attended. ‘Until our own men are demobbed and we know how many are going back into agriculture, there will be an acute shortage of manpower. The Italians, many of whom already live on the farms where they work, will be sent home first. Perhaps the farmers would be prepared to board German prisoners in their place.'

‘What about non-fraternisation? How would that work?'

‘It wouldn't, would it? But would it be necessary when hostilities cease?'

Charles had smiled; in his experience the ban was honoured more in the breach than the observance, certainly in Little Bushey. ‘Perhaps we could try it on a small scale and see how it works,' he had suggested.

No date for this trial was set, though it was assumed it would not happen until the war ended, but he intended to jump the gun. Miss Coleman's accusations had bothered his conscience. He had known what would happen putting Muller in among his fellows after the shooting, what he hadn't realised was just how
severe his punishment would be. If he had not been alerted by the
Lagerführer
, the man would have died. An external enquiry would not have looked good on his record.

He turned from the window as
Feldwebel
Muller was shown into the room. He sent the guard away with a nod of his head. ‘Sit down, Sergeant.' He indicated a chair on the other side of his desk.

Karl sat and waited.

‘How was work today, Sergeant?'

‘It was work,' he answered warily. ‘Something to keep me busy.'

‘And away from your fellow prisoners.'

‘I do not understand.'

‘Oh, I think you do. I know you are not popular among your compatriots.' He held up his hand to stop Karl speaking. ‘Don't worry, I am not about to ask you to tell me. I doubt you would anyway.'

‘No,
Herr Kolonel
.'

‘The reason I sent for you is to tell you that some German prisoners of war who have been found to be cooperative and not a danger to the civilian population are to be allowed to live on the farms where they work, with the farmer's agreement, of course, because they will be responsible for the men living with them.' He paused to let the man digest this. ‘Would you like to live on Briar Rose Farm,
Feldwebel
Muller?'

‘Has Mr Coleman agreed?'

‘I haven't asked him yet, but I will do so, if that's what you want.'

‘I should like that. I never arrive in time to do the morning milking and I don't go on a Sunday. I think it would help them.'

‘Then I'll see what Mr Coleman says.'

Karl left him, wondering what Jean would make of the request. But it lifted his spirits more than he could say.

‘We've had a letter from Colonel Williamson,' Doris told Jean a couple of mornings later. ‘Apparently some of the better behaved prisoners are going to be allowed to stay on the farms where they work. He's suggesting Sergeant Muller should live on the premises.'

‘Live-in?'

‘Yes, read it for yourself.'

Jean scanned it quickly and then read it again more slowly. ‘What do you think?' she said, careful not to sound too eager.

‘I don't know. It needs thinking about.'

‘He's a Jerry,' her father said.

‘So what? He's not dangerous. You know that. He was shot saving us, don't forget. If anything like that happened again …' Her voice tailed off.

‘Don't be daft. The war's all but over. Even Jerry must know that.'

‘Some of them don't. Some are still convinced Hitler will turn things around.'

‘Did Sergeant Muller tell you that?'

‘Yes, he told me there are still men in the Bushey camp talking about escape. A man about the place might be useful.'

‘All right, no need to rub it in.'

‘I didn't mean it like that, Pa, you know I didn't. I meant he would be on the premises for the morning milking and anything else that needs doing early. He'd be here Sundays, too. But it's your decision.'

‘So it is, and don't you forget it, girl.'

‘I don't know,' her mother said. ‘If he came, where would he sleep?'

‘In the barn.' This from her father.

‘Pa, you can't expect a man to live like an animal and do a day's work as well. He can have Gordon's room.' The room, until recently, had been occupied by Terry.

‘But what if Gordon comes home?' her mother queried.

‘Mum, you have to face it, that's not going to happen before the war ends and then Sergeant Muller will go back to his own home. We really could do with the extra help.'

‘All right, we'll give it a try,' her father said. ‘If it doesn't work we can always send him back.'

Jean knew that sending him back would mean more beatings. The other prisoners hated him because he was against Hitler. She suspected Colonel Williamson knew it. Perhaps he wanted to protect him. ‘Then write and agree, Mum. I'll sort the room out.' She tapped the letter. ‘It says here
Feldwebel
Muller has indicated his willingness to come. I wonder why he never said.'

‘I did not dare hope,' he told her when she taxed him with keeping it from her later that day. He had found her in the barn, sorting seed potatoes and they had greeted each other with more than one kiss. ‘I didn't think your parents would agree.'

‘Well they have. We get more help and you don't bump into so many doors.'

He let that pass. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Karl, why would I not be sure? Not so long ago you said the time might come when you would not have to go back every night. And now it has. I couldn't be more pleased.'

‘Where will I sleep and eat?'

‘With us, of course, one of the family.'

‘Sweetheart, I think that is not wise. We have a secret to keep and that will be very difficult if we are living under the same roof.'

‘Don't you want to come?'

‘Of course I do. The prospect excites me, but we shall have to be very careful not to give ourselves away.'

She laughed. ‘Oh, I shall work you harder than ever, never
fear. I shall be the hardest taskmaster you could ever imagine.'

‘I doubt that.' He grinned ruefully. ‘Hard taskmasters do not usually kiss their slaves.'

‘You are not my slave.'

‘Oh, but I am, so let us get to work before you fetch out the whip.'

They spent the day planting potatoes. He sang softly as he worked.

‘When will you move in?' she asked while they were doing the afternoon milking. ‘I'll have your room ready for you.'

‘As soon as the paperwork is done. I think in a few days.'

The transport brought him one morning less than a week later, together with all his belongings, a pitifully small bundle in Jean's eyes. But he was more than pleased, she could tell by the spring in his step and a grin he took no trouble to hide.

‘Whose room is this?' he asked when she took him upstairs. ‘It is not yours, is it?'

‘No, it's Gordon's. He doesn't need it at the moment, does he? I'll leave you to settle in. Come down when you are ready.' A snatched kiss and she was gone.

He sat on the bed and looked about him. It was obviously a boy's room. There were sporting trophies on the shelves and books about football and flying. Hanging on the wall were photographs of a young man in cricket flannels, another of the same young man standing beside a Spitfire. He stood up to look at it more closely.

Gordon must be three or four years older than Jean, he guessed, if he had been old enough to join the RAF in 1939. He was tall and confident, proud of himself. He could not have known his flying career would be so short. ‘I hope that my countrymen are being as kind to you as yours have been to me,' he murmured.

Gordon had lost all track of time. Days, weeks, even months had passed in an endless shuffle. He had lost count of the number of barns, deserted schools, warehouses and bombed-out houses they had sheltered in. The column of one hundred was down to less than fifty. The roads behind them were littered with corpses and belongings they no longer had the strength to carry. With the warmer weather, the sled had been abandoned and many who had started out with greatcoats had discarded them. The wagon had long since fallen to pieces. For a time those still on their feet had made stretchers from poles and blankets and carried the invalids, but that didn't last; no one had the strength. Sometimes the guards had carried the stretchers. There was no one on stretchers now, they had all succumbed to the diseases that plagued them: pneumonia, diphtheria, but mostly dysentery due to their strange diet and lack of anything like hygienic conditions.

He had wondered if the German authorities knew where they were, but now and again they were issued with more Red Cross parcels, so they must be keeping track of them. What they apparently were not sure of was how many men had fallen by the wayside because the same number of parcels arrived for the survivors to share. He suspected the guards had not reported the deaths.

He had kept going on willpower, though his stump was torn to shreds. Alex, Jeremy and Stanislaw had refused to leave him behind though he begged them to. They took it in turns to haul him along, until one evening, Stanislaw had disappeared and come back with an ancient bath chair. ‘I talked an old lady into giving it to me in exchange for a rabbit,' he told them. ‘It was her late husband's.' Thereafter he no longer had to hobble along beside them, though pushing the chair could not have been easy for the others and he would sometimes walk for a bit,
pushing the chair himself with their belongings heaped on it.

Stanislaw was a great scavenger. Whenever they stopped for the night he would disappear and come back with food, vegetables or half a loaf, quite often a dead animal he had killed, skinned and jointed. How Stan had managed to conceal the knife through so many searches, was a mystery. If they asked him what it was, he would say ‘Rabbit.' Gordon suspected the joints might be cat or rat, but it was meat and they would light a fire and cook it.