Vengeance 10 (31 page)

With bravado he did not feel, Memling grinned. ‘Not brave, my friend. Just frightened to death.’

Wolcowitz’s expression was serious. ‘Good. You will live long, then.’

Shortly after midnight the three men left the cabin. Wolcowitz accompanied them for a few kilometres before disappearing into the darkness. Memling was not aware that he had gone until he turned to say something.

Rodalski’s German was worse than his English. ‘Woodcutter is’ - he fumbled for the words he wanted - ‘knowing wise of woods. You never see him again until war is over. I go to Russia soon. I never see him again, ever.’

As they walked on through the still night Memling thought about Rodalski’s seeming equanimity in the face of certain death on the Russian front. Wolcowitz had described in some detail the extraordinary reverses both sides had taken in recent months. There had been a huge tank battle near the Russian city of Kursk a few weeks before, perhaps the largest the world had ever seen, and as a result Wolcowitz claimed there would never be another German victory in Russia. With Allied aid and their own factories relocated in the Urals, the Russians could absorb their massive losses, but the Germans could not. In response to Jan’s contention that the Germans could, by virtue of their industrial base, absorb far more than a tank defeat, Wolcowitz had dismissed Stalingrad as merely an example of German stupidity matching Russian stupidity.

And here was his guide going to Russia as part of an army that endured casualties at the rate of seven in ten - ten in ten in certain foreign conscript and punishment regiments. But like Wolcowitz, Rodalski did not seem to care so long as he could first kill as many of one side or the other as possible.-

It was dawn before they reached their destination, a farm near the edge of the forest. Rodalski led Memling to a small outbuilding and cautioned him to stay well hidden, as the owner was a loyal German. He left Memling two packages of field rations and a bottle of water, enough to last until someone came for him. With a cheery ‘Good luck’, he was gone, the rising sun outlining his sturdy figure as he strode back into the forest - that was the last sight Memling had of him.

The following days merged to form one of the strangest interludes in Memling’s life. Not even his experiences in Belgium could compare. He was shuttled back and forth across this obscure corner of Germany by a succession of people who were either natives or foreign prisoner-workers released to do ‘land service’. Most such moves involved hiking for miles along dusty country roads. He saw only two soldiers during this time, both on leave, friendly and willing to talk and share cigarettes, which his guides seemed to have in greater quantity than the soldiers. After a few such days Memling’s constant fear eased to the point where he was able to keep his voice under control and his hands no longer shook in unguarded moments.

The sojourn began to take on the aspects of a summer holiday. The weather remained beautiful - clear and warm with mild evenings and short nights. By stages, although the route was never divulged, Memling concluded they were heading in the general direction of Wolgast on the River Peene. On the twelfth day his guide was a friendly and buxom German girl who introduced herself gigglingly as Francine. Her father, it appeared, had brought a French bride home from the Great War. She set a smart pace that rarely varied during the long morning. Memling guessed they were approaching the coast, as the air had lost its stifling summer heat and there were more people about.

Towards noon an army lorry carrying a squad of field-equipped troops went by, dipping precariously as the soldiers lined the side, whistling and shouting invitations to Francine. The girl waved and blew kisses until the lorry was safely past, then swore in German. ‘Reservists,’ she spat. ‘All rich enough to avoid the front service. I would not mind if they were regular troops, front-line or not.’

Memling was puzzled. The girl’s comment seemed inconsistent with her present occupation, but when he remarked on it, she only shrugged.

‘Our soldiers are fighting to destroy the communists. If they do not, the communists will destroy Germany. It is as simple as that.’ She turned to him, pert face screwed up with suspicion.

‘Are you one of those English communists?’ she demanded, and Memling laughed to conceal his sudden uneasiness. He realised from remarks made by previous guides that should the girl suspect he was, he might not live out the night.

‘Of course not. There are a few communists in England, but not many and certainly not in the employ of the government.’

Francine snorted. ‘So you think. They are there. Believe me. You should find and shoot them all. Every one of them.’

As they resumed their march his curiosity was aroused by this seeming contradiction, isn’t that a bit drastic?’ he asked. ‘After all, they are our allies.’

Francine spat again, and it began to dawn on Memling how deep was the hatred many Germans held for the communists.

‘Why? They would shoot you if they had the chance. You English, you are so naive. You have not lived so close to the Russian as we have, nor have you experienced his full treachery. They even feed upon themselves. All that shooting and killing during the past few years. And before, preying on our German citizens or those of German ancestry, like wolves, for centuries, denying us the right to eastern lands, lands needed to make Germany a great nation. Is it any wonder that Hitler and his like decided to make war on Russia? The Slav is inferior and he must give way to the German folk. But by fighting England and America as well, Hitler destroys the fatherland.’

Memling left it at that, sensing that to argue would only persuade her that he was at least a closet communist.

Late that afternoon they came in sight of a distant church steeple, and Francine led him off into a patch of woods. From her rucksack she extracted a loaf of brown bread and a large piece of cheese. Memling filled his water bottle from a nearby stream, and they ate, after which the girl scraped a mossy patch clear of twigs and stretched out, relaxing with a sigh. After a moment she opened her eyes and, seeing that Memling was watching her, smiled.

‘No one will come for us until after midnight.’ She patted the moss beside her.

Memling cleared his throat and glanced around at the trees, silent and filled with muted colour in the long summer dusk. ‘Where do we go then?’ His voice was hoarse and a bit unsteady.

Francise turned on to her back, stretching arms above her head so that her breasts rose and fell languorously beneath her thin cotton blouse. ‘To Peenemunde, by boat. You will be a foreign worker employed at the works. I am to be your wife. Everything has been arranged. We will stay with another married couple, friends of our movement.’

‘My wife?’ Memling repeated stupidly.

‘Of course. A married man is always suspected less. A foreign worker married to a German woman must be safe, the authorities will think. After all, to get married a foreign worker must be a party member, and so he must have been investigated fully. We will be given our documents tonight. The day after tomorrow you will report to work.’ Francine grinned and rose to her knees, unbuttoning her blouse at the same time. ‘You see, we are married. So I think there can be nothing wrong. And besides, if we are to carry out our role as a married couple, then I should not remain a virgin, should I? The Gestapo are quite thorough.’ Memling was having difficulty keeping up with this girl who had started out that morning as his guide and was now his wife. Sunlight filtering through the trees had taken on the radiance of early evening and coated her skin with gold. Francine had removed her blouse, and her large, well-shaped breasts swayed only inches from his hands as she wriggled out of her skirt. She smiled and took his hand, placing it flat against her stomach.

‘In Germany it is the duty of a married couple to have as many children as quickly as possible. You must make me pregnant or it will seem suspicious.’

‘Pregnant...?’

Francine tossed her skirt aside. ‘Oh, do stop repeating things. Yes, pregnant. It is no sin,’ she assured him. ‘The Nazis have become as godless as the communists. Our priest was taken away to the concentration camps two months ago.’

The girl’s voice was matter-of-fact as she talked, sitting back with her hands on her knees, unconscious of her striking beauty. Memling’s breath caught in his throat. Her figure was firm, well rounded, her large breasts were perfectly formed, and her flat stomach sloped to wide hips and sturdy thighs. Her skin was smooth, milky, and scattered with freckles. Curly blonde hair capped a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones. Sitting nude before him, she seemed as natural a part of the forest as the trees or the stream nearby, and Memling knew then why the Greeks had invented the nymph.

‘It only matters that the communists be stopped, not how. We work for an armistice with the English and Americans so the struggle can continue wholly against the godless communists. So, you see, this is a holy endeavour, as Father Dunn told us before they took him away.’

The girl leaned forward and began to unbutton his shirt. ‘You English. You must be as cold as they say. Perhaps the sun will warm you.’

The next few hours capped the holiday events of the past days with an idyll he would not have believed possible. Although a virgin, Francine later told him that she had spent much time discussing the techniques of lovemaking with her married friends, and despite a bit of clumsiness now and then, she threw herself enthusiastically into her work - as she made him understand she viewed it. And Memling had thought only the English capable of such self-deception. But he was grateful that she had no basis on which to judge his performance, out of practice as he was and worn down from days of hiking. Francine seemed pleased enough and asked him to stay behind while she went to the small stream to wash. After a while she called to Memling, and their cooling swim ended in a much more satisfactory bout of lovemaking. Dusk had deepened by the time they left the stream bank, found their clothes, and dressed. Francine was quiet, and whenever Memling glanced at her, she smiled with such vivacity that he knew she was quite happy at the way things had turned out.

The girl kissed him once, stretched out on the moss, and was asleep in moments. Memling sat nearby smoking and wondered what he had got himself into. There were a host of conflicting thoughts vying for attention, beginning with the fact that he was married and had just betrayed his wife. Second, there was the problem of what to do with Francine, tonight and tomorrow and the day after that. What if she did become pregnant? What the devil was going to happen to her?

They had walked openly through the streets of Wolgast to the riverside docks where the fishing boats waited for a pre-dawn start. Francine moved along proudly beside Memling, her arm linked with his and one soft breast pressing his side, and he realised that she viewed this all as a great adventure.

They had seen no policemen and very few soldiers, for so remote was this comer of Germany that - if one ignored its contributions of men, taxes, and levies of crops, as well as the presence of a good number of apparently ill-supervised foreign prisoner-workers - the war could have been taking place on another planet.

A single long-faded poster advised fishermen to be on the lookout for foreign submarines. The customs house, little more than a Victorian-style shed, was shuttered and closed. The quay stretching along the river was silent. Francine found the right nondescript Baltic trawler, and the captain of the boat and his crew - consisting of a beefy wife with the same reddened face and hands as her husband, and a son so shy that he could not even look at Francine - greeted and conducted them below to an evil-smelling hold. The captain apologised for the inconvenience but thought that as they were often stopped by coastal patrols, it would be better if they remained out of sight. A few minutes later Memling heard the engine rattle into life, and the boat moved slowly out into the river.

Francine clung to his hand, but apparently the smell of the place dampened her ardour and shortly she fell asleep against his shoulder.

The journey was over within an hour. The changed beat of the engine woke Memling just as he had begun to doze. He sat up, struggling with the familiar gagging sensation of fear, and disengaged Francine’s arm. He slid the pistol from his blanket roll as the hatch was thrown back and pale dawn flooded the interior. The captain beamed down on them.

‘We have arrived, sir.’

Memling scrambled to his feet, shushing Francine’s questions. ‘Arrived? Arrived where?’

‘Why at Wolgaster Fahre, sir. Just across the Peene from Wolgast. We would have come sooner, but I go down the river to make anyone watching think we are bound for the fishing grounds. You have only now to walk to Peenemunde town a few kilometres north.’ He handed down a heavy envelope. ‘Here are your papers, including orders to report to the research centre for assignment to duties there. You and your wife are to stay with a couple named Zinn, at number Seven Treptnow, in the town of Peenemunde.’ He spread his hands in apology as if it were his fault. ‘There are no accommodations for married couples at the foreign workers’ compound near Herringsdorf, sir.’

Memling and Francine walked along the dusty, little-used track that led to the fishing village of Peenemunde. The island was covered with thick pine forest, much as the mainland had been, and for a long while there was nothing but the silence of forest sounds about them. They had familiarised themselves thoroughly with their new identification documents, and when they had come to a spot out of view of the river, Memling turned inland until he found a place deep in the forest. There he burned and scattered the ashes of their old documents and hid the radio.

For the next half-hour they quizzed each other on their new identities. Memling’s new name was Walden Forst. Born twenty-eight years before in Herent, a small village near Louvain, he was an experienced quality control technician and had served in the Belgian army. His unit had surrendered at Namur in early May 1940. He had been released from a prison camp near Aachen a few months later, after having volunteered for labour service, and had been sent to work in a chemical factory near Bremen. A few weeks ago he had been selected for a highly technical position at Peenemunde and had accepted in return for a promise that his new wife could accompany him and a sizable increase in salary. He was now reporting for work after a two-week walking holiday-honeymoon.