Weaver (29 page)

‘Where’s that?’

‘Kent. And they want him out of there.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I don’t know, and I don’t need to know. But it was important enough for MI-14 to contact us, through me - I already knew Mary, she mentioned my name - and she suggested I should get hold of you, and ask for your help.’

‘Whoa, whoa.’ He held up his hands. ‘And this “us of yours, I suppose—’

‘I can see you’ve guessed.’

‘The auxiliaries.’

‘We call ourselves the resistance.’

‘Well, I bloody don’t. I have to deal with the consequences of your cowboys-and-Indians indulgences.’

‘You’re talking about the reprisals.’

‘Yes, I’m talking about the reprisals,’ he said grimly. ‘When the leaves fell last winter and they cleared out most of you lot with your “scally wagging, I cheered, I can tell you. And you’re all a pack of lefties anyhow as far as I can see.’

She wasn’t perturbed by this. ‘It’s true a lot of the leaders fought for the Republicans in Spain. In fact, Ben Kamen did, you know. But it’s the methods they brought back from over there that count now, Sergeant, not the politics.’

He glanced around, making sure they were still alone. ‘I know the bloody Germans have got to be fought,’ he hissed. ‘I lost a daughter to this war. It’s a question of how to fight them. I’m a Sussex copper, Miss Keeler. I keep the peace, that’s my job. What makes you think I’d be any use running around in Kent? Is it just that I know Mary Wooler?’

‘Well, partly that. And the fact that you’re sleeping with an SS-UNTERSCHARFUHRER.’

He felt his blood rise. ‘You know about that, do you?’

‘You’re not exactly discreet. And nor is she. She boasts about it!’

‘So what does Julia have to do with it?’

‘It’s just that she is a close colleague of SS-Standartenfuhrer Josef Trojan. And
he
is involved in experiments at Richborough. Experiments for which he needs Kamen, for some reason.’

‘What kind of experiments?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said simply.

‘And you want me to deceive Julia, somehow, so you can get close to Trojan, and Kamen. Is that it?’

‘Pretty much. Why, does that give you a moral problem?’ She laughed. ‘I mean, you’re sleeping with an SS officer!’

‘What is this - blackmail?’

‘No, no. I’m just trying to understand.’

‘I don’t pretend to understand it myself,’ he admitted. ‘Call it lust if you want. Must say I thought I was past all that.’

‘Maybe it’s the uniform,’ she said archly. ‘And what does
she
want? I mean, she could have her pick of iron-muscled young SS officers, couldn’t she? No offence, but—’

‘I think she’s lost something too,’ he said. ‘She’s lost her soul, mucking about with all those bloody Germans. Her English soul. So here she is with me. I mean, you can’t get much more English than a copper, can you?’

‘You’re a decent man, Sergeant,’ said Doris. ‘If I can see that, she must.’

‘Best not to talk such rubbish.’

‘All right. But the question is, will you help us?’

‘I don’t know. You clowns in the auxiliaries—’

‘Look, if you won’t do this for Mary - and you certainly won’t do it for me - won’t you think about it for the sake of Hilda’s memory?’

George felt his fists bunch. ‘Don’t you bloody talk about Hilda!’

In the end, it was well after eleven by the time Ernst turned up at the Royal Victoria Hotel, a little way out of the centre of town at St Leonards. And she was later still.

He had booked a table in the restaurant, and he sat, self-conscious as he waited. An unctuous waiter came to take his order, speaking in smooth German; Ernst asked for a bottle of French wine, for he thought it would please Claudine. The waiter brought him a list, the names in German and the prices in Reichsmarks and sterling, and Ernst picked a bottle, more or less at random.

There were plenty of uniforms here, mostly higher rank than his, and a few civilians, business types perhaps, come to investigate the investment opportunities the Reich insisted were to be found here in the protectorate, all blandly ignoring the curfew rules that confined lesser folk. One civilian sat alone at the table next to him, drinking brandy, reading a German-language edition of the Albion Times. Everybody spoke German, including the staff, although Ernst detected the stiff strain of an English accent a few times, expensive British types mingling easily with their conquerors.

And then she came in, swaying through the polished wood of the hotel bar as if she owned the place, defying the curfew herself. She wore a slim-fitting dress and what looked like silk stockings, bright red stilettos, a powder-blue jacket, and a small hat like a trilby set at a teasing angle. Her lips, red like her shoes, were the brightest thing in the room. She drew glances, covert and otherwise, from every man in the room. But she made straight for Ernst.

He stood as she approached. ‘I can’t believe you’re here - I mean—’

‘I know.’ She leaned over the table, letting him kiss her cheeks.

He smelled perfume and face powder, a scent that wasn’t like the schoolteacher he had known in Boulogne at all, but under it there was something, a deeper animal scent that he had never forgotten. She sat easily, crossing her legs. She snapped her fingers, and a waiter brought her a glass and filled it.

He said, ‘It’s so strange seeing you here - it’s so different.’

‘Well, nothing’s the same, is it? Even if you stand still, it all changes around you. That’s the war, I suppose. Look, have you got a light?’ She produced a slim case of cigarettes.

He fumbled for a match. Oddly he was reminded of the incident in the car, when Heinz had offered Alfie a cigarette. He had lodged the children with an aunt in Hastings for the night; he would take them home tomorrow. It was hard to think of that strange other family of his now; it was another category of reality, he thought, separated from the universe that contained the woman before him. ‘I’ve never seen you dressed so well—’

‘Though you’d rather see me undressed.’

The forwardness of that took him aback. ‘A schoolteacher’s pay must be good under the Reich.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know,’ she said.

‘You gave up your teaching? What are you doing now?’

‘Oh, you know, this and that. A bit of translating; there’s plenty of opportunity. It’s just all so different now, Ernst. I mean, to be a teacher in the middle of all this - how is one meant to explain the war to a child?’

‘You used to say teaching was the highest calling.’

‘Well, we all say things that don’t stay said, don’t we?’ There was a slight edge to her voice. ‘Are you staying here, in the hotel?’

‘Oh, no. This is much too grand for me. I’ve lodgings for the night, a “bed-and-breakfast.’ He used the English phrase. ‘And you?’

‘I’m in a sort of hostel. Look, if we want to go somewhere the hostel will probably be best. The people are discreet - you know.’

Again that seemed oddly forward. He glanced around the bar, hoping that nobody was overhearing. The man with the newspaper sipped his drink, his face concealed.

She reached out to take his hand. ‘Oh, let’s not be shy. Look, I’ve been longing to see you. I got all your letters. I kept them.’

‘You did?’

‘What an extraordinary time you’ve had. You should turn it into a book one day.’

‘Well, it’s not over yet. Besides - I meant those letters just for you.’

‘I know. I imagined you thinking of me, even under such circumstances. I was touched.’ She was looking into his eyes; she was as lovely as ever.

Yet there was something insincere about her. He saw it, in that moment. He pulled back.

‘Why, Ernst, what’s the matter?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter.’ The dapper civilian at the next table folded up his newspaper. ‘He’s smelled my aftershave on you, that’s what.’ It was Heinz Kieser.

‘Heinz, you bastard, what are you doing here?’

‘Spying on you. What do you think? I wanted to see if the lovely Claudine really existed. There are no secrets in the barracks, you know! And now here she is, and well, well.’

‘Look, just leave us alone, will you?’

‘And guess what,’ Heinz went on, ‘it turns out I already knew her after all. Except she didn’t tell me her name was Claudine, did you, darling?’

‘Go to hell,’ she said.

Ernst said, ‘I don’t understand. What are you talking about, Heinz?’

‘She’s en carte.’ He used the French phrase. ‘Why don’t you show him,
Marie?
Show him your card. Come on!’

Claudine dragged hard on her cigarette, glaring at him.

Heinz grinned and stood up. ‘My work here is done, I think. Look, don’t take it bad, son. We’ve all been there.’ He patted Ernst’s shoulder, but Ernst brushed him away.

When he had gone, Claudine stared at the tip of her cigarette. ‘Well. This is awkward.’

‘You don’t have to explain. You don’t owe me anything.’

She looked up at him, and anger flared in her pretty, blank eyes. ‘Maybe you owe me something, though. Shut up and pour me more wine.’

He obeyed.

‘It happened after you left for the barges.’

‘What did?’

‘I was denounced for my relationship with you. Hard-faced bitch at the school, it was. Probably jealous. Or frigid.’ She laughed. ‘I got my apartment walls daubed with paint, slogans.’

He nodded. ‘Such people use the word “Jerrybags, in England.’

‘Do they? Well, I hated them, hated those who would speak out against others that way. What did they know of my heart? So I rebelled further. I took another lover.’ She looked at his face. ‘I’m sorry. Not a lover. I didn’t love
him ...
I just did it to get back at those who insulted me, really. A childish rebellion, yes? Still, he was there, and our time together was - acceptable. He gave me gifts, as you did. And after the denunciation I could no longer work at the school.’

‘Oh. So he paid you.’

‘It didn’t mean anything. But then he was posted east, and off he went, bleating about his wife and two boys. I never heard from him again.’

‘But you needed the money.’

‘Another man came. A friend of the first. He said he had heard Hansie talk of me, and, well ... That was how it started. All word of mouth, and all gentlemen, if I may say so. I think they cared for me, each in his way.’

‘And then?’

‘And then the resistance came. Bastards,’ she said with sudden vehemence. ‘What brave men they are, to target a woman alone. Much easier than fighting the Germans.’

‘You were attacked?’

‘They would have cut my face, if I hadn’t got away. Well, the police came to me, and when they found out, you know, they passed me to the military authorities. After that it was all very smooth.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re in the Wehrmacht. You know how it works. The army runs the houses. The girls are given their cards. I was checked for infection, and interviewed.’ She laughed at that. ‘Interviewed! They prefer respectable girls to whore for their soldiers. Well, I passed the test.’

‘And you came to England?’

‘The authorities are importing French whores for the men here. Think of that! The English are so cold they can’t even prostitute themselves properly. Churchill should make a speech about it. And at least the resistance here are leaving the foreign girls alone.’

‘So you came for the Wehrmacht,’ he said. ‘For work. Not for me.’

‘No! Oh, Ernst, no. You are so straight in your thinking. It’s either one thing or the other with you, isn’t it? Nothing in between. Look, I wanted to see you. I still do.’ She leaned forward. ‘Why don’t we get out of this place? We could go to the hostel.

He stood in a kind of panic, shoving back his chair. He tried to calm himself. He took his wallet, drew out some Reichsmarks, and put them on the table, under the wine bottle. ‘Will you be able to get back by yourself?’

She looked confused. ‘Yes - there are taxis - oh, Ernst, don’t go.’

He looked down at her, so beautiful, her bright red lips still shining bright. ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned on his heel and walked away.

The prisoners were woken by bugle blasts.

They gathered for the morning appell. The Nazi flag and the flag of Albion snapped high on their poles, lifted by a chill breeze under a bright blue sky. Bundled in their shabby greatcoats, the men stamped their feet and blew on their hands.

The camp commander announced briskly that the regular Sunday work details would be suspended. Muffled cheers. Once again it was some kind of memorial day. But then Danny Adams announced the British troops would hold a parade and a minute’s silence at eleven a.m.

‘Oh, it’s not just any old memorial, old chap,’ said Willis Farjeon, standing beside Gary in the rank. ‘This is Armistice Day, when we all down tools to remember our fathers who fell in the War to End Wars. Nice clean military memorial, the kind the Nazis embrace to their bony little hearts—’

‘Put a sock in it, Farjeon,’ murmured the SBO in his broad scouse. ‘And besides, I suspect you and the other superior-breed types might not be spending the day with us after all.’ He nodded over to where the commander and his senior aides had been joined by a couple of SS officers, who were, in the usual German fashion, consulting lists.

The men whistled at the SS officers, and called out obscenities in a variety of languages, and those nearby nudged Gary and Willis. The stalag standing joke was that all SS men were in fact raging faggots, and that the racial selection processes had actually been about looking for pretty boys. ‘Don’t worry, Wooler, I hear Himmler’s pecker is even smaller than Hitler’s. You won’t feel a thing.’

Willis camped it up in response. Gary just stood there.

But it turned out it wasn’t all the stalag Aryans who were asked for today. The SS party came over to the British group and spoke briefly to the SBO. He turned and beckoned to Gary. ‘Just you, Wooler.’