Weaver (33 page)

They all froze. Fred caught Ernst’s eye, and Ernst knew what he was thinking.

Viv came running down the stairs. She seemed excited, not alarmed. ‘Was that a knock? Who is it?’

‘Shut up.’ Fred walked heavily to the door, and opened it.

The voice was a woman’s, her English heavily accented. ‘I am looking for Ernst Trojan. I - he used to lodge here—’

Ernst ran to the door, pushing past Fred.
‘Claudine?’

She was dressed in a slim-fitting coat, stockings and black hat: a smart outfit but mud-splashed and torn. She looked exhausted. And an immense bruise marred one side of her face. ‘My God, Claudine, what happened to you? Come in, come in out of the cold—’ He took her arm and led her into the kitchen. In the light the bruise on her face looked even worse, and he could see how her stockings were snagged.

The Millers stood around staring.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ernst said in English. ‘Fred, Irma, this is a friend. Her name is Claudine Rimmer, she is from France.’

‘I didn’t have anywhere else to go,’ Claudine said in German. ‘I couldn’t think—’

Fred snapped, ‘This is my house, and you’ll speak English.’

‘Yes,’ said Ernst hastily. ‘I am sorry. Of course.’

Irma got over her shock. ‘Oh, never mind him. Come in. Let’s get that coat off you. My, it’s pretty.’

Claudine forced a smile. ‘It is torn,’ she said in English.

‘Nothing that a bit of make do and mend won’t see to.’ Irma handed the coat and Claudine’s hat to Viv. ‘Here, love, hang these up.’

Viv took the clothes with a scowl and flounced out.

‘Now you come and sit down. Fred, you put that roast back in the oven.’

Alfie stared at the meat. ‘Aren’t we going to eat?’

‘There’ll be time for that later. Fred, put a bit of paper on the meat so it doesn’t dry out.’ Irma bustled off to put the kettle on the range.

Ernst sat with Claudine. He had not seen her since that October day at Hastings, when he had fled from her. Seeing her now, in this condition, he felt ashamed. And it was very, very strange to have her sitting here now, the girl he had fallen in love with in sunny Boulogne, a year and a world away. But that was the war for you, the endless, overpowering, abhuman war, mixing everything up.

He said, ‘So you ran away. Yes?’

‘Me? Run? In these shoes?’ That was the old Claudine.

He smiled at her. ‘Do you want a cigarette?’

‘Please.’

Irma came over now and inspected Claudine’s face, pushing back her hair. Claudine flinched. ‘That’s a nice shiner you’ve got, love.’

‘I walked into a lamp-post. The blackout. You know.’

Fred just glared, disbelieving. But Irma said, ‘Well, we’ve all done that. I could send Fred or Alfie for the doctor—’

‘No,’ said Claudine quickly. ‘It is just a bruise.’

‘Well, I’ll get you some iodine, and a sponge to clean you up a bit. You just sit there, darling. Fred, you make some tea. Get some fresh leaves from the caddy; that last lot are as old as last Christmas.’

Fred was still putting the roast in the oven. He said, ‘Bloody hell.’ But he complied, fetching down a fresh mug from the shelf

Viv came back in. She sat beside Ernst, as close as she could get, and she glared at Claudine. ‘So what’s your name again?’

‘Rimmer. Claudine Rimmer.’

‘Claudine.
How do you know Ernst? What do you do for a living,
Claudine?’

‘I work as a translator for the occupation authority.’

‘Oh, yes? I’ll bet I know what you
really
do.’

‘Viv!’ Irma came back with a bottle of iodine solution and a rag; she poured hot water from the kettle into a bowl. ‘You don’t speak to people like that.’

‘Come on, Mum, look at her! She’s French!’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘And
she’s drenched in perfume.’

‘Enough. Your room, Vivien. Now.’

Viv stood up. ‘I’ll be glad, I can’t stand the
stink
in here.’ She marched out, lips pulled into a pout. She had come and gone in a minute; it was as if a storm had passed through the room.

Fred set a mug of tea before Claudine. She closed her hands around the mug, as if grateful for the warmth, but did not drink.

Irma started working at the bruise with the iodine and water. ‘You mustn’t mind Viv. It’s just that she’s, well, she’s fifteen.’

‘I was fifteen once,’ Claudine said. She drew on her cigarette and eyed Ernst. ‘But she likes you, I think. She is jealous, perhaps. Of course she was right about me.’ That stunned them all to silence, Ernst embarrassed, Fred and Irma shocked, Alfie wide-eyed. ‘It is best to be truthful, is it not? Not to hide behind lies.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Fred. ‘Bloody, bloody hell. What’s it coming to, eh? That’s what I want to know.’

Irma, resolute, kept on with her first aid. ‘Don’t mind him. We don’t all get pleasant choices, do we, in this war?’

‘That is true.’ Claudine flinched as Irma dabbed on the iodine.

’‘And whatever you’ve, you know, you didn’t deserve this done to you, did you?’

‘Who was it?’ Ernst asked.

‘English,’ she said. ‘A Landwacht. In the closed houses we are expected to entertain them too. When I would not do what he asked - well. He grew frustrated.’

‘So why did you leave?’ Ernst said. The military brothels were supervised, and the girls given medical attention. ‘You could have reported this.’

‘But he would have reported what I did to
him.
I did fight back, Ernst.’

‘Good for you.’

‘My punishment would have been harsh. I have not always obeyed rules before. So I fled.’

‘Can we eat now?’ Alfie asked pitiably.

‘In a minute,’ his mother said. ‘Maybe Miss Rimmer would like to join us? There’s enough meat for another plate.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said Fred, and he loomed over the table. ‘Wait just a bloody minute. I hope you’re not thinking of letting this frog
stay.’

‘Fred,’ Irma snapped.

Ernst said quickly, ‘She has nowhere else to go, Fred.’

‘We ought to hand her over to the bloody Gestapo, that’s what we should do, or we’ll all be for it!’

‘Let it just be for the night, then. I will sort something out.’

‘Oh, you’ll sort her out, but you won’t get my little boy off the OWS levy, will you?’

‘That’s different.’

‘I bet it bloody is. Shall I cut him a hole so you can fuck him, will that make you help him?’

Ernst stood, furious. ‘That is
enough.’

Irma pushed herself between them. ‘For God’s sake, Fred! Please, Obergefreiter—’

Viv came running down the stairs. ‘Ernst - Dad - there’s somebody coming. I saw them from upstairs. Cars and torches and dogs. There’s shouting. They’re coming here, Dad!’

Fred paced around, limping heavily on his damaged leg, punching one fist into another. ‘Oh Christ Jesus. One from every house, that’s what they take. Oh Christ bloody Jesus, not here, let them not come here.’

Viv peered out of a chink in the blackout curtain. ‘They’re walking down the drive. One fat man just slipped in the slush.’ She actually laughed.

‘You stupid little baggage!’ Fred would have lunged at her.

Ernst caught his arm. ‘Fred! We must get the children away, out of sight. And the women.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Irma said. But she was shaking, her face empty.

And anyhow there was no time even for that. There was a hammering on the door, a shout, in German, ‘Open up! Out, out!’

Viv screamed and ran upstairs. Irma grabbed her baby from her cot, and went to Alfie, who was still clutching his OWS papers, as if they were a shield. Fred just stood there motionless, hands bunched into fists.

Ernst made to go to the door.

Claudine got up and grabbed his arm. ‘No,’ she said in German. ‘Let me go.’

‘You? But—’

‘Maybe I can confuse them. I will start shouting in German, and demand to see the oberleutnant in charge of the closed house, or something.’ She managed a small smile. ‘You know how you Germans are. Bureaucratic to a fault. If they’re confused they might forget why they came here.’

‘But—’

There was another slam on the door, like the heel of a boot, and dogs barked.

She flashed him a smile. ‘I do this for you,’ she said. She made for the door.

Ernst glimpsed an officer and an enlisted man, both in SS black, with a dog on a rope leash. When it smelled the roast pork the dog went crazy. Claudine spoke softly to the SS men in what sounded like English, not German, and showed them a bit of paper that to Ernst looked oddly like a British identity card. The officer inspected the paper. ‘Good. Come.’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her away, so roughly she stumbled.

Fred stood, unmoving. ‘Is it over?’

Irma was patting at her apron. ‘My identity card is gone. She must have— I thought what she showed them looked a bit familiar. How did she do that?’

In an instant Ernst saw what Claudine had done, that she had taken Irma’s place. ‘Claudine!’ He lunged forward.

But Fred stood in his way and grabbed his arms. ‘Let her go,’ he said. ‘She did it to spare us. For God’s sake—’

Through the open door Ernst saw they were dragging her to a truck, in which a dozen people already stood passively, their heads bowed. He struggled. ‘Get your hands
off
me!’

‘Please. I’m begging you.’ The man was crying, Ernst saw. Fred wrapped his big farmer’s arms around him, as if he was hugging him rather than restraining him. ‘Let her go! Oh, God, let her go.’

It was an hour before Fred would let Ernst out of the house.

They all sat in the kitchen, as if stunned. Irma cut Alfie some of the pork. None of the others could eat.

When the hour was up Ernst pulled on his greatcoat and boots and ran out of the door. It had stopped snowing. The sky was full of cloud, but the air was cold, clear.

Ernst went to find Alfie’s bike, the one the boy rode every day to school, the only transport available. The bike was a bit small for him, but Alfie’s legs were long, and Ernst was able to make it work. There was a little dynamo that powered flickering lamps front and back.

The bike was hard work, the slush and the mud dragging at the wheels. It was pitch dark aside from the light of his lamps, but he was able to follow the tracks of the truck easily enough. As he passed more farmhouses he saw where the footprints of the men and dogs diverged from the main track.

As he rode on he began to hear the shooting, rough volleys clattering through the still air.

The killing site was at a place called Netherfield, little more than a road junction a couple of miles north of Battle. The only light came from the trucks’ headlights; the vehicles’ engines were running, rumbling. He saw people being lined up, ten or a dozen at a time. There seemed to be more SS men than captives. The men stood around, helmets of smoke around their heads in the cold air. One man bent to pat his dog. He heard laughter.

A man, an SS-schutze waving a torch, stopped him a hundred yards from the site. ‘Halt, Herr Obergefreiter. You have your card?’

Ernst got off the bike, and fumbled in his jacket pocket for his papers.

The schutze inspected them by torchlight. ‘What are you doing here, Herr Obergefreiter?’

‘There is somebody here I know,’ Ernst said. ‘Not British - French. A mistake.’

Another volley of gunfire.

‘I wouldn’t go down there if I were you,’ the schutze said. ‘It is nearly done, the work. If your friend was ever there, well... The einsatzgruppen are not fond of being interrupted.’

Ernst took a step forward. ‘But—’

The schutze put a gloved hand on his chest. ‘Please.’

Another group was lined up. They stood at the edge of a pit. Ernst wondered how it had been dug out, for the ground was frozen. Perhaps it had been prepared in advance; the SS were nothing if not efficient. Ernst saw the silhouettes of the men with their pistols, standing behind their targets. When the order came to fire there was a spray of blood and brains, you could clearly see it, vivid crimson by the glow of the trucks’ lamps. Some of the victims fell cleanly, others quivered and trembled before they dropped, and some screamed, not yet dead. Men stepped forward and pistols cracked, as the work of clean-up was finished.

The schutze watched this impassively. ‘Would you like a cigarette, Herr Obergefreiter?’

‘No.’

‘Um. Then, do you have one to spare?’

Ernst dug a packet out of his greatcoat pocket.

The man took a cigarette gratefully. He lit it within cupped fingers, and the glow illuminated his face. He was very young, Ernst saw. ‘It is not as easy as you might think,’ the schutze said slowly, ‘to kill a man.’

‘It is a mistake,’ Ernst said. ‘She should not be there.’

The schutze nodded. ‘Such things happen. I once read of a pope who, when receiving complaints about the unfairness of the Inquisition, said that he would leave it to Saint Peter to sort out saints from sinners. Do you believe in God?’

‘Do you?’

‘Not any more, Herr Obergefreiter.’

The men dispersed from the edge of the pit, and the trucks’ engines roared.

The Sea Lion monument was already astonishing, Mary thought as she was driven up with George. Even incomplete, it was a henge of concrete and scaffolding that utterly dominated the Richborough site. All around its base the ground was churned into ruts, and rainwater stood everywhere, glimmering, scummy.

‘All this must be playing merry hell with the archaeology,’ she said.

George sat beside her in the car, the buttons on his uniform polished to a gleam. He twisted his head to see the arch. ‘Look at that bloody thing. These Germans really are crackers.’