V2

by Robert Harris

  The girl hesitated. Ilse gave her a firm push. ‘Go on, darling.’

  Slowly, reluctantly, looking past Graf to some point beyond his shoulder, Femke held out her hand. He took it – there was no grip in her thin cold fingers – and followed her out of the bar and into the empty hall. The moment they were out of sight of the drinkers, she snatched it away and stood with her back pressed to the wall. Quietly, in German, she said, ‘What is this? Are you Gestapo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re dressed like one.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  ‘Where’s your uniform?’

  ‘I don’t have a uniform. I’m an engineer.’

  ‘If you’re not Gestapo, what do you want?’ She sounded almost irritable, as if he were wasting her time.

  ‘You’re asking me that?’ He showed her the marks in the flesh at the base of his thumb. ‘What do you think I want? I want to talk to you.’

  She opened her mouth to reply. A door slammed above them. They both looked up. Heavy footsteps stamped across the landing. A man began to descend. A pair of jackboots appeared, then black trousers, and finally an SS officer, buttoning his tunic across a fat belly. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and inspected himself in the mirror, smoothing down his hair. He turned and saw them, nodded affably to Graf, then went past them into the bar. Femke waited until he had gone. She looked at Graf, then began to climb the stairs. When she was halfway up she leaned over the banister. ‘Well?’

  She waited until he was behind her, then continued on ahead of him, a slim, straight, almost sexless figure in her red dress, precariously balanced on her high black heels. Eighteenth-century portraits lined the stairs. The eyes of the prosperous burghers followed them with disapproval. On the landing was a table with a Roman bust. She went past that and up a smaller staircase to the second floor. She threw open a door and stood aside to let him enter. The room was candlelit, seductive. She switched on the overhead light, dispelling the effect, closed the door and leaned her back against it. She was shaking slightly. When she saw that he had noticed, she folded her skinny bare arms to hide it.

  ‘Well? What now? Do we fuck, or what?’

  She looked so young – so tiny and fierce – that he almost burst out laughing. ‘No, don’t worry. No offence – but I don’t want to.’

  He felt very tired suddenly, and quite drunk. He went over and sat on the edge of the bed. From the room next door came the sound of bedsprings creaking, and the rhythmic knock of a headboard striking the wall. A woman cried out. He swung his legs onto the mattress and lay full length. It was much softer than his bed in Scheveningen. The room seemed to spin. He closed his eyes once more. He could hear the girl moving around. When he opened them again, she was standing over him, pointing a kitchen knife at his throat.

  ‘If you’re going to report me, I might as well kill you – at least I’ll take a fucking Boche with me.’

  ‘If I was going to report you, I would have done it by now. Put it away.’ He closed his eyes again. He felt as he had on the evening before the Peenemünde air raid – disconnected from the world, as if he were drifting over deep cold water. Presently he heard her moving away from the bed, the sound of a drawer opening and closing. ‘How old are you?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘What were you doing in the woods this morning?’

  ‘I heard the explosion in the night. I wanted to look when it was light.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was curious. The soldiers had gone.’

  He opened his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow. She had her back pressed against the dressing table, watching him. ‘Femke, right? Is that a Dutch name?’ She didn’t reply. ‘You must have been very curious, to risk getting shot. You’re not that stupid. I’m not sure I believe you.’

  She pouted at the floor.

  Wearily he rolled over and planted his feet on the carpet. He looked around the room. It was like a time capsule from another world. A little armchair, upholstered in pink. Pink curtains. The wallpaper was patterned with pink-beribboned poodles – prancing, playing, standing on their hind legs. He went over to the wardrobe and opened it, ran his hands over the dresses. There was a small riding jacket. Lined up neatly on the wardrobe floor were girls’ shoes, riding boots, a pair of ballet pumps. He closed the wardrobe and went over to the chest of drawers, started opening that – blouses, socks, underwear. He left the drawers hanging open, got down on his knees and looked under the bed. Nothing. He stood.

  He gestured to the dressing table. ‘Move out of the way, please.’

  She hesitated. He put his hands on her thin shoulders and gently pushed her to one side. She watched him as he opened the drawer. Beside the knife, and a packet of Wehrmacht-issue condoms (‘Vulkan Sanex’), laid out neatly on a sheet of newspaper, were half a dozen small pieces of the V2 rocket motor, none bigger than his fist, all blackened by fire. He recognised part of the turbine exhaust pump, a cooling nozzle from the combustion chamber, a stop valve from the alcohol tank, various other bits and pieces.

  ‘What on earth did you think you were going to do with those?’

  ‘I was interested.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Tell me the truth!’

  She shrugged. ‘I thought maybe someone would pay me for them.’

  ‘Who? The English? They can pick that stuff up off the streets of London any day of the week.’

  ‘Who said anything about the English?’

  ‘You’re in the resistance, right?’

  She looked away without answering.

  ‘They get you to listen to the rocket officers when they’re drinking? Pillow talk? Pass on what you hear?’

  The faint thumping of the bedhead through the wall increased in tempo. This time the woman shrieked. The thumping stopped abruptly. Dear God, he thought, what has become of us?

  He started stuffing the rocket fragments into his pockets. ‘I’m taking these away. If you get caught with them, you’ll be shot, no question.’

  ‘Why should you care?’

  He closed the drawer. His hands were blackened with soot, his pockets bulging. ‘What is it you want to know?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I can tell you something that’s actually useful, if you like. The missile is unreliable – at the moment we have a failure rate of about one in ten. But the real problem is the shortage of liquid oxygen. Our main production plant in France has been overrun. There are seven plants in Germany, producing two hundred tons a day, which is only enough for twenty-five operational launches. Tell your friends to warn the British that if they want to stop the rockets, not to bother trying to bomb the launch sites, but to concentrate on the liquid oxygen factories and the railways.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Are you crazy, or what?’ He made a move towards the door, but she blocked him. ‘If you go down too soon, they’ll be suspicious.’

  ‘All right.’

  He lay back on the bed. She sat in the armchair. For a couple of minutes neither spoke. To his surprise, it was she who broke the silence.

  ‘We all thought Germany had lost the war. The rockets left, and then they came back. What does it mean? Are you winning again?’

  ‘No, we’re losing.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Next year, maybe. How long have you been in Wassenaar?’

  ‘Three months.’

  ‘Where were you before?’

  ‘In a camp – for stealing.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘Groningen.’

  ‘That’s in the north?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Is there any way you could make a run for it? I could borrow a car. You could hide in the back.’ He knew it was ridiculous even as he said it.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s too far.’ There was a sound of
movement from the neighbouring room. A door opened, slammed shut. They listened to a man’s footsteps receding down the passage. ‘I should go to her and see if she’s all right. You can leave now.’

  At the door, he pulled out his wallet and counted out two hundred marks.

  She shook her head. ‘Pay Ilse.’

  ‘No, this is for you.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’ She opened the door.

  He stood, uncertain. ‘Well, then. Good luck.’

  He put the money back in his wallet and went downstairs.

  12

  THE THING TO BE SAID for Kay’s alarm clock, which she had been given by her mother on the day she was called up to the WAAF, was that it had never failed to wake her, however deeply she was asleep. It had a piercing percussive ring, as if a drill had been inserted into her ear. She flung her hand across the unfamiliar surfaces, fumbling to turn it off. In the blessed silence that followed, she brought the luminous dial up close to her face. Six thirty.

  She flopped back on her thin pillows. The room was utterly dark. It took her a moment to remember she wasn’t in England about to start her shift, but in Belgium – and at war! She eased her way out from under the blanket and felt around the wall for the light switch. The sudden brightness made her wince. She slipped her greatcoat over her nightdress and picked up her sponge bag. Cautiously she opened the door and listened. The house was silent. She scampered on tiptoe across the icy corridor to the bathroom.

  She was too anxious to avoid being late to linger over her usual morning rituals. Besides, it was too chilly. She splashed her face in the freezing water, and cleaned her teeth, and dragged her brush so savagely through her tangled hair it felt as though her scalp was bleeding. Back in her room, her clothes were stiff, as if they had been starched by the cold, her fingers were numb and clumsy as she tried to fasten her buttons and knot her tie. Finally, when she was fully dressed, she remade the bed and studied the map beneath the lampshade. A route that had looked complicated when the Vermeulens had sketched it out the previous night appeared now quite indecipherable. How would she find her way through the blacked-out streets when she didn’t even have a torch?

  She made her way along the corridor, hands outstretched like a sleepwalker. On the landing, to her relief, there was a faint gleam rising from below that enabled her to descend the stairs, and when she reached the hall, she saw a crack of light from the kitchen.

  Arnaud was at the stove. A kettle was heating. He was dressed in the same outdoor clothes as the night before. He straightened as she came in and turned, smiling. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Voudriez-vous du thé que vous nous avez donné?’

  Somehow she managed to dredge up sufficient French to reply. ‘Thank you, but I’m afraid I have no time for tea. Could you point me in the right direction for this street I have to reach?’

  ‘I can do better than that – I can take you there myself.’

  She hesitated. At Medmenham they had been taught to be wary of showing people where they worked. But it was hard to see the harm in it, and she doubted she would be able to find the way on her own. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I insist. There’s a curfew, but no one will stop us, not with your uniform. Really, you have plenty of time for tea.’

  ‘Even so, I would prefer to leave now, if you don’t mind.’

  He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ He lifted the kettle off the stove and unlocked the back door.

  A brick path, slippery with frost, ran down the side of the house. There was some moonlight, and a few stars – sufficient to show the outline of the garden wall and her breath flickering in the cold. He limped ahead and opened the gate. Beyond it, the cobbled street gleamed faintly. He closed the gate behind them and gestured to the left. ‘We go this way.’

  Mechelen was silent, medieval in the darkness, foreign to her in a way it was hard to define – some slight smell in the air that was different to England, an unfamiliarity in the twisting streets and in the shapes of the tall terraced buildings. She tried to memorise the route so that she could find her way alone in future. Left, right, left, they zigzagged their way through the sleeping town.

  She said, ‘Are you normally up this early?’ She wasn’t interested in the answer; it felt rude to say nothing.

  ‘Yes, quite often.’

  ‘Do you work?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Oh, various places. Sometimes in the furniture factory. Sometimes in the brewery, when they have the malt and the hops. Sometimes unloading barges. They are short of labour. Most men of my age were forced to go to Germany to work. My leg got me out of it.’ He glanced at her. ‘Ma bénédiction est ma malédiction.’ He put it in English for her, as if he was proud of the poetry of the phrase. ‘My blessing is my curse.’

  ‘Were you injured, do you mind my asking?’

  ‘Not at all. I had polio when I was a baby. “Crippled from birth”, as they say.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s bad luck.’ Once again she had the feeling she had been tactless. Even so, she added, ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother.’

  ‘Why be sorry? There really is no need to apologise for things that are not your fault.’

  They entered a wide street with shops on either side. A man was taking down the shutters on a bakery. There was a yeasty smell of fresh bread. Arnaud patted his stomach. ‘That makes me hungry.’

  ‘You are often hungry?’

  ‘Always!’

  At the end of the street was a large building with pillars and an arched glass roof that reminded Kay of a grand Victorian railway station. He said, ‘It is quicker to cut through here.’

  The vast empty space was dimly lit by the moon through the glass roof. A sudden clatter of pigeons echoing from the iron rafters made her heart jump. She was glad she was not alone. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘The food market – when there is food, that is.’

  Once they were out the other side, he said casually, ‘I saw the radar vans beside the canal last week.’

  ‘Really?’ She was on her guard at once.

  ‘Is that what your work is – radar?’

  ‘I told you last night: I can’t discuss it.’

  ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know it was so secret. Now you see I am the one who must apologise.’

  He sounded offended, and lengthened his stride, swinging his damaged leg angrily, his powerful shoulders rocking from side to side. She was careful to stay just behind him to avoid further conversation, and when they came to the bridge over the river, and the twin spires appeared faintly ahead, she said, ‘I’m fine now, thank you, Arnaud. I know the way from here.’

  He halted at the edge of the water. ‘Are you sure? You go down to the Brusselpoort, and then turn right. The Boches’ place is on this side of the road.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘What time will you leave? If you want, I can meet you and bring you back again.’

  ‘No need. I can find my own way now, I think.’

  ‘Good, then.’ He stuck out his hand. She took it. Once again he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  ‘Au revoir,’ she said, ‘et merci.’

  She walked on. After half a minute she glanced over her shoulder. In the slowly dissipating darkness he was still watching her from the bridge. She raised her hand. He waved back, then turned and disappeared into the town. She quickened her pace, circling the old city gate and heading down the broad road. An army lorry went past, soldiers leaning out of the back. One of them wolf-whistled. She put her head down.

  It was a five-minute walk to the bank, but when she reached it, she found the door was locked. She crossed the road to the headquarters, where the lights were on, and knocked. When nobody appeared, she went inside. There was an enticing smell of frying bacon. Upstairs in the mess, a couple of
lieutenants from the Survey Regiment were helping themselves to tea from an urn. A pile of bacon sandwiches stood on a hotplate beside it.

  ‘Tea?’ One of the lieutenants insisted on pouring her a cup.

  The other handed her a sandwich. ‘Are you one of the calculators?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Sandy Lomax.’

  ‘Bill Duffield.’

  ‘Kay Caton-Walsh.’

  They balanced their plates on their cups and shook hands awkwardly.

  Bill, who had a Yorkshire accent, said, ‘Why don’t you come and join us?’

  They took the table furthest from the door. Transport must have arrived. At any rate, the room had started to fill with yawning, bleary-eyed officers. Wing Commander Knowsley stuck his head around the door, apparently looking for someone, and then withdrew it.

  Kay said, ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘Wednesday. Sorry.’ Sandy put his hand to his mouth and finished chewing. ‘Wednesday. You?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  She held her sandwich in both hands, savouring the moment, then took a bite. It seemed to her the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. There were no napkins. She wiped the grease from her chin as discreetly as she could with the back of her hand.

  Bill was watching her. ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Starving.’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch the local food.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Apparently they fertilise the crops with human waste – sorry to be crude about it. A couple of the men have already gone down with something nasty. They’re practically living in the latrines. Stick to stuff from cans. And don’t drink from the taps – bottled water only. In some of the towns the Germans poisoned the water.’

  ‘Right.’ She finished her sandwich and eyed the hotplate, wondering whether it would be greedy to go back for another, but the conversation had rather put her off.