‘We will go somewhere more comfortable,’ Knackfuss said. He picked up a folder from his desk. ‘Lead on,’ he said to the Feldpolizisten. ‘I will follow.’
Joe’s trousers chafed as he walked. He had to skip to keep up with the Feldpolizisten, along a corridor, through a door, down two flights of stairs, into the basement. Thick pipes ran along the ceiling and the walls had not been painted for years. Joe smelled the acrid stench of a furnace, glimpsed it as they passed a room, a big, ugly beast devouring the coal that surrounded it, even in the summer heat.
They stopped at a door, Verhörraum. Went inside. The only light hung from a dim bulb in the centre. There was a table and four chairs arranged around it, and to the left, another door. Joe was pushed towards one of the chairs.
‘Sit.’
The Feldpolizisten stood behind him. Knackfuss sat on a chair opposite him, laying the folder on the table and opening it.
The walls were dirty and stained, and the floor cracked and broken. Joe’s wrist was red from where the handcuffs pinched. He wanted to ask, Why I am being held like this? He’d done nothing wrong. He was an Irish citizen and didn’t that count for something? He opened his mouth, shut it.
He didn’t dare.
Joe wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the door opened and another man came in. Joe could tell from his uniform that he held high rank. He wore shoulder straps, with GFP embossed in metalled letters. Geheime Feldpolizei.
‘Oberleutnant Zepernick,’ Knackfuss said, standing up, holding out his hand. ‘Busy day, eh?’
The man pushed out his lips, said nothing until he had sat down. ‘What have we here?’
He looked at Joe as he might a worm.
‘He’s enquiring about a nurse,’ Knackfuss said. ‘Called Trude.’
‘Trude?’ Zepernick pulled a never-heard-of-her face.
‘They go,’ Knackfuss paused, smiled, ‘birdwatching.’ He made it sound like an absurd activity. ‘With high-powered binoculars.’ He turned to Joe. ‘I expect you can see France through those lenses?’
Not anymore, Joe wanted to say. ‘Why would I want to look at France?’ he said. ‘That’s of no interest. It’s the birds. Puffins. Gannets. Sanderlings.’
‘Tweet-tweet things?’ Zepernick roared with laughter.
‘With one of our German nurses,’ Knackfuss said. ‘In whose basket we found malicious notes about the Führer from “the soldier with no name”.’
Joe shut his eyes for a moment. Trude was under suspicion, had been arrested. He couldn’t bear it. He had to protect her. He might be small, but he could be mighty.
‘Did you put them there?’ Zepernick said. ‘Or did she write them herself?’
‘No,’ Joe said, shaking his head. ‘No. Not at all, at all. Why would she write such a thing?’ He felt breathless, on a train hurtling in the wrong direction with no way of stopping it.
‘Did you write them?’
‘Of course not.’ He added, ‘Listen, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but it’s not like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘What you’re suggesting. We just watch birds. That’s all.’ They had to believe it. ‘Ornithology,’ Joe said. ‘As old as the ancient Greeks. Older, even.’
Zepernick had opened the folder, was studying it, taking his time to read each page, before turning it over with a slow, steadied hand. Knackfuss was staring at Joe. Joe knew the tactic from his boxing days. You don’t scare me, Colonel Knackfuss, you can’t wrong-foot me. I fight on nerves alone. I can win this.
Zepernick delved into his pocket, pulled out a small packet and slapped it on the table in front of Joe.
Fisherman’s Friend. Joe felt the blood drain from his head. They’d searched his room. The game was up. But this was no game. This was life and death.
‘Have you seen this before?’
Joe couldn’t lie. He nodded.
‘What is it?’
He swallowed, and his voice came out thin as a reed. ‘A crystal set.’
‘A crystal wireless set,’ Knackfuss said. ‘Verboten. Against the law.’
Zepernick closed the folder, pulled the tin towards him and opened the lid. ‘Did you make this yourself?’
Joe thought fast. He didn’t want to give Father Rey away. ‘Yes.’
‘Clever. What did you listen to?’ Zepernick said. ‘The BBC?’
Joe nodded.
‘And then you broadcasted it? Who did you tell? Did you tell Trude?’
‘No,’ Joe said. ‘Of course not.’
‘Why not? You put lies in her basket, why not whisper in her ear?’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Joe said. ‘You have it all wrong.’
‘Who did you tell?’
‘I don’t know.’ Joe stumbled. He knew no one by name, could barely see their faces through the dark mesh of the confession box.
‘Spreading enemy propaganda.’
Joe stared at his shiny black trousers, his scuffed shoes. He hadn’t thought he’d ever be caught, hadn’t prepared himself. Now most likely he’d be shot, or sent to prison, if he was lucky. There was nothing he could do but hold his nerve.
‘Tell me about your German sweetheart,’ Zepernick was saying. ‘Your Trude.’
‘She’s not my sweetheart,’ Joe said. But she was, and he loved her. What kind of a Judas was he? ‘I’m a priest. A Catholic priest.’
‘Catholic priests are not supposed to have girlfriends, are they?’ Knackfuss said. ‘You’ll burn in hell, won’t you? Isn’t that what you believe?’
Joe shut his eyes, Lord have mercy. There was nothing he could say. Zepernick drummed his fingers on the table, dum-diddle-dum, dum-diddle-dum.
‘Are you aware,’ he said after a while, ‘that it is forbidden to have sexual relations with any personnel from the German occupying force?’
‘No,’ Joe said. ‘And I’m not.’ Words were jumbling. He didn’t know what to say, which way to point a sentence. ‘I wasn’t.’
‘Defiling the best of our womanhood.’ Knackfuss ignored him. ‘With your sordid desires.’
Joe shook his head, looked at Knackfuss, at Zepernick. ‘I’m Irish,’ he said. Would that make a difference?
‘Irish.’
‘Ireland’s not part of this war,’ Joe was stumbling. ‘It’s neutral.’
‘Neutral?’ Zepernick shouted, the veins on his temple pulsing. ‘Spying on us? Spreading British lies? Corrupting our women? That is not the behaviour of a neutral agent.’ He slammed his fist hard on the desk. ‘Those are the actions of a partisan.’
‘No,’ Joe said. ‘That’s not how I see myself.’ He wasn’t a criminal, wasn’t even a rebel, but war made monsters of everyone.
Zepernick stood up, resting on his fists on the tabletop, the knuckles white. ‘You disgust me,’ he said. ‘With your lies, your self-delusion.’ He walked round the table, stood over Joe. He was a tall man, well-built. Joe had never been easy with big men.
‘What disgusts me most,’ he said, ‘is your perversion.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Zepernick leaned forward and slapped Joe’s face with the back of his hand. ‘Sodomite.’
Joe reeled back. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Pederast.’
‘No,’ Joe said.
‘No?’ Zepernick said.
He had only ever told Trude. She wouldn’t betray him. They must have forced it out of her.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ Zepernick said. ‘Encourage him, with your pretty boy looks?’
No, no. What tortures had Trude endured? ‘What did you do to her?’ Joe said.
‘Degenerate.’ Zepernick spat out the word, small vapours of spit dissolving into the air. ‘Diseased. Polluting our women.’
‘Where’s Trude?’ Joe shouted, caution to the wind. He could only think of Trude, the torments they had put her through. Thinking she was a spy, a traitor. Now this. His mind was reeling. He could do nothing. Powerless. Not a proper man.
<
br /> Zepernick nodded at Knackfuss, held his arm in a salute, Heil Hitler, left the room through the door at the side. Knackfuss waited until he had left.
‘So.’ He leaned forward on the desk, hands together. ‘The charge list is long, Father O’Cleary.’ He unclenched his hands, tapped his fingers. ‘You are guilty of spying. You are a partisan. A propagandist for the enemy. You have broken the law on possession of a wireless set and on relationships with German personnel. You are a homosexual.’
Terror and rage burned inside Joe. He had to know. ‘Where is Trude?’
‘A moment,’ Knackfuss said, nodding to one of the Feldpolizisten behind Joe. The Feldpolizist came into view, knocked on the door, returned to Joe’s side.
Knackfuss tapped and twisted the pencil on the table, looking at Joe all the while, a sneer playing on his mouth. He turned.
Zepernick was leading Trude in, accompanied by another man, tall, well-built, in a dark-grey uniform that Joe hadn’t seen before, two jagged lines on the collar. She was wearing her poppy frock, her hands wrenched behind her. She looked at the ground, broken and dejected.
‘Trude,’ Joe shouted, mustered the power from the depths of his body. ‘Trude.’ Turned to Zepernick. ‘What have you done to her?’
Zepernick looked at one of the Feldpolizisten. ‘Release his handcuffs.’
The blood rushed back to Joe’s hands and he pushed himself off the chair.
‘It’s all right, Trude.’ He moved towards her. ‘Trude, I’m so sorry.’ The Feldpolizisten grabbed his arms, one either side, yanked him back. ‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ he shouted, his voice breaking like a little boy’s.
He tried to reach out. Zepernick nodded to the man in the grey uniform.
‘Hauptsturmführer List,’ he said. ‘Proceed.’
List pulled out his Mauser and held it to Trude’s temple.
‘This is what we do to those who break the law on sexual fraternisation. She knew the penalty.’ He smirked. ‘You must have had quite a hold over her. What was your secret?’
‘No. You can’t do that.’
‘Come here,’ List said. ‘Shoot her.’
‘No.’ Joe was shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘She would rather die by the hand of her lover,’ he said. ‘Quick and simple. Will you put her out of her misery?’
‘No,’ Joe said. ‘No I will not. I will have nothing to do with this.’
The Feldpolizist pushed him forward.
‘No,’ Joe was shouting. He was wiry, strong, stood his ground, but he could feel them lifting him. ‘No.’
Zepernick nodded to them. Let him stand.
‘What a coward,’ he said. ‘You’d put down a bird with a broken wing, but you can’t put your lover out of her misery.’
‘Trude. Look at me,’ Joe said. ‘Trude.’
Her head stayed bent down, her eyes cast to the floor. She stood motionless next to List, the pistol at her head. He loved her then more than ever. Her strength. Fortitude. Bravery. He would never pull that trigger, even if it cost him his life.
‘Take him,’ Zepernick said.
The Feldpolizisten spun Joe round, marched him out of the door.
Joe heard the shot and the thump of her body on the floor.
‘No.’ He tried to twist free but the Feldpolizisten held him firm, dragging him down the corridor, the thud echoing in his mind. Urine was seeping round his fly and trickling down his leg.
Just the crack of the bow and the drum of the waves as they slammed the side. Joe saw only darkness, heard the pistol smack and the dull thump of her body as it hit the ground, over and over, while the sea moiled and tossed him against the oily ropes and the sharp edges of the cargo crates. He had killed her, as surely as if he had pulled the trigger. He’d led her into danger, because she made him feel grand. A flimsy, fleeting pleasure that had cost her life. Why should he live now? By what right? He clenched his fist and drummed it into the side of the hold.
Sick as dogs and not a drop of water. Forced through the hatch last night, they had slept as best they could before the ship began to move. There must have been at least thirty other men on board, and none spoke English. Joe thought they could be Russian. No knowing where they were going and Joe couldn’t ask.
The engines droned, a steady chug-chug, the fumes from the kerosene clogging the foetid air of the hold. Joe gagged, fought for breath. Maybe they were going to kill them all here, suffocate them, fill the space with noxious gases. It would be right and fitting, Joe thought, an end to his despair.
The men slid in their vomit, its stench clinging to their beards and clothes. The rhythm of the engines changed, softened, and Joe knew they must be coming close to land. The boat bumped as they drew up alongside a harbour, the motors humming and idling.
A blast of light illuminated the hold as the hatch was pulled up. Joe could hear German voices, boots on the deck above, orders bellowed down.
‘Raus! Schnell!’
The men shuffled towards the ladder. Unkempt, unshaven, their baggy striped clothing stiff with filth, they pulled themselves onto the deck. They were surrounded by soldiers who pushed them forward, rifles at the ready. These soldiers wore a different uniform from the ones in Jersey. The prisoners stepped onto the quayside.
Silence. No screeling gulls, no piping guillemots. No gannets or shags. No raptors. No waders. Joe had never been on a coast without life, a land without birds. Never been close to the sea when all that could be heard was the wind, a breathless whine that hummed above the clack-clack percussion of the soldiers’ boots on the stones and the shrill trumpet of orders. Schnell.
There were ships in the harbour. Gangs of men in rough, torn clothing were unloading cargo. At the far corner, there was another gang working on what looked like breakwaters. In front of them was a row of workshops, with anchors hanging against the wall and fishing nets strung with glass floats. Welcome to Alderney was visible on the faded signage. They hadn’t travelled far at all.
‘Schnell!’ The men were butted into line, two abreast.
‘Water,’ Joe said. ‘I need water.’ He wanted to add, Food, too? There’d been nothing for almost two days. The soldier ignored him and Joe could see from the set of the soldiers’ faces that they would give no quarter. The other men were resigned, as if they were used to starvation and thirst. Used to orders. They formed a crocodile.
‘Abmarsch! Links. Links,’ the guard yelled. ‘Zwei. Drei. Vier. Singen!’
The men either side of him began to sing. The men behind sang, as did those in front. Male voices filled his ears, tenors, a baritone. He felt the hairs on his arm rise. What twisted logic did those Nazis have that forced these men to sing? Like this? What went through the hearts of the guards? Joe heard that the slaves in America had sung as they worked, spirituals of loss and longing. Of hope and redemption.
Kalinka, Malinka.
The way his shadow fell, Joe knew they were moving east. Links! Links! In the distance, Joe could make out the silhouette of fortifications with their thick, high concrete walls and square, solid bunkers. Joe saw the labourers, some in the blue striped uniforms like the men he’d travelled with, some in ragged shirts and trousers with a white stripe painted down the leg, others dressed in old cement sacks. All of them were covered in grey dust, their hair thick and matted, their feet clothed in rags or clumsy wooden clogs. Soldiers stood by, rifles and whips at the ready, while the labourers fed the vast mixing machines with sand and cement, pouring in water, pushing wheelbarrows of wet concrete. Thin as skeletons. They looked even more emaciated than the Russian prisoners in Jersey.
The guards stopped the men by a section of land marked out in a rectangle with pegs and rope. They divided the prisoners into four gangs, each with their own guard. Joe was pushed towards the third gang and marched to a pile of rubble and stones. To the side of the mound, Joe could see the sea and a long, sandy shore curling round. It should be full of waders prancing and dancing. He longed to see their jigs, hear their
calls, to sit still as a millpond and wait for them to hop and frisk. That would calm his soul, as it always had. It was the silence that Joe couldn’t fathom, a land without the chatter of birds. You could talk back to them, mimic their cry, wait for their answer.
A blast in the distance shook the ground. It lingered in his ears.
He heard first that raucous, grating cry, saw the large white wings as it flew up and away. A gannet. Long grey beak and eyes kohled up like one of those American film stars with loose morals. On its own. Gannets weren’t solitary birds.
‘Anfangen,’ the guard was pointing to sledgehammers that lay on the ground. ‘Kleine Stücke.’
The hammers were all the same size, with a hefty head on them and a handle a yard long. It would take some strength to wield that. Some of the men were already crushing the stones, scattering them into small pieces. Joe took off his clerical jacket and laid it on the ground, lifted the hammer, swung it behind him and smashed it down. The force of the blow, the weight of the head, took Joe off balance and pulled him over.
The boot caught him in the ribs.
‘Aufstehen!’
Joe didn’t understand the words, but he got the meaning. Pushed himself up and lifted the tool and swung it again. And again. Dared not pause, dared not look towards the shoreline, to search for the lonely gannet, for meandering, carefree birds. The aggregate piled up and one of the other gangs shovelled it into a wheelbarrow. Joe could hear the sound of pickaxes in the distance.
Joe kept an eye on the sun as it drew lower in the sky. His arms and shoulders ached, his muscles were tender and torn. A whistle blew as the sun grew low and the men downed their tools, formed into a line. Joe looked for his jacket, but it had gone. The men began to march and Joe saw that it was a trench they were digging, footings, he guessed, for more fortifications. Other labourers joined them as they left the building area, started along the road.
The land was bleak, barren save for the clumps of coarse coastal grass that covered the earth and a few stunted hawthorn and elder which had curled their roots on the rocky land and grew twisted with the wind. Every ten yards or so there were signs, Achtung! Minen! Joe’s hands were swollen, gave him pins and needles, sharp as an alligator’s teeth.
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