The Occupation

by Deborah Swift

  I’d no choice but to walk away. From the corridor window I saw the men lined up in the yard, but I daren’t stop by the window to get a closer look. Jessel bellowed the orders, followed by the crump, crump of marching feet. Had I been missed?

  Another quick glance from the window showed that the yard had emptied. My shoulders sagged with relief. I found my way back to my billet, only to see my boots standing there at the end of the bed. I was about to put them on, when a foul smell made me step back. Closer investigation revealed they were full of shit. Bastards. I should’ve guessed.

  For the next hour I pondered it all. Why? What had I ever done to Obenauer? Was it just because he’d spotted the weakest person, like the runt of the litter, and had to bully someone? I gagged as I washed out my disgusting boots in the sink, but I couldn’t bring myself to put them on now they were cold and damp. Already the idea of being a soldier had lost its glamour. I made excuses for the men. Perhaps they’d seen horrendous fighting with the British. Lost friends in the fighting. Perhaps a weak platoon member would put them all at risk.

  At the sound of the men returning, I hastily hauled on my boots, even though they hurt like hell. My stomach twisted with nerves. Ridiculous, I thought. But deep down the fear made me hurry to get out of the room; out of their way.

  As a result, I missed breakfast, hiding out in the toilet until I was sure they’d gone.

  It was ridiculous to hide like that. I’d have to do something. I went back to Reception and asked the stone-faced soldier behind the desk after Kommandant Zweig. ‘I’ve been told to report to him,’ I said.

  ‘Name and rank?’

  ‘Huber. Private.’

  He leafed through a diary, ran his finger down the pages. ‘Yes. There’s a note. Yes, Huber 565. Next Monday fortnight at zero eight hundred hours, after the morning run.’

  ‘Not earlier?’

  The man behind the desk just shut the book with a snap.

  From then on, I struggled through the routine, trying not to draw attention and keeping well out of the way of Obenauer and his friends. Cleaning the billets I could manage, and when it came to rifle drill, after a few attempts, I soon picked up what to do with the weapon from my neighbour, and though not as sharp in my movements, I think I passed muster.

  Though I hadn’t been particularly drawn to Helmuth Schulz, I found myself looking out for him at lunch, and I was disappointed to see him ensconced in a group of lively, laughing men. It would have been good to have some company. Too embarrassed to join him, I took a table as far away from Obenauer as I could and found myself near the draught from the open door, at a table that every other soldier was keen to avoid.

  Between drills, I kept out of the billet and loitered miserably in the corridor. In the afternoon there was something called combat exercise for some of the men, whilst others were to go in groups, with instructions to search empty houses and collect anything useful and transport it back to the hotel. Apparently, many French families had fled before the approach of the Germans, and French goods were much in demand by the officers.

  I was down for exercises in the yard. When I got there, I was dispirited to see that Jessel was in charge. The exercises were knee bends, or squats with the rifle held out in front, followed by sprints running between two lines marked with string. As I puffed and panted and strained, Obenauer whisked through the routines with the prowess of an athlete. His squats were as fast as if his boots had grown springs, and he was first every time across the line. He barely drew sweat. The man was like a cross between an Olympic god and a machine. He was good, and he knew it. Satisfaction was written all over his face, and in his wake panted all the other men who could not quite reach his level of physique.

  The other man who struggled was Schulz. If I could get away with it, I stopped as soon as I could, never quite reaching the fifty required repetitions, whereas the stupid fool Schulz doggedly kept on, long after everyone had stopped, finishing his fifty squats, or fifty sprints across the line.

  The training must have been having an effect, because over the weeks both Schulz and I got gradually fitter. I surprised myself. I must have lost a good few kilos, and I began to feel I might even have grown a few muscles. All this would have made me feel good were it not for the fact that Obenauer still made my life a misery. One night I came back from supper and was about to get into bed when I smelt the stench of piss. The bastards had pissed in my bed.

  As usual I was the only man in the room.

  It was Obenauer’s piss — I was sure of it — so Obenauer could live with it. Hastily, I stripped my bed and changed my wet sheets for Obenauer’s dry ones. Then I got into bed. Of course, I couldn’t sleep, knowing that Obenauer would come back and instantly know what I’d done.

  Even as they came down the corridor my heart thudded in my chest. I heard the men bang against doors, heard their ribald laughter.

  ‘Look. Sleeping Beauty!’ I knew they meant me, but I feigned sleep, my hand clutching grimly to the sheets.

  ‘Pig must stink,’ Obenauer said.

  I heard the springs as the men sat on their beds, and I could barely breathe. The noise of brushes as someone polished his boots.

  Then Obenauer’s shout. ‘Some bastard’s pissed in my bed.’

  I held my breath.

  Next thing I knew I was hauled bodily out of bed. ‘Think it’s funny?’ Obenauer said.

  ‘I was just returning the compliment,’ I said, with an attempt at bravado.

  ‘The Lokus,’ Obenauer said, and three pairs of hands grabbed me.

  I kicked out, connecting with Obenauer’s knee.

  Immediately he swung his fist back and the punch blinded my eye. The ache in my head seemed bigger than his fist. I staggered back and felt myself being dragged down the corridor. I heard the clang of the cubicle door and a crunch as my knees buckled and hit the floor.

  Head cracking down on porcelain. White and stars.

  Water over my nose. They’re going to drown me. I fought my head upwards, but hands pressed me down. The noise of the flush and the cistern whooshed in my ears.

  I gasped like a fish, managed to take a gulp of air before my head was rammed down again under the water. Someone kicked me from behind between the legs. The pain bloomed to make me curl up, crash to the floor. The room turned silent.

  More laughing. I lay there a while, brought a hand to my eyes to wipe away the water. My nose felt soft against the white tiled floor and I could see a smear of blood. Was it mine? I didn’t want to sit up. My vest and shorts were soaked. Everything hurt.

  I had to get up. If I didn’t, they’d have won.

  I crawled to the doorway and hauled myself up by the door frame. It was several minutes before I was stable enough to move, hand on the wall, back to my billet.

  When I gingerly stepped back into the room, there was not a sound. The men seemed to be sleeping. My bed had been stripped back to its bare ticking mattress. My pillow had gone. I lay down and my head throbbed. My breath whistled through my broken nose.

  CHAPTER 5

  I asked in vain at Reception to speak with Zweig. They made me wait another week until my designated appointment. Zweig’s office was a palatial hotel bedroom on the first floor, with a view over the town instead of the yard.

  When his secretary called me in, Zweig himself was seated behind a large leather-topped desk.

  Double-damn. Zweig was the stout square man I’d met in the corridor when I was looking for my boots. A woman in an apron stared at me from behind a trolley with a hostile expression. Another soldier was in the room too, lounging on a chair facing the window, with his back to me. A curl of cigarette smoke rose into the fug above his head.

  ‘Ah, Huber. Heil Hitler,’ Zweig said. His eyes showed a trace of amusement at my discomfort.

  I replied with the salute.

  The man in the chair turned, and immediately I saw it was Obenauer. Could I never escape him? What did the bastard want with me now?

  ‘Sit,
’ Zweig said, pointing to the chair and leaning back in his. ‘Coffee? Tell Louise how you like it.’

  I sat. Zweig was still awaiting an answer.

  ‘Oh, milk and sugar, please,’ I said, as calmly as I could muster.

  The maid, Louise, ignored my smile and brought it over, her expression set. I sipped at the scalding liquid, because the cup rattled too much for me to leave it in the saucer.

  Zweig dismissed the maid and fixed me with a dazzling smile. ‘You’re our man from Jersey, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The Führer has a soft spot for the Channel Islands. It is a nice place, yes? How long have you lived there?’

  ‘Ten years, sir.’

  ‘And you can speak English and French?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I was wary.

  ‘And now you are back with your own people, so?’

  I took another gulp of the coffee. It was good, a proper French café au lait. Zweig’s eyes were fixed on me, like twin needles.

  ‘And how are you finding army life?’

  Hell, I wanted to say. And I knew my nose looked like a car crash and my eye was still bruised. ‘Fine, sir.’

  Zweig exchanged a look with Obenauer. ‘You don’t find it hard? A man with no training?’

  What was I expected to say? ‘I’ll get used to it, sir.’

  ‘You know Paris has fallen?’

  I didn’t, but he was going to tell me anyway.

  ‘The French government have fled to Vichy. But we have a job in mind for you … one that’s a bit less … physically demanding.’

  A warning bell went off in my chest. I looked to Obenauer, his smug face, with sudden realisation. The bastard. He’d made my life hell on purpose. Under orders from Zweig. I’d been taken for a fool. I stayed calm.

  ‘What is it you had in mind?’ I asked.

  ‘You have a choice, Huber. You can stay here and complete your training ready for front-line action, or you can go to Paris. We need a translator. If you stay here, Obenauer will make sure you enjoy your stay.’

  It was a threat. No doubt about it. I sat upright, my elbows tight to my sides. I swallowed but kept my eyes fixed on Zweig’s jowly face.

  ‘Alternatively, you can go to Paris and do a little translation and surveillance work if we require it. Plain clothes of course.’

  I was being played. ‘What sort of surveillance?’

  ‘We will supply you with a cover story … and all the relevant documentation.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can pretend to be French,’ I said, suddenly stubborn. Something in me wanted to fight back.

  ‘You won’t need to,’ Zweig said easily. ‘You will be a Jersey man who has arrived in France before the occupation. So your French need not be perfect. But your main job will be to translate regulations before we issue them, all that sort of thing.’

  Thoughts rushed through my head. They wanted me to be a spy. What would Céline think? Obviously it would be dangerous. But the thought of getting away from this hotel, from the humiliation of the drill yard — God that was tempting. But I didn’t like the feeling of being under Zweig’s thumb. It made me resistant.

  ‘I’ll need to think about it,’ I said, keeping my hands firm on my knees.

  He sighed. ‘All right, Huber. But don’t take too long. The Führer is to visit Paris next week, and there is much to be done in the way of orders and protocol. Whilst you are deciding, perhaps we will give you more training. Obenauer can give you a little more physical instruction.’

  I swallowed, knowing what that meant. ‘I’ll let you have my answer in the morning,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Obenauer, bring Huber to my office at eight o’clock. Make sure he has decided by then. And Huber, not a word to anyone else.’

  ‘How did it go?’ Schulz asked me when I passed him in the coach house collecting his rifle for cleaning.

  ‘All right.’

  Schulz sat down next to me and began to disassemble his weapon. ‘What did he say? Did he tell you why you were sent straight here and not to training camp?’

  ‘No. He just asked me how I was getting on, that’s all.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask him?’

  ‘I told him I was managing.’ I picked up a rag and began polishing, turning my face away from Schulz’s curious eyes.

  ‘It’s not fair, though, is it? It’s too much to learn all in one go. Did you tell him about Obenauer, about the fight? About how they all pick on you?’

  Better not to tell him that Obenauer was there. ‘I didn’t like to.’

  ‘You didn’t want to grass on him, you mean.’

  I pretended to be busy cleaning.

  ‘If they did that to me, I’d have something to say. The regulations say troops should treat each other with mutual respect. That’s what they used to tell us in the Jugendbund, to build trust in each other. Obenauer should have respect for his men and vice versa. Otherwise, who can you trust on the battlefield?’

  I gave a non-committal grunt of assent.

  ‘Was that my name I heard?’

  I looked up, via shiny boots and cavalry trousers, to Obenauer’s self-satisfied smile.

  ‘No, sir,’ Schulz said, but his blotched red face told another tale.

  ‘Show me your rifle, Schulz.’

  I knew instantly he’d find fault with it. No matter that Schulz had polished every part of it to within an inch of its life. I knew he’d find something wrong.

  ‘I can see dirt, here, and here. Get it cleaned up. Your Saturday night pass is rescinded, Schulz. You will take guard duty instead.’

  Bastard. It wasn’t fair. No need to take it out on Schulz, the poor sap. ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Huber. Yours, please.’

  I handed it over with sullen resignation. He looked it over as I waited. ‘Now assemble it. At the double.’

  He shoved it back to me and I fumbled to slot it together.

  ‘Quicker!’ he yelled.

  When it was finally there and resting on my shoulder, he came right up to where I stood and thrust his face towards mine. ‘Not quick enough, Huber.’

  He called over one of his friends who was inspecting further down the benches. ‘Grossman! Take this man to the yard and have him assemble and reassemble the rifle until it’s time for artillery drill.’

  ‘But that’s hours away —’

  ‘Do you want to join him? Just do it, Grossman.’

  Reluctantly I stood up to follow Grossman.

  ‘Look sharp!’ came the command.

  Grossman set off at a march, and I followed.

  It was no good resisting. Wearily, I stood in the yard and began. After the fifteenth time my hands were moving automatically, and far from being a punishment, it became a pleasure to feel I really knew how the thing worked, that my hands had become familiar with its workings. I got quicker, until the thing just seemed to happen. Meanwhile, Grossman had become bored and was leaning against a wall, and ceased to watch what I was doing.

  Zweig’s offer was on my mind. I didn’t like being manipulated and I knew that Céline regarded Jersey as British. It was all right so long as I was just obeying orders. I’d have some excuse then for what I did. But to be a spy would mean lying to people, betraying them when they were most vulnerable. How would I be able to excuse that?

  I’d have to say no.

  ‘You ready, Huber?’ The unwelcome figure of Obenauer loomed over the table.

  Schulz and I had only just sat down to plates of pink tinned meat, rubbery cheese and the slice of bread that was the Wehrmacht breakfast. I gulped at my coffee and stabbed a fork into the cheese. I held up my hand. ‘Five seconds.’

  Obenauer reached over to my plate, grabbed the meat and the remains of the cheese and stuffed it in his mouth.

  ‘Hey!’ Schulz said.

  ‘You complaining?’

  Schulz looked uncomfortable but shut his mouth.

  ‘You’re done now,’ Obenauer said to me, his breath stinking o
f cheese.

  I had no option but to get up and follow him. Schulz raised his arms in a sympathetic shrug.

  Five minutes later and I was back in Zweig’s office. This time there was no sign of the maid with the coffee, or his secretary, and Obenauer was told to wait outside the door.

  ‘Well?’ Zweig said. ‘Have you decided?’

  ‘The answer is no. I’d rather stay here.’

  ‘Don’t be awkward, Huber.’ He paced up and down behind the desk. ‘You might like to know that our Führer’s plans are advancing. Our men will be on the Channel Islands within the next few weeks. Your wife lives in St Helier, yes?’

  I frowned, disconcerted by the mention of Céline. And what did he mean? Was he serious? Was Germany intending to occupy the Channel Islands like France? A jolt of fear ran up my spine.

  Zweig saw it had affected me and pressed his point. ‘Women who cause us any trouble there will be deported. To a camp for enemy aliens, in Germany.’

  ‘Céline would never cause any trouble.’

  ‘This is wartime, Private Huber. Mistakes are easily made.’ He fixed me with a regretful look. ‘I’m sorry, Huber. But you’re not making this easy, and you should know by now that in the army we rarely take no for an answer. Of course, we could give you orders, but it will be more productive for both sides if you volunteer.’

  ‘If I go to Paris, will you give me your word nothing will happen to her?’

  ‘I cannot swear to anything in wartime. How can I? But yes, I believe she will be much safer if you agree.’

  I hated the idea of caving in. But what would happen to our house and shop if Céline was gone and Germany invaded Jersey? I suddenly realised that I minded it very much. Jersey was tiny, a little jewel of an island. We’d been happy there for ten years, and he was telling me that all that would have to change? This wretched war.

  The more I resisted, the more little men like Schulz would get in the line of fire. And Céline? Well, I was helpless, I realised. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her, because I, in my infinite wisdom, was too stubborn to obey orders. Her face as she saw me off on the quay swam before my eyes. The trusting look in her eyes.