The Welsh Girl

by Peter Ho Davies

  It’s too much for the camp leaders. They’ve put up with the boys thus far, considered their presence beneath notice. But now they’ve gone too far. It’s a criminal offense in the fatherland, after all, to make fun of the Führer. They go to the major, demand that something be done.

  The next evening when the boys appear, goose-stepping, the searchlights swing down on them like huge white clubs. They stand frozen as if stunned by the blow, almost two dozen of them, like actors stricken with stage fright. Karsten sees Jim’s white face among the rest. And then there’s the scrape of boots on the lane, and a party of guards appears, double-timing it towards them. The boys bolt like rabbits into the trees, the men behind the fence jeering their flight. The guards press after them, but they’re slowed by the heavy undergrowth, the low branches snatching at their caps. Karsten sees one man get caught by his epaulet, as if run through at the shoulder. By the time they emerge from the trees, the boys are far ahead up the slope. The guards watch them go, hands on hips, while from the camp below there’s a smattering of applause.

  And yet the next night, too, the boys are back, mocking the prisoners, but now also the guards, waving up at the searchlights. The Tommies give chase again only to be outpaced once more, the boys careening away, but only until they know they’re out of reach, and then they slow, as if taunting the guards to come on. A couple of boys use the flock as a shield, and the guards seem reluctant to push through the sheep. “They don’t bite,” someone cries from the camp, but as the shout goes up, a guard is bowled over by one of the startled beasts, and there’s a burst of laughter from the prisoners. Now, Karsten notes, their jeers are for the guards, as they trudge downhill, making their clumsy, cursing way through the trees, mopping their brows.

  The following day brings a change of tactics, the guards going out into the lane in the late afternoon, an hour or so before the boys usually appear. They hurry into the trees and take cover to left and right. There’s a murmur among the prisoners; nods and smiles are exchanged. After a long, dull day the air is heavy with anticipation. When the boys appear at dusk, the guards in the towers ignore them ostentatiously—one even spreads a newspaper over the wooden railing before him.

  The boys straggle out of the trees and into the lane, calling abuse, coming closer and closer to the wire. Jim, among others, Karsten sees, has blackened his face with mud or shoe polish—like commandos, he supposes, though the effect is to make the boys seem more like urchins. He pushes himself towards the front of the crowd pressed against the wire, but when Jim sees him, he moves down the line, and after a moment Karsten doesn’t bother pursuing him. When the searchlights play down the lane, the boys don’t flinch, their shadows wheeling around them. A tiny lad plays a game of chasing the light, running along in it as it moves, until he stops, panting, not more than a yard from the fence, close enough that Karsten can see his little chest heaving.

  The boy’s cheeks are glowing red, the fine damp hair plastered to his brow, but it’s the look of exhilaration on his face, of joy, as if he’s forgotten where he is, who they are, that Karsten can’t take his eyes off of. He crouches down. The youngster can’t be more than six or seven, and for a moment he actually beams at Karsten. It’s just a game to him. And suddenly Karsten is leaning close to the fence. “Run,” he breathes, but still the boy smiles. “Run!” Karsten says more loudly. “It’s a trap.” The boy frowns, as if puzzled that he can understand Karsten, and then his eyes widen.

  There’s a shout from the trees, and the guards rise out of the underbrush. For just a second, the boys are stock-still, and then Karsten is bellowing at them, “Run! Run!” Jim appears beside the little boy, grabs his hand, and yanks him away, though not before leaning close to the wire to whisper something. “What?” Karsten calls after him, but by then his shout has been picked up by the other men—though whether in warning or in derision, Karsten can’t be sure—and the boys are off, pumping madly, arms and legs flailing, racing for the gap in the trees where they came from as the guards close in from either side, cutting off their escape. Half of them make it, surging uphill; the rest—is that Jim among them?—turn and scatter.

  “No!” Karsten calls, pointing. “The lane, the lane. They won’t be coming up the lane.” He clings to the fence, pointing, scales the first few rungs of wire to get a better view, watches the children scatter, the guards chase after them, the searchlights weaving. And Karsten finds himself climbing higher and higher to watch them go.

  Seventeen

  ROTHERAM IS RACING the sunset, the old staff car careening through the Welsh countryside as if he’s the one escaping, not hurrying to investigate an escape. Perhaps that isn’t so far from the truth, though, he reckons.

  He’s working his way northwest, following the Wye into the hills of mid-Wales. Twisting and turning with the road, he’s caught flashes of the river through the trees, and once the distant roar of falls, but as he’s climbed higher towards it’s source, it’s dwindled to a coppery stream glimpsed only dimly under stone bridges.

  He’d been making good time until, barreling round one tight bend, he’d almost plowed into a flock of sheep filling the road. For a second he thought he’d driven into the river itself, the rippling white backs flooding the narrow lane like water rushing over rapids. He’d stamped on the brakes, fishtailed to a halt, tearing a spray of grit from the verge. In the abrupt silence of the stalled car, he heard it patter through the grass, watched it skip towards the advancing sheep eyeing him blankly. He’d leaned on the horn then, but they just bleated back at him, and he’d had to sit for long minutes while they broke around him, their flanks brushing the car, rocking it gently. He watched them go in his mirror, until the last bobbing back rounded the bend, then belatedly roared onwards.

  He grits his teeth now as he jounces over a pothole, and the broken-down suspension of the Humber jars his bandaged ribs. Beside him on the passenger seat, the silver film canisters jingle-jangle like a giant’s loose change.

  HE’D COME DOWN to breakfast late that morning, surprised that he’d finally been able to sleep after his call to Hawkins and the vigil at Hess’s door in the small hours.

  He found Lieutenant Mills and one of the corporals—not the one he’d woken the night before—lounging at a long wooden table in the kitchen, washing down charred toast with cups of tea from the largest china teapot he’d ever seen. The doctor, his mouth full, pointed to it, and Rotheram nodded.

  “There you are,” Mills said, swallowing and setting a cup before him. “So what’s your plan for today?”

  “I’m leaving,” Rotheram said simply. “Appears I was wasting my time. Perhaps everyone’s. New orders should come through this afternoon.”

  Mills nodded for what seemed a long time and finally nudged the toast rack.

  “Go on,” he said when Rotheram hesitated. “The butter’s local, and we’ve also got this.” He slid a crystal jar across the table. “Honey. Special rations on account of our guest. Not that he eats half of it—afraid of poisoning!”

  Rotheram lifted the lid, dipped his knife, and studied the honey before he spread it thickly on his toast and took a bite. The rich sweetness was incredible. He wondered that he could have forgotten the taste. How long had it been since he’d had honey? “Good, eh?” Mills said, and Rotheram nodded as he chewed.

  “No hard feelings about last night?”

  Rotheram took a mouthful of tea, shook his head. “It’s just that I’m not Jewish,” he said.

  “Course not, old chap.”

  Rotheram detected a hint of the bedside manner in the way Mills said it, but the mere thought of explaining his history to the lieutenant was exhausting.

  Mills was silent for a moment, then brightened. “If you’re waiting for orders this afternoon, your morning’s free, yes?”

  Rotheram looked up slowly.

  “Why not come along with us, then?” He gestured to the corporal. “We’re taking Hess for a Sunday drive. He likes a little fresh air every so often.”<
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  “I don’t need another crack at him, you understand.”

  “I know,” Mills said, grimacing slightly. “It’s not just for you. The thing is, he asked if you’d come.” He laughed awkwardly. “Seems he’s bored with our company.”

  And so, thirty minutes later, Rotheram found himself in the front seat of an open-top staff car, the corporal, whose name was Baker, at the wheel, and Mills with Hess beside him in the back seat. The car reminded Rotheram uncomfortably of Hitler’s tourer in the previous night’s film.

  The drive seemed to restore Hess. He’d been subdued when he climbed into the car, pausing on the running board to tuck his red woolen scarf into the collar of his sweater and wrap his greatcoat around his knees before sitting down. But now Rotheram, half turned in his seat, saw the color return to the older man’s cheeks. Hess noticed his scrutiny.

  “How do you like my gift from Mr. Churchill?” he asked jovially, indicating the car. “It’s just the thing for the beautiful Welsh countryside, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Why do you think you’re in Wales?” Rotheram asked blandly, but Mills broke in with a shrug. “No need to be coy. We ran into some locals at a crossroads on one of these jaunts last month and he recognized the lingo. Bit of a cock-up, really, but at least they didn’t recognize him.”

  It was still chilly, but the sun had come out, and Hess slipped on a pair of dark glasses.

  “He recognized Welsh?” Rotheram asked skeptically. He was addressing Mills, but Hess answered, sounding impatient.

  “Where else in the British Isles do they speak another language? In fact, it seems a peculiarly apt place for my confinement.”

  How so?

  “Isn’t Wales where the ancient Britons retreated to? When the Romans came, I mean. Wasn’t this their last redoubt? Aren’t these”—he waved an arm around, but the country was deserted apart from sheep and cattle—“their descendants? Your Mr. Churchill, I gather, had plans to pull back here if we had invaded.” Hess smiled thinly. “We’d have made you all Welsh. Instead, it’s me who’s a little Welsh now.”

  “Hardly the party line, that,” Mills sneered. “To think a few months’ stay in a country is a claim to nationality.”

  “Months? No, I suppose it takes—what would you say, Captain—a few years?”

  Mills gave a wincing smile, but Rotheram wouldn’t rise to the bait.

  “Wales,” Rotheram considered. “The land of retreat? Or defeat?”

  “Of last stands, perhaps,” Hess offered, turning away.

  They rode in silence after that, driving uphill along a tight lane hemmed in by high stone walls. Rotheram, gripped by a sudden claustrophobia, staring ahead, flinching as startled rabbits bolted before their wheels. At the brow of a ridge the track opened into a small dirt yard. The view, tumbling hills speckled purple and yellow with heather and gorse, spread before them.

  They climbed down to admire it, while the corporal steered the huge car through a five-point turn, so laboriously that Mills felt compelled to direct him.

  “You never said what you made of our film, Captain,” Hess suggested companionably.

  “I thought it was vile lies. Rabble-rousing propaganda.”

  “You think so?” Hess mused. “That it incited the mob?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I suppose so. But the mob was only a small number, really. A few thousand out of millions who saw the film. Not so efficient if it’s goal was to rouse. You saw it in Germany?” he asked, and Rotheram, caught off-guard, nodded slightly.

  “A film like that,” Hess went on, “does something more important than stir the few, don’t you think? It makes the rest an audience. Passive, you see? You watch a film, you sit in a cinema, you see things, you feel things, but you do nothing.” He leaned closer. “That film made our actions a drama to be watched, talked about, as if it were only happening on a screen, on a set. Forget incitement. That’s the power of film, to draw a line between those who act and those who watch.”

  Rotheram shook his head. He looked for Mills, who was helping Baker wrestle the canvas roof of the car into place.

  “You disagree, Captain? It had some other effect on you?”

  “Tell me something,” Rotheram said, turning to him. “Let’s grant, for the sake of argument, that you have no recollection of why you came to Britain. Why do you think you came? You must have wondered.”

  “I was on a secret diplomatic mission, as far as I can determine.”

  “Yet you can’t recall the details, and no one else from Germany has tried to fulfill the mission since.”

  “I imagine you have other theories.”

  “Some say you were crazy before you crashed. That you were already unstable when you decided to fly here.” Hess was impassive. “Others, that you’d fallen out of favor with Hitler, that you felt your position, your life, threatened. They say you ran.”

  “Would you like me to be an exile, is that it, Captain? Another refugee? Should we sympathize with each other now? Is that the form this takes? Why yes. It’s all coming back to me. I’m remembering, remembering. Mein Gott, I’m really a Jew. How could I have forgotten?”

  He started to laugh, then saw the blunt fury in Rotheram’s face.

  “Why won’t you believe me when I tell you I’m not a Jew?”

  “Why won’t you believe me when I say I do not remember things?” Hess smiled. “But for the sake of argument—yes?—let’s say that you are not a Jew. But if not, why do you hate me so?”

  “Why?” Rotheram exclaimed. “Why!”

  “Please. There’s no need to raise your voice.”

  “Because,” Rotheram pressed, “because you and your kind drove me from my home, accused me of being a Jew—” He caught himself, suddenly conscious of Mills’s approach.

  “But don’t you wonder, Captain,” Hess whispered, leaning close and slipping into German, “what that says about the way you feel about Jews?” He pivoted to Mills, and Rotheram felt his face flush. “Ah, Doctor, I was just suggesting a stroll to the captain.”

  Mills nodded. “If you’re up to it.” He looked quizzically from Rotheram, gazing off, to Hess, who raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s downhill, after all. If the corporal would be so kind as to meet us at the crossroads?”

  Mills gave a wave to Baker, and the car rumbled back down the lane while Hess led them through a rusty kissing gate onto the hillside.

  Rotheram watched him go, still stunned by Hess’s question.

  “You’re sure this is all right?” he roused himself to ask as Mills stepped through the gate ahead of him.

  “Quite. We’ve done this walk before. It’s the bugger’s favorite. The locals are all at chapel this time of a Sunday morning, and believe me, he isn’t likely to escape.” He gestured at Hess, who was gingerly lowering himself down the path. His limp was more apparent now than in the house. When they drew level with him he was already breathing hard.

  “We can go back,” Mills said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re unwell. Don’t want you getting a chill.” He grinned at Rotheram behind the other man’s back.

  “The herr doktor is worried about my health,” Hess told Rotheram, shaking Mills off. “He watches me well, so that I won’t catch cold, or stub my toe, or fall down stairs.”

  Mills colored at this reference to the latest suicide attempt.

  “I just want what’s best for you.”

  “Yes, yes.” He paused before a steep stretch of the path that had been washed out by rain water.

  “Perhaps?” Hess raised his hands, and for a second Rotheram thought it was a gesture of surrender. Then he saw Mills duck under one arm, and he bent to let Hess lay the other across his own shoulders. In this way they eased down the slope, silent apart from Hess’s panting, now that they were so close. The old man was surprisingly heavy, Rotheram thought, despite his gangly frame. He felt his arm weighing on the back of his neck. The faint scent of after-shave wafted from Hess’s collar.


  When the slope was more gentle, the older man lifted his arms, and Rotheram was glad to step away, pressing a hand to his bruised ribs.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Where were we?” Hess asked. “Oh, yes, the doctor. He does take fine care of me, but Doctor, don’t you find that difficult?”

  “Well, you’re not always the most cooperative patient.”

  “No. Forgive me. Don’t you find it a...” He searched for the word. “A conflict?”

  Mills shook his head gravely. “My oath as a doctor—”

  Hess held up his hand. “Forgive me again. I didn’t mean this conflict. Your hippokratischer oath, I know. We have this in Germany. Every doctor has this. No. I mean, is it not a conflict that you are keeping me alive in order for your government to kill me?”

  “What makes you say that?” Rotheram asked.

  Hess looked at him.

  “You know, Captain Roth. It’s why you’re here. To decide if you can try me. Let’s see. Can we, can we?” Hess held his palms out before him like an unsteady pair of scales. “But I ask you, why bother? You want to kill me, just kill me.”

  Mills, put out, had walked ahead.

  “Doctor! I’ve shocked you with my talk. And on such a beautiful morning. Please. Of course I don’t mean you should kill me. Besides, I’d do it for you, if you’d let me.”

  “You want to die?” Rotheram said.

  “Does that seem mad to you? In which case, does that mean you shouldn’t try me and kill me? Or does it seem sane, under the circumstances, which would mean that you should?”

  Rotheram had pulled up beside Mills, a little below Hess on the slope, and now he found himself looking up at the speaker as if he were on a stage. A shadow crept over them and Hess glanced up at the clouds. When he looked down again his smile had faded.

  “I have no one left, you understand. I do not remember my wife, my children. I do not remember my country. My life has already been taken.”

  Mills sighed and shook his head, but Rotheram was rapt.