by Jenny Lecoat
‘I’m not a fool, Anton.’ Then she added: ‘Although if I’d known the seam on my pocket had come loose, none of this would have happened.’
‘What about Doctor Maine?’
‘I feel bad for him. But there are plenty of black marketeers he can go to.’
The rocks flattened out as they moved towards the shore, and now they were crunching on drying seaweed. Hedy looked up and made out the slim figure of Dorothea sitting on an old blanket by the sea wall, her legs tucked neatly to the side beneath her homemade skirt, waving at them. Hedy let slip a sigh she intended to be inaudible, but Anton’s frown told her that it wasn’t. He rolled the limpets around the basket in his hand before turning to look at her.
‘There’s a freshwater tap over by the slipway – I’m going to go and rinse these off. I’ll be a few minutes. You go and keep Dorothea company.’ Hedy met his eyes and saw determination. ‘Go on. I won’t be long.’
It was a stand-off, and Hedy knew it. Feeling like a schoolgirl, she shuffled through the dry sand of the upper shore. Dorothea shifted herself along the blanket and patted the space next to her feet. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Not so good. Twenty-seven limpets.’
Dorothea laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I can put them in a potato pie; they’ll still give some flavour. Ah, look, you grazed your hand!’ She took a small lacy handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at Hedy’s knuckles before Hedy had a chance to decline. ‘It’s a messy business, low-water fishing. But worth it, if you come away with some supper. Hey, look what I got today.’ She pulled a small black tube from her bag and twisted it to reveal a stub of pink lipstick. ‘It belonged to my grandmother; she said I could keep it. Would you like to use it?’
Hedy craned her neck for Anton, who was still messing about by the slipway. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Sure? It’s Coty. A good one. And I bet it’s your colour.’
‘Honestly.’ Hedy bent down to brush her bare legs with her fingers. The coarse grains were clinging to her damp feet and shins, making her skin itch. She yearned to follow Anton to the water tap to rinse it off, but understood that abandoning her post was not an option. She was about to ask a polite question about Dorothea’s family when Dorothea casually remarked, ‘Anton tells me they put your lieutenant in prison?’
Hedy stared at her, dumbstruck. In the corner of her vision, she could see Anton making his way back towards them. She wanted to slap him.
‘Anton told you?’
‘Of course. I think it’s so romantic,’ Dorothea trilled. ‘It’s like a movie – going to prison to save the woman you love.’
Hedy’s skin felt as if it was crawling with insects. Her voice came out tight and loud. ‘It’s nothing like that! Why would you say that? He felt sorry for me, that’s all.’
Dorothea’s face became childlike. ‘Hedy, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. But … it’s a big gesture to make out of pity. Are you sure that’s all it was?’
‘I don’t know why he did it! Perhaps he felt bad for upsetting me the night we ate together. But really, you think I would have a romance with a Nazi officer?’ The words seemed to hang and twist in the air, and she could feel the blood pumping to her cheeks.
At that moment Anton’s shadow loomed over them. The basket of wet limpets hung loose in his fingers, dripping onto the sand. ‘What’s this?’
Hedy stood up, glaring at him with all the outrage she could muster. ‘Dorothea seems to think there is some kind of love affair going on between me and Lieutenant Neumann. Where on earth would she get such an idea?’
Anton pushed sand with his foot. ‘I’m sure no one is suggesting any such thing. How about we all go back to town and find somewhere to get a cold drink?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I’m not feeling so good. I need to go home.’ It was true. She needed to find some shade. She needed to get this sand off her, clean herself, cool down, calm down.
Dorothea held out the basket of limpets. ‘At least take your share.’
Hedy pushed it back. ‘I can’t eat them anyway. They’re not kosher.’
‘I think some things shouldn’t matter in wartime.’ Dorothea’s voice was oddly calm, and when Hedy looked up she saw that the woman was staring at her with a disconcerting intensity. ‘Hedy, you know you can trust me, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure who I can trust any more.’
She turned and walked briskly across the beach to the slipway, scrambling onto it with difficulty. At the tap she ran cold water over her legs and only then, struggling to get her shoes onto her damp feet, did she look back. Anton was sitting with his knees pulled up, rubbing his eyes and head in the slow rhythm of exhaustion. But Dorothea was still looking at Hedy, the blue of her eyes glinting in the afternoon sun.
The thin column of light angling in through the high barred window lit up Wildgrube’s oiled hair like a brightly jewelled cap. Together with his earnest expression, he looked like a commedia dell’arte character, and Kurt had to suppress a smirk. Wildgrube stood with his feet neatly together, as if on parade, looking down at him.
‘Of all the people I might suspect of something like this, Kurt, it would never have been you.’
Kurt drew deep on the cigarette Wildgrube had given him, and watched the smoke drift through the sunbeam. The wooden bench under his backside was slightly damp and full of splinters, and he still hadn’t got used to the smell of shit and piss in this place. But he was damned if he was going to give this idiot the satisfaction. He shrugged, as if he didn’t understand what the fuss was about. He’d got rather good at that shrug over the last few days.
‘To be honest, Erich …’ He watched Wildgrube flinch a little at the use of his Christian name. Two can play at that game, Kurt thought. ‘I knew it was against the rules, but I never saw it as a serious issue. I mean, half the guys I know have some kind of deal going on the side. I hear the head of the secret police has quite a little business going with one of the local butchers.’
Wildgrube’s lips pressed together to hold in a remark, and Kurt detected the smallest twitch in his left eye.
‘You are misinformed. my friend,’ Wildgrube replied. ‘Black marketeering takes valuable supplies out of circulation, causes hardship and risks insurgence among the civilian population. It is viewed very dimly.’ He turned and did a strange little walk up and down the narrow cell while he composed his next sentence. Kurt took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘I am still shocked that you, a respected officer, would so casually flout these rules, knowing the damage it would do to your reputation. You are fortunate that the Russian campaign is progressing so rapidly, otherwise you might find yourself leaving this jail and being put on a plane to the Eastern Front.’
Kurt sucked the last dregs of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor of the cell, grinding it into the cold black stone. He felt a weight lift. A fortnight in this hellhole he could cope with, even losing his leave was a price worth paying. But the possibility of a transfer east had kept him awake every night since this began. In those long, dark hours he’d found himself questioning his motives and coming up with no real answers. Sure, saving a pretty girl from prison was a noble thing to do, but if it meant dying on the Pripet Marshes? And for what? He’d only been given one tiny indication that she felt anything for him at all – in that single split second in the compound when she’d looked at him with thankfulness and … Affection? Bemusement? Pity, that he was prepared to behave like such a sap? Yet he’d carried that treasure of a moment in his head ever since, and promised himself that no matter what punishment was handed down, he would not betray her. Whether that made him Don Quixote or the biggest fool in the Wehrmacht he still wasn’t sure. He only knew that he wanted to see her again, as soon as possible.
Kurt hauled himself up from the bench, pleased that Wildgrube was so much shorter than him, and gave the policeman a friendly pat on the arm. ‘You’re absolutely right, Erich. And believe me, this is the only lesson I’ll need. I assure you I’ll be a g
ood boy from now on.’
Wildgrube’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘It is not a question of being a “good boy”.’ It is about maintaining the right attitude towards our great Reich and our beloved Führer.’
‘Of course.’
They stood like that for what felt a long time, neither wanting to break first. Eventually Wildgrube gave a loud sniff and banged on the door for the guard to release him. As he turned to bid Kurt farewell, Kurt saw the trace of a smile around his thin mouth.
‘When they let you out, come and find me. We’ll have a drink together – put all this behind us, yes?’
‘Sounds good.’
Kurt watched the door slam shut and heard the footsteps disappear down the corridor, until the only sound remaining was the groaning of a sick prisoner in a neighbouring cell. He sat on his bench and leaned back, watching the sunbeam catch new bumps and cracks in the wall as it crept upwards, and his thoughts turned to King Canute.
The leaves on the trees in Parade Gardens were turning yellow and brown, and bulbous, rain-filled clouds scuttled across the sky. It was almost September. As Hedy made her way past the Don Memorial, several bored off-duty German soldiers lolled on the granite plinth or leaned on the replica cannons, smoking French cigarettes and chatting. There was a louche, tainted quality about them. One of them gave a low whistle as she passed, and she turned her head away in disgust.
The café was on York Street, close to the General Hospital. It was a dim, inconspicuous little place with a faded awning above the window and a brown interior made darker by heavy lace curtains. A perfect venue for her meeting. The door pinged as she pushed it open. She was relieved to find the place empty, except for the bored-looking waitress and one old lady in a window seat, eking out a cup of bramble tea and staring blankly at passers-by. Hedy tucked herself behind a table at the rear, ordered a cup of carrot coffee and settled down to wait.
Five minutes later, the bell rang again and Hedy looked up. He was standing in the doorway, wearing a long brown raincoat and an old Homburg, his eyes darting around to seek her out, while taking care not to make direct contact. He shuffled to the table next to hers and sat down, pretending to study the menu. Hedy sipped her drink and kept her gaze on the window. She heard him order a glass of milk from the waitress, his voice noticeably strained and weary, then heard the rustle of his newspaper. Hedy waited until the waitress had gone into the back larder to get the milk jug, pulled a small package from her bag, stretched across and deftly placed it on his table. She sat back, cup in hand.
With equal nimbleness, Doctor Maine took the slim bundle and slipped it into his coat pocket. Only then did they allow themselves the smallest exchange of smiles, an acknowledgement of a transaction well done. But in that fleeting moment, Hedy saw that the shadows beneath his eyes were darker than ever, and the hair around his temples greyer than before. And she knew that she’d been right not to tell him about the events at Lager Hühnlein, just as she’d been right not to tell Anton that she had no intention of giving up her theft of petrol coupons. Everyone was under enough strain, already living with too much fear and uncertainty, without the anxiety of knowing other people’s secrets. Occupation was making enigmas of them all.
Hedy drained what was left in her cup, left the correct money on the table and slipped quietly back onto the street. She felt pleased with herself, admiring of her own courage and fortitude, and tried to connect with the feeling, to record it in her memory. Because she knew that this might be the last time she could feel such an undiluted emotion. From now on, if today turned out as she planned, every future achievement would be weighed against shanda and found wanting.
The previous night she had lain awake in her bed, so afraid of the darkness and her own thoughts that she let the remains of a precious candle burn right down to its end. The flame had flickered in the draughty room, throwing shadows and shapes onto the curtain, but she’d barely seen them. Instead, she saw her mother bent over, weeping and inconsolable, and her father in the raging temper of his life. She saw Roda, staring with incomprehension at a sister she no longer knew, and Anton with his head in his hands, just as he had looked that day at the beach. But what she saw most was Kurt, and that tiny wink that had communicated so much. The picture was already fraying with repetition, but it sent a pulse of longing through her. She ached to touch herself, but guilt kept her hands above the blanket in the cool damp air. She closed her eyes and turned over, burying her face in the pillow. But there she found nothing but German soldiers marching down Grabenstrasse and SS guards kicking at the curled-up bundle of an elderly Jewish neighbour as he lay dying on the street. Each time, the image was dispersed by Kurt’s smiling face pushing its way to the fore. And as her battered wind-up alarm clock showed three o’clock, she let her resolve slip away, and her hand slipped down beneath the blankets to silence her body’s throbbing demands.
By the time Hedy reached Newgate Street, her heart was thumping. She turned into the narrow, deserted road, aware of her own footsteps on the cobbles. Halfway down, a dimpled metal door was set into the imposing granite wall; a large metal ring served as a knocker, and beneath it was a small sliding hatch. Hedy edged past the door and stood waiting on the opposite side of the street, in the shadow of the prison walls. Spots of water began to polka dot the cobbles, and as the rain grew heavier it seeped into her hair and shoulders, but still she waited, silent and motionless.
Finally, the door opened. Kurt, wearing his uniform tunic and cap, and carrying a paper parcel of his belongings, stepped out into the street. She watched him lift his eyes to the sky and breathe deeply, then he turned and saw her. For a moment she feared what she saw was anger. But the smile came again. Relieved, she returned it. She raised her finger to her lips, then walked towards him.
‘Twenty metres behind,’ she whispered, ‘no closer.’
Kurt nodded.
Hedy began walking back to the main road. Now and then she glanced over her shoulder or made some excuse to turn, and saw that he was still following. They walked, so intimate in their distance, up to the Parade and through the slender streets of town cottages and business premises, until they reached New Street and Hedy’s front door. Hedy climbed the steps and slipped inside, pausing only a second to see the distant figure of Kurt at the end of the road, measuring his steps to control his speed. Leaving the door ajar, she climbed the two staircases to her apartment, thankful that Mrs Le Couteur’s door remained firmly closed. Her key turned in the lock just as she heard the tread of Kurt’s footstep at the bottom, and she hurried inside. Standing quite still in the centre of the tiny room, she breathed heavily, steam rising off her coat, streaks of wet hair stuck to her forehead. The room reeked of last night’s boiled vegetables – hers or a neighbour’s, she couldn’t be sure. She heard him coming up the stairs. Hemingway, sensing danger, ran under the bed and stayed there. Then Kurt was standing in the doorway, looking directly at her, trying to get the measure of the situation. He pulled the door behind him and took off his cap.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Hedy had no sense of his thoughts. He took a step towards her, then another, and reached out his arms. Hedy felt herself melt into him. His lips, which tasted faintly of stale tobacco, were on hers, and he was kissing her with a tender ferocity that sent desire shooting through her body, his hands pushing through her hair and feeling for the back of her neck, squeezing her arms and shoulders, reaching down towards her breasts. Hedy reached out one last time for her conscience, but rules and certainty were already gone, and longing dragged her towards a pit of pleasure. By the time her dress was on the floor she couldn’t have told you her own name.
4
The open truck was crammed with soldiers – perhaps twenty-five, thirty. As it sped by, churning up dust and fallen leaves, and blurring the uniforms into a smear of greenish grey, Hedy pressed herself against the hedgerow, taking care to keep her face buried in her scarf. The truck rumbled on towards the bend in the lane, but before it turned she c
aught the face of one young private, pale and vacant, staring out towards the headland. Hardly more than a schoolboy, his eyes were glazed, his lips pressed together as if to hold back some imminent torrent. From beneath the brim of her old felt hat, Hedy watched his features smudge, then disappear, before she slipped down the footpath that led to the sea.
In tiny Belcroute bay the waves slapped rhythmically at the water’s edge. The tide was still coming in; soon the glassy rock pools would disappear in gushes of silvery water, absorbed back into the ocean. Hedy clambered over the slimy rocks, leaving her hands free to break any slip, steering well clear of the flat areas of the beach where mines might be laid. She looked for the line of discarded seaweed on the shingle, and was relieved to see the ragged marker lay a good two metres beyond the low sea wall. Soon the spring tides would swell the flow, trapping any careless visitor and forcing them to scrabble up to the steep woodland above. But today she would be safe.
Edging around the corner where the foliage still grew thick, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was following. Then, reaching the familiar gap between the rocks she had come to view as her own, she crouched down and snuggled into the gap, making sure to keep her back tight against the slab so that no one walking on the pathway above could peer over and see her. The breeze was stiff, but the sun still held a little warmth, and its position told her it was around midday. She pulled off her hat and made herself comfortable, knowing she wouldn’t have long to wait.
So far, November had been a harsh month. The bread ration had been cut again. There were rumours circulating about further restrictions to the gas supply. And the arrival of more German troops from France, hundred after hundred swarming off boats in St Helier harbour, had caused a collective wave of despair through the community. What were all these soldiers for? What would they do here? It could only mean more orders and new harassments. Still, sitting here with the sun’s rays on her eyelids, and no sound except the lapping water, there was no denying an old, familiar sensation rising in her chest. It was happiness. She’d almost forgotten it. Resting her head back, she smiled as the feeling flowed down her arms and pooled in her fingertips. She breathed it in, letting her thoughts drift.