Weaver tt-4

by Stephen Baxter

  And yet Ernst, by nature an optimist, clung to the line as a symbol of hope. It was the one place where the British and the Germans, two nations at war, were managing to work together peacefully, finding solutions to benefit the most vulnerable. Perhaps the future could be built on such impulses, rather than war, occupation and conquest.

  The convoy broke up. The vehicles pulled off the road onto concrete hard-standing areas, and the passengers jumped down. A bridge had been laid across the ditches here and a gate cut into the Objective. Civilians queued on both sides of the gate, waiting to be processed, men, women and children with bags and bicycles, prams and pets. Once the shock of invasion was over, there had been a mass movement of people back from the English territories into German Albion: refugees wanting to return to their homes, livelihoods and families.

  Surrounded by soldiers, Viv was restless, increasingly nervous. A country girl, she had seen little even of the disruption military life had brought to the towns.

  Josef got out of the car and took a slim briefcase from the boot. He pointed through the wire. 'See over there, the Stars and Stripes? That's the Americans. Shalford Base.'

  'I fought my way here,' said Ernst. 'This is where the advance stopped, for me. This very spot.'

  'I know. Few men got any further. That's why I brought you here. Look, the Swiss flag is flying over that camp too.'

  'What have the Swiss got to do with it?'

  'Protecting Power for the POWs.' He slapped Ernst on the shoulder. 'My business will probably only take a couple of hours. Look around. Enjoy your picnic with your little girlfriend. Which reminds me.' He dug inside his jacket. 'A letter for you. You might want to keep it from your sweetie over there.'

  'Who's it from?'

  He grinned. 'Your other lover. Claudine, was she called? It's good news. She's coming to England!'

  'You read it?'

  'Censorship, my boy. A military requirement. Behave yourselves, now.' And with a nod to Viv, he walked towards the gate.

  Suddenly planes roared low overhead. Ernst flinched, a reflex that was a relic of the days when he had been under attack from the air. The planes were a schwarm of Messerschmitt 109s, patrolling the line on the German side. And there was a countering roar from the British side, Spitfires augmented by Mohawks of the USAAF.

  IV

  For all her bravado, Viv had been intimidated by the troops at the Objective, and the bored, mildly hungry looks they gave her. She stayed subdued all the way back to the farm. Ernst, Claudine's letter clutched closely to his heart inside his jacket, was distracted himself, and had little to say.

  Viv brightened up once she and Ernst were back home. She practically skipped down the rough track to the farm. They were back not long after six o'clock, and the smell of the roast filled the house. Ernst went off to wash, relieved to be free of Viv for a few minutes. His room was the best in the farmhouse, with a view to the south; it had once been Fred and Irma's own bedroom. As he changed into a fresh shirt, he heard Viv brightly chattering about her day, how she had been chauffeured by an SS officer, and how she saw Americans through the wire like monkeys in a zoo. Elsewhere in the house Alfie was practising his violin. He played 'Lill Marlene'. On Saturdays he busked in Battle or Hastings, playing for pfennigs from homesick soldiers.

  When Ernst came downstairs Fred was sawing away at the lamb joint with a carving knife that had been sharpened so often it had been reduced to a sliver of steel. Irma stood at the oven, stirring a pan of gravy. Plates heaped with vegetables, potatoes and cabbage, stood beside her. She looked quite exhausted.

  Ernst produced one more present: a bottle of wine, imported by Wehrmacht stores from France. 'So we can toast the health of the King.'

  'I'd prefer a beer,' Fred growled. But there had been very little beer about for many months; all of Albion's grain was requisitioned.

  'And there's a present for you on the table, Obergefreiter,' Irma said over her shoulder.

  Ernst looked. It was a book, a paperback, printed on cheap, pulpy paper. He read the title. Pied Piper by Nevil Shute.

  'It was in our last parcel from the family in London,' Irma said. 'Story of an old man who has to flee the German invasion of England. He saved some children on the way. You might like the detail. Good story, too. Just a little something for you-' Her hand flew to her mouth. 'Oh – I didn't check if it is on the verboten list.'

  'I will enjoy it,' Ernst said quickly. 'Perhaps it will improve my English also.'

  Relieved, she turned back to the gravy.

  Ernst sat beside Fred as he carved. With Claudine's letter upstairs he felt bright, lively, eager for some conversation. 'So, Fred, how are you this evening? Where is the new wireless?'

  Fred's farmer's hands were huge; the knife looked small in his fingers as he sliced through the steaming meat. 'I told you. Gave it to old Joe down the road, so he can bugger it to pick up the BBC.'

  Ernst tut-tutted like a mother. 'You'll get it confiscated, you reckless fellow.'

  'You'll have to find the bloody thing first, won't you?'

  'Any news of Jack?'

  Irma turned, ladling her gravy. 'Alfie and I went down to Hastings. They're talking about releasing more cadres. Great War veterans. Postmen. The sons of doctors.'

  Fred grunted. 'The sons of bloody doctors. It's always who you know in this country, even under the Nazis. I was a POW in the last lot. I'd give up my liberty again if I could swap places with Jack, I'd do it in a second, I'll tell you that.'

  'I'm sure you would,' Ernst said.

  Fred stared at him. Then he stood back from the joint and looked at the knife in his hand. 'Sometimes I can't believe what I'm doing. I got my kneecap shot off at the Somme. Now here I am not thirty years later carving a bit of lamb for the benefit of the bloody Wehrmacht, while some black-hearted Nar-zee arse in Kent or France is working out whether my son, my son, is to be allowed to come home again.'

  'He doesn't mean anything,' Irma said to Ernst, her eyes hollow. 'You know how he is.'

  Ernst did not react to Fred's words. He was in authority over these people, even to the matter of life and death, within the military law. And yet he did not feel any such authority.

  Viv came bustling in, followed by Alfie. 'Here I am!' She had changed into a more sober black dress, run up from blackout curtain. She wore a yellow star on her breast. She looked at them, crowded around the table. 'Have I missed anything?'

  Alfie said, 'Can't we just bloody eat?'

  'Language,' Irma murmured automatically.

  Fred limped to a seat and sat down. 'God save the bloody King.' He reached for a corkscrew from a drawer, and began to open the wine.

  Ernst said, 'I will finish the carving.' He stood and took Fred's place at the head of the table. Hot fat splashed his bare skin, and the smell of the meat rose up, a cosy, family smell. But his own family were very far away, he was reminded.

  Alfie sneered at Viv. 'I bet you didn't wear that yellow star in front of the SS officer.'

  'Well, that would have been very bad taste, wouldn't it? But besides, I know they say you can arrest a Jew for not wearing a star, but what are you supposed to do about a Gentile who is wearing one?'

  'This is a foolish gesture,' Ernst said uneasily.

  'There's a girl at school, Jane Mathie, who went up to London on a week's pass to see her grandmother who was dying, and she said they're all wearing them up there. Quite the fashion. It's funny how things turn out, isn't it, Ernst? Who would ever have thought I would end up wearing yellow? It just isn't my colour.'

  'Oh, Viv,' said Irma tiredly.

  Fred got the cork out of the wine bottle and took a slug, straight from the neck.

  'Do you think I'm being provocative, Obergefreiter?' Viv came closer to Ernst. He flinched away, trying to keep smiling, but now she took a bit of hair at the nape of his neck and pulled it gently.

  'Enough!' Fred lashed out from where he was sitting. His big fist caught Viv in the belly, and she went flying back.<
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  Irma screamed, 'Fred!' She ran to her daughter, and Alfie pushed his chair back and hurried over. Viv was trying to sit up, gasping. She was a crumple of blackout cloth, her legs splayed.

  Ernst, stunned, found himself still holding the carving knife in one hand, a serving fork in another. He turned to Fred. 'What have you done?'

  'I won't have my daughter turn into a Jerrybag. I won't, do you hear?' He made to stand up.

  'Sit still,' Ernst commanded him.

  Fred subsided. He took another mouthful of the wine. 'Like being back in the stalag,' he said.

  'Ow!' Irma, kneeling beside her daughter, doubled over, her hands around her belly. 'Oh, God!'

  Alfie scrambled backwards. 'There's water on the floor. Urgh.'

  Ernst put down the knife and hurried over. 'Let me see, Alfie, it's all right. Irma?' He held her shoulders, and tried to look into her face. 'The baby?'

  She nodded jerkily. 'I think so.'

  'Yuk!' Alfie said.

  'The water is normal,' said Ernst, thinking fast. 'There is no telephone here. This is what I will do. I will go to your neighbour, Joe, who has a phone-'

  'No. Not you.' Irma grabbed his arm in a claw-like hand; she held him hard enough to hurt. 'Stay here.'

  Bewildered, he said, 'Very well. Then Fred must phone.' He turned to Fred, who sat staring at the wine. 'Fred, call an ambulance. Tell them about your wife. And see if he, Joe, can offer any help before they come.'

  He turned back to Irma, not looking to see if Fred complied. But then he heard the chair scrape back, Fred's heavy, uneven step as he made for the door.

  Viv was weeping openly now, seeming much younger than her fifteen years, but she didn't appear to be hurt save for a winding. Alfie put an arm around her.

  Ernst asked Irma, 'What is it, Frau Miller? What are you afraid of?'

  Irma was convulsed by another contraction, and gasped. But she leaned closer to Ernst so the children could not hear. 'My husband, Obergefreiter. I'm afraid of what he might do.'

  'About the baby?'

  'We've hardly talked about it. I don't know what he'll do – I'm frightened.'

  Ernst thought he was beginning to understand. 'The baby is not his.'

  'I wasn't unfaithful to him, Obergefreiter.'

  'Your relationships are your business.'

  'But that's the point. It wasn't a relationship at all. Not like that. It was during the invasion.'

  And then he saw it. 'Oh. This was not, um, not your consent.'

  She bowed her head, shamed. 'I've told nobody. Not even Fred. But he knows, deep down. I thought if I fought them off, the soldiers, they would take Viv – we had been hiding, you see-'

  'What unit were they? Did you learn that, do you remember? Wehrmacht or SS? If you can tell me precisely when this was, I could probably identify them. The Wehrmacht is strict on these matters, Frau Miller.'

  'Not the Germans. It was before the Germans even got here, before I'd seen a single wretched German. They were British. British soldiers, retreating. They came to the house and just took what they wanted. Food, drink… Fred knows, inside, I'm sure of it. But I don't know what he'll do about it, Obergefreiter, truly I don't. I'm frightened, ever so.' Her grip closed around his arm again. 'Stay. Please stay!'

  V

  In Hastings, because of the various royal birthday events, it was gone nine by the time George got home.

  There was a pearl-white glow coming from the living room, and a murmur of German voices, the dull thump of martial music. He kicked off his boots, left his helmet on the occasional table by the door, hung up his jacket, and walked into the living room. Julia Fiveash sat on the sofa, her feet up on a pile of George's books. She wore her black uniform jacket, unbuttoned, but her long legs were bare, looking as if they were carved from marble in the television's cold light. She had a glass of whisky in one hand and a fag in the other, with a heaped ashtray on the arm of the sofa.

  'You started early,' he said.

  She shrugged. 'Long day.' Her blonde hair was loose, and tumbled around her shoulders when she turned to look at him.

  He peered at the television. He saw pictures of German soldiers on the move, and crude maps with bold black arrows thrusting across them.

  'Not Walt Disney, I take it.'

  She pointed. 'There's Moscow. You can read, can't you? It's a newsreel on our glorious advances in the east.'

  George found the television fascinating, whatever the subject matter; he'd only glimpsed sets in shops in London before the war. It was probably one of the Germans' more successful propaganda moves, he thought, to set up a television service in Albion. It made up for the lousy cinema, where all you ever got now was a handful of films from before the war which were deemed 'safe' by the propaganda ministry, shown over and over, or else subtitled German movies, all sturdy farmers and marching youths. Of course the American cartoons on the television helped. George had heard that Hitler liked Donald Duck.

  'Anyway,' she said, 'where have you been?'

  'Work,' he said bluntly. 'We didn't get the day off. I've got to go out again in an hour for the curfew.'

  'Oh, must you?' She pouted, and uncrossed her legs, parting them slightly. 'It's already been such a long day.'

  He turned away. 'Well, mine's not over yet.' He glanced around the room. 'Have you eaten?'

  She waved a hand. 'There was a reception at the castle. For the holiday, you know. Quite spectacular, actually. Fireworks. Did you see them? Well, I ate there. Just nibbles. You know me, I eat like a rabbit.'

  'Whereas I could eat a bloody rabbit.'

  'Oh, don't be such a grump.' She turned back to the television.

  He went to the kitchen. He knew there was a tin of Spam in here, unless Julia had swiped it. Since he had lost Hilda he had learned how to rustle up a decent fritter. He rattled around, looking for a frying pan and a bit of vegetable oil, hoping the gas pressure would be up tonight. He was tired, and vaguely annoyed that Julia hadn't prepared anything for him. He clung to his petty irritation. Better to feel like that than to think about what he'd been doing today.

  Even on the King's birthday the occupation was churning through its deliberate processes. It was already six months since the orders had gone out to exclude the town's Jews from certain areas of work, such as teaching and policing. Now the process of 'translocation' had begun. At the moment it was simply a question of summoning males of working age to the police stations. Most of them turned up. The Germans always worked through civilian authorities, so it was coppers like George who were interviewing these bewildered-looking young men, some of whom didn't consider themselves Jewish at all. The first transports had already crossed the Channel, taking the men to a holding camp in Drancy, before they were to be sent further east to the Reich's great labour projects out there. It was all bloody, an endless slog of bureaucracy and bewilderment and cruelty.

  And George knew what was coming next. According to Harry Burdon it was already happening on the continent, in France and Belgium and Holland. Soon the forcible round-ups would begin. And then it wouldn't be just working-age men who would be shipped out, but old folk, women and even children, and you could hardly tell yourself that they were bound for labour camps, could you, George? He still thought it was best to do his duty. But if the occupation lasted long enough for this sort of thing to be happening on his watch – well, perhaps he would have choices to make.

  As he got the Spam slices into the frying pan with a bit of batter, Julia came into the kitchen. She leaned against the door frame, smoking; she'd taken off her jacket now and wore only her shirt, her legs bare.

  'You look filthy,' he said to her.

  'I bathed this morning.'

  'You know what I mean.'

  'I'll take it as a compliment, then. It was quite a do, you know.'

  'What was?'

  'The King's birthday reception. They were all there. Heydrich was the big star in town.' Reinhard Heydrich was head of the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, the
Party's own security service. He was also the Reichsprotector of the occupied territory. 'And Josef Trojan turned up, brandishing a letter of commendation from Himmler…' She listed more names.

  He half listened, not very interested. The Germans were always politicking. All the great Nazi barons had their representatives here in the protectorate – Himmler, for instance, with this Trojan. 'Do you realise,' he said, interrupting her, 'that every name you've mentioned is a German? They all carry on their plotting and sucking-up and back-stabbing among each other as if the rest of us don't exist.'

  Julia laughed. 'I imagine it was the same in India under the Raj. Oh, I met one interesting chap. English, I mean. Claimed to be a second cousin of the King.'

  'Which king?'

  'Well, as Edward and George are brothers, that's rather a silly question, isn't it? In fact this chap is another Edward, viscount something-or-other. Now he's come down from London, and he claimed that there's a theory going around up there that all this is divine retribution.'

  'For what?'

  She blew smoke out through pursed lips; her lipstick was a little smudged. 'For deposing Edward, of course. That bully Stanley Baldwin – even Churchill thought it was the wrong thing to do. And now England's reaping the whirlwind.'

  'What a load of cobblers. This isn't the Middle Ages.'

  'Well, it's a point of view. Heydrich rather took to the viscount, I think. He said he admires our aristocracy.'

  'A pack of traitors, if you ask me.'

  Julia sighed. She crossed to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He could feel her breath on his neck, the shirt rustling against his back, the smooth firmness of her body only a couple of layers of cloth away from his own. 'Ah, dear George, you are always so browned off, aren't you? You despise most of the English more than you despise the Nazis, I think.'