A Kiss for the Enemy

by David Fraser

  ‘It is excellent, I think. Some of our dinners that Anthony and I had at Oxford were wonderful. But nothing, Mrs Marvell,’ Frido said, turning politely to Hilda, ‘was better than your hospitality this evening.’

  ‘English beef,’ said Hilda, smiling. ‘Unexciting, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Unexciting.’ Frido cogitated on the term. Stephen Paterson did not intend to spend the evening discussing food. A short, plump, ambitious man with a roving eye, he liked to turn every occasion, every contact, to good account, to store useful information, to cull or create impressions. He had a young German captive at his brother-in-law’s table and he wanted value from the fact.

  ‘I imagine the food situation’s pretty tricky in Germany isn’t it, von Arzfeld? Friend of mine was paying some sort of official visit the other day – Coblenz, I think it was – and found that your Government have decreed on one day in the week there’s to be no meat served or eaten! Import-cutting and all that. Can’t be very popular.’ His voice was loud.

  Hilda wondered for the hundredth time how wicked it was to dislike her younger brother so much – she who had loved her elder brother so extravagantly. She would have been unsurprised to learn that parallel reflections were, at the same moment, going through the minds of both her husband and her son.

  ‘It is true,’ said Frido, turning his courteous gaze on Paterson and speaking his slow and somewhat pedantic English, ‘that in Germany at present there is, in every week, a day without meat in the restaurants and so forth. Vegetables are served on those days. The reason for it was explained by our Government. I do not think it is very unpopular. There are some shortages in Germany, yes. It is a question of making our economic position strong and independent. That is what we are told.’

  Stephen Paterson helped himself to some fruit.

  ‘Your economic position might be stronger if you didn’t spend so much money on expanding your Army, your Navy and your Air Force. Isn’t that true?’

  John Marvell felt uneasy. This young man was Anthony’s friend. John couldn’t let him be hectored about his own country’s policies when in a foreign land.

  ‘Well –’ he said. But Frido showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfiture.

  ‘I believe that is so. Although it is also true, I think, that all the work and the manufactures have meant more people active and earning and spending money. For a little.’

  ‘For a very little,’ said Stephen, ‘until the day of reckoning comes. We all have to trade. We all have to make things to sell to other people. Not guns for soldiers to carry on their shoulders in those big parades of yours.’ His tone was intentionally goading.

  ‘But I think,’ said Frido, ‘that very many German people want to see our soldiers with guns on their shoulders – in those big parades of ours.’ He smiled as he said it. The silence at the table became more pressing. The conversation had assumed a new dimension.

  John Marvell had pushed a decanter of port to his left hand. Anthony, in the aftermath of jaundice, was drinking nothing. Stephen helped himself. Hilda disliked the talk’s turn and tried to catch Marcia’s eye, to draw her from the table. Then she would be able to say, ‘Coffee in the drawing room tonight, John. Please don’t be too long.’ But Marcia was looking at Anthony. Hilda intercepted a grimace.

  ‘Well,’ said Stephen, ‘you’ve spent some time at Oxford. You know by now, if you didn’t know before, that Herr Hitler’s got people very worried. Very worried indeed.’

  Frido looked attentive. At moments like this he found himself, quite inappropriately, thinking of his own family and home. There his father, who had lost an arm in that same ‘Kaiserschlachf in which Hilda’s brother had died, lived the life of a recluse, conscientiously tending the woods he loved, his family’s inheritance. The older von Arzfeld took part in neither social nor public life, an old soldier ten years John Marvell’s senior, contemptuous of demagogy, mistrustful of politicians all. ‘They would get on with each other, those two,’ thought Frido. Frido had lost his mother in 1920, in the hungry years when his sister, Lise, was born. His elder brother, Werner, had been six years old. A withdrawn, brooding father and a house empty of their mother had given to the children an austere childhood, distinguished by their love for each other and for Arzfeld, its woods and meadows, small streams and ancient house walls.

  Frido looked at Stephen. ‘I will not,’ he thought, ‘attack the Nazis here, among these people. I will listen, and say as little as I can. Some things I must, perhaps, say.’

  Stephen showed no sign of abandoning his theme. Hilda had managed to carry Marcia away to the inner hall.

  ‘People here are ready to try to understand Hitler’s point of view, you know. The Prime Minister in particular. I see a good deal of his Parliamentary Private Secretary, as it happens. There’s a general feeling that Versailles shouldn’t be the last words on a European settlement. But your emphasis on military build-up – that gives everyone the feeling that you don’t want to talk, you want to march!’

  Frido spoke with deliberation. ‘As you know, Mr Paterson, Germany’s armed forces were restricted by the Treaty to a very small number. A number which could not possibly defend the frontiers of the Reich –’

  ‘And you’ve broken that restriction, that Treaty –’

  ‘It made our Country,’ Frido continued, ‘without defence, at the mercy of all. We could see our land occupied at any time by others who said they had claims against us, just as the French African troops occupied the Ruhr some years ago, because –’

  ‘Yes, we know all about that,’ interrupted Stephen brusquely, ‘the French behaved badly, we know that. But that’s over. And after all, you’d fought on their soil for years. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘That was war, Mr Paterson. To protect itself in a war on two fronts, east and west, Germany has to seek a decision by –’

  ‘Of course it was war. But who started it?’

  John Marvell intervened.

  ‘Don’t let’s refight the war, Stephen. It’s over.’ He could not resist adding, ‘And as the only one in the room with direct experience of it, I don’t want a re-play! Anyway, it’s too late for these historical arguments. We ought to join Hilda and Marcia. Pass the port.’ They were not historical arguments, and he knew it.

  Stephen refilled his glass and pushed the decanter towards Frido. He was not prepared to be deflected.

  ‘What I’m saying to our young friend here is that Germany’s attitudes are getting Europe thoroughly alarmed. Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland –’

  ‘Each of those countries,’ said Frido, ‘has a difficulty in the relationship with Germany. Austria was left in a completely uneconomic situation by the Peace Settlement, by the creation of separate states out of the former Empire. This left Austria starving and without a future. Her people are German.’

  ‘They may be German by race. They certainly don’t want to be German by nationality.’

  ‘I think many do,’ said Frido calmly. ‘Then there is Czechoslovakia. There are many Germans there, in the western part. They do not wish to belong to a state in which they feel they have no part.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I think it is so. In Poland, too,’ said Frido, ‘it is the same. And in Poland part of our country, the ancient Prussia, is divided from the rest by a corridor, created as part of Poland but really part of Germany.’

  ‘It used to be Poland. And without it, Poland would have had no seaport.’

  ‘Not all countries,’ Frido remarked, ‘have a seaport.’

  John saw a chance to steer the conversation towards some sort of anodyne consensus. Somewhat to his surprise he had found himself liking Frido. He liked his looks, his self-control, his reasonable tone.

  ‘We must be going. Joining the ladies. I think a lot of people appreciate there are some tricky questions in Europe. The great thing is to talk about them, not fight about them.’

  ‘I agree with my whole heart,’ said Frido.

  John pu
t his hands on the table and made to rise. But Stephen was dissatisfied. On a political question he could be presumed to have superior understanding to his brother-in-law and he had been cheated of the last word. He looked at Frido without rising, drained his glass of port and looked at him again.

  ‘So you’re on Hitler’s side, are you?’

  ‘Herr Hitler,’ said Frido, with extreme care, ‘has done some very successful things, I think. We have now no unemployment. People are happy, again, to be German. For long they were told they must be ashamed. Now they are told to be proud. For all that Herr Hitler is praised. By many people.’

  ‘And his Nazi thugs,’ said Stephen. ‘His private army? His grabbing of personal power after Hindenburg’s death? His murder of his own friends, let alone opponents, three years ago? Is that praised, too?’

  ‘Perhaps not. Our country had been in a difficult, violent situation. But those things are over now.’ Frido’s mind went back vividly to his father’s furious outbursts in the summer of 1934. ‘Mördere! Abschaum!’

  ‘Some things were not good,’ he ended lamely.

  Stephen felt his advantage.

  ‘The trouble with you Germans,’ he said, ‘is that you can’t find a middle way. You’re either asking for pity because your own arrogant folly has led you to disaster, or you’re frightening people into fits because you’re strong again.’ His voice was quiet. Frido flushed. He wished his English, fluent though it was, were more adequate to express his feelings.

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Paterson,’ he said, ‘it is right, much of what you say. But it is not simple. And I think if people have ever had to ask for pity, as you said, it makes them very hard, determined not to – not to be like that again. And people, especially young people, need to hope the future will be better, and that they can be free and proud and strong.’ He wanted to tell the Marvells that it was all a great deal more complicated than they supposed. He wanted them to understand the background of fear and resentment, the memories of hunger, deprivation and ruin, which Hitler had been able so unerringly to exploit. He wanted to say that of course many decent people were deeply uneasy, but that their uneasiness was offset by a sudden, extraordinary revival of national morale, and that both aspects had to be comprehended. He found himself wanting, above all, that they should know people like his father, a grim, silent, moral man, a patriot to his fingertips yet repelled by what he learned of the excesses of the régime. He sighed.

  ‘It is not simple,’ he repeated.

  Stephen Paterson had drunk enough port to make him bellicose.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘just watch out, my boy. Just watch out – or you’ll get a hiding like you did last time. You tell that to your friends in Germany.’

  ‘Come along,’ said John, getting to his feet, inwardly fuming. ‘No war talk! Come along!’ He blew out the four candles on the table. They were all standing. Frido looked at Stephen.

  ‘I think, Mr Paterson,’ he said, ‘I will not tell that to my friends in Germany. It is not a good sort of message. They want friends with England.’ His fluency was leaving him and his voice was uneven as his temper rose. Stephen looked at him with a hard smile, content with the end of the exchange. With exaggerated politeness he gestured to Frido to precede him from the room.

  ‘Was Uncle Stephen rude to you?’

  To Frido’s relief Anthony had managed to form a group, away from their elders, of Marcia, Frido and himself. Marcia smiled up at Frido.

  ‘He can be very rude. It’s the way of all politicians! They have to shout at each other so they shout at the rest of us. It doesn’t mean anything.’ Anthony had murmured a furious word to her as the men had returned from the dining room.

  Frido was still trembling. He tried to speak judiciously.

  ‘No, your uncle was right in many things. But we must talk of better things than boring politics.’

  Anthony had been appalled at the exchange in the dining room. He had been about to break in with some vigorous rejoinder to his uncle but had never caught an opportunity. He had not wished to pre-empt Frido. He was anxious to erase the scene, as far as he could, from Frido’s mind. Now he said, stuttering, ‘M-M-Marcia and I are planning a little European tour in the spring. I’m working with my mother to persuade her that I’m an adequate chaperone for my sister. Perhaps we can come and see you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Frido, bowing. His head spun.

  ‘Can we really?’ Marcia opened her eyes wide. Frido began telling them about the country around Arzfeld, speaking of a landscape through which, in imagination, he was strolling with this superb, silk-skinned girl. And Marcia, half-listening to him, wished that he was not leaving Bargate in the morning. She found herself wishing this very much indeed. She had hardly talked to Frido. He had been monopolized by her mother and by the men. She smiled at him again and held his eyes with her own. Across the room she sensed that her mother murmured something to John Marvell. Marcia said,

  ‘It would help my German. It’s not bad, but I really want to improve it because there’s an idea I might go to cousins in Vienna and study art there, next year some time. Mummy’s got a cousin in our Embassy.’

  ‘You will, I hope, nevertheless improve your German, not your Austrian,’ said Frido smiling. ‘They speak rather differently you know.’

  ‘Come on, Marcia!’ Stephen was calling from the fireplace. ‘Last time I was here you beat me at billiards! You promised me revenge! Quite true,’ he said to John. ‘She’s a female prodigy your daughter. Let’s have fifty up, Marcia,’ he bellowed.

  ‘All right, Uncle Stephen. It shouldn’t,’ she said to the others with an impertinent smile, ‘take me long.’ They left the room and Anthony held Frido firmly to their corner.

  ‘Do you really mean Marcia and I could visit you in the spring? Could we come for a day or two to Arzfeld?’

  ‘It would,’ said Frido with feeling, ‘make me very happy. I hope for more than a day or two. But I must explain. It is not like here. My father lives by himself, as you know. Very simply. It is not –’ he felt for words.

  ‘Not very feminine, perhaps?’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Frido, relieved at the comprehension. ‘Not feminine at all. My father does much work in the woods. There are many dogs and horses. It is quite rough – hard –’

  ‘And no ladies.’

  ‘Except my sister, Lise. She is eighteen.’

  ‘Only a year younger than Marcia.’

  ‘She seems more, I think. More young, I mean.’

  Frido simply could not envisage the Marvells at his home. Nor could he imagine his father’s reaction to the arrival of two such guests. As long as Frido remembered, nobody outside the immediate family and their servants had slept at Arzfeld. He thought of the whitewashed, stone-floored, shuttered house, beautiful, functional and austere, of the silent woods on every side, the peace of the place. He thought of the ubiquitous harness and whips, the hunting trophies, the sense of unity between forest, farm, stable and house, the regular prayers. How would the Marvells, from this house full of flowers, carpets, chatter, candles – how would they adjust to a setting so tranquil and so primitive?

  ‘I’m looking forward to it already!’ said Anthony. ‘Of course we will come!’ They talked of roads and travel. Their intimacy from Oxford days was entirely re-established.

  ‘Do you play billiards, Frido? No? Well, let’s go and see how Marcia and Uncle Stephen are getting on. She should have beaten him by now. She’s pretty good and he’s rotten. He hates losing of course!’

  Laughing, he led Frido toward the billiard room, his good humour restored. ‘It’s that door at the end of the passage,’ he pointed, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘You little devil!’

  Marcia had brought off a skilful long range pot of the red ball to take her score to fifty-one. Stephen, who had struggled to thirty with shouts of indignation at his ill-fortune, put down his cue on the corner cushions and held out his hand with mock good sportsmanship.


  ‘Well done, little Marcia! You’re quite a girl aren’t you!’

  He put an affectionate arm round her. Marcia laughed into his face. The house was warm in spite of the autumn weather and her neck and shoulders were bare above a dress of flame-coloured silk.

  ‘Quite a girl!’ Stephen breathed heavily, ‘and a lovely girl too!’ He kept his arm firmly round her waist and started to stroke her bare arm with his other hand.

  ‘What are you going to do with your life, Marcia? You’ll lead a lot of men by the nose, I’m sure of that!’ Stephen’s hand was active. He began caressing arm, neck and shoulders.

  ‘Uncle Stephen,’ said Marcia very coolly, ‘I think we’d better go back to the drawing room.’

  ‘In one minute, my poppet,’ muttered Stephen. He dropped his face to where her dress divided above two small breasts, and buried it in her flesh. Marcia pushed him away hard, starting to laugh again. Stephen, thoroughly excited, panted ‘Oh, you little darling!’ and grabbed at her. Marcia sidestepped, and ran round the billiard table. Stephen pursued. Marcia said, very loudly, ‘No, Uncle Stephen. That’s enough!’ Stephen took three very fast steps and managed to catch her wrist, lust lending him agility. As she turned, trying to break free, he caught her from behind, pressed his mouth against the back of her neck and ran his hand up beneath her dress. There was a sound of ripping material.

  ‘Stop it, Uncle Stephen!’ shouted Marcia at the top of her voice. ‘You’re drunk, you’re disgusting, and you’re tearing my clothes!’ She jerked herself free. One shoulder-strap was torn. A stocking was beginning to come down. Marcia was flushed, her eyes more brilliant than ever.

  Stephen’s billiard cue was lying on the corner of the table. Snatching it, Marcia brought the butt end against his shirt front with all her strength as he again started towards her. Stephen grunted. Marcia took it back ready for another blow. At that moment the door opened and Frido walked into the room.