A Kiss for the Enemy

by David Fraser

  Müller continued talking loudly and fast.

  ‘You’d better tell me everything you know about Langenbach, there’s an inquiry going on, it’s a serious matter. It’ll be best for your brother, I promise you. What’s more, provided you tell me the truth there’s no reason why you can’t continue the good work you’re doing for us.’ His tone was suddenly reasonable.

  ‘I know nothing, Herr Müller. Everything you have said has astonished me.’

  ‘Nothing at all, is that it?’ Müller looked at her lasciviously. Flushed, some brown locks escaping from her nurse’s cap, eyes shining: she really was delicious. No wonder that traitor had fallen for her! Schwede was mad keen to get all the dirt he could on the Langenbach woman but he, Müller, doubted whether this little English piece could help much. She was obviously suffering from shock at hearing that her wretched brother was in custody, here in Germany! Müller wondered whether they had managed to get enough out of him – Schwede had sounded most peculiar when he’d telephoned that morning, he’d talked in a tone of excitement surely unwarranted by the tiny scale of the affair. What did one prisoner of war, one silly, disloyal woman who’d let her heart rule her head, produced a little bastard – what did it all add up to, even if she did have a cousin involved in the July business? Like a great many others, thought Müller, past caring much by now. He grunted, sat down again at Sister Brigitta’s desk and opened another notebook.

  ‘There’s plenty to go on,’ said Schwede. He was addressing the police officer in charge of Kranenberg. ‘Plenty. I didn’t need him to talk, his evidence could have added nothing to what I already knew. He was in Schloss Langenbach since November. Under your damned nose!’

  The police officer in charge of Kranenberg looked respectful. There was no other way to look, and he put a lot into it.

  ‘And now that place has got to be thoroughly searched. Turned inside out, you understand me! I intend to visit the family myself, once the search has started. And mind you question the servants, somebody must have felt suspicious, you can’t keep a live man hidden for nearly two months without something showing!’

  ‘Herr Obersturmbannführer, the only permanent servant is the gardener, Hans Treuerbach. Some women come and clean the schoolrooms, and a girl helps Frau Langenbach in the kitchen on a daily basis, but apart from that –’

  ‘Apart from that! What the hell do you mean “Apart from that”? Take them to pieces, find out who heard what, and when! Do you want me to teach you your job? Somebody needs to.’

  But only Hans, under a little pressure, conceded that he had ‘spoken to Frau Anna about rats in the attic’.

  ‘There was something up there, perhaps, but maybe it was only the wind. Frau Anna said it was the wind. I wasn’t allowed to investigate.’

  More pressure was applied. Hans recalled that the said rats had been heard ‘about Christmas time’. The attics were turned inside out, furniture tested for finger prints, every corner was investigated. Meanwhile Anna Langenbach sat, her face impassive, her lips compressed, in a small room on the ground floor. With her was her ancient mother-in-law.

  To them, after an hour, came Egon Schwede.

  He addressed the old lady.

  ‘Nobody regrets the necessity for this disturbance more than I, Frau Langenbach. Unfortunately we have proof that an enemy of the Reich, an escaped prisoner of war, has been sheltered for some weeks in your house. He was seen here, here in the Schloss, by Fraülein Wendel, the schoolteacher. She has recognized his photograph. He has now been recaptured.’

  Anna did not look at Schwede. He noted with bitter regret that she was as lovely as ever. And here she was, facing a capital charge as she must know, and still behaving as if he was some unimportant lout who needn’t even be noticed. He determined to play the same game. He would talk only to old Frau Langenbach, although he knew she was decrepit and unlikely to take in much, if anything. Usually bedridden, as he understood it, she was today sitting in an armchair with blankets wrapped round her.

  Anna said quietly,

  ‘They are saying there was some escaped prisoner of war hiding here, Mother. They are searching for evidence. They have found him somewhere else.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Schwede. ‘They have found him somewhere else. And they have interrogated him. And they know that he has been living under your roof, here in the upper rooms of Schloss Langenbach.’ He was sufficiently confident to be precise about the upper rooms and he thought he saw a gratifying flicker from Anna when he mentioned interrogation. ‘Furthermore,’ Schwede continued courteously, still addressing the old lady, ‘when questioned about it, your daughter-in-law, last Monday, described a young stranger who was seen here as a cousin visiting for the day. No doubt she will explain to you the identity of this cousin visiting her for the day, who has now been identified by Fraülein Wendel, who saw him in this very house, as the escaped prisoner.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said old Frau Langenbach weakly. ‘Anna, what’s this about a cousin?’

  ‘There is confusion, Mother. You remember I told you my cousin Kaspar von Arzfeld is coming to stay here for a few days. There must have been a misunderstanding and –’

  But Anna knew she had erred. The news that Wendel had identified Anthony, although she supposed she should have anticipated it, had caught her unprepared. The introduction of Kaspar von Arzfeld’s name, the suggestion that his imminent arrival might have been confused in the telling with Wendel’s encounter with Anthony – this might be sufficient to blur the matter for an already muddled Frau Langenbach. It could not possibly convince anybody else. But what story could have done so?

  Schwede was still speaking to Frau Langenbach, with every appearance of deference.

  ‘I fear there was no confusion. Fraülein Wendel will testify as to what Frau Langenbach said to her, just as she will identify the young man seen in this house as the escaped prisoner now in our hands. The visit arranged for Colonel von Arzfeld will not now take place and has nothing to do with the matter.

  ‘I must also tell you, with deep regret, gnädige Frau Langenbach, that this same escaped prisoner of war, this English officer, was, as it happens, well known to your daughter-in-law previously. We know that in the past there have been criminal relations between them. This distinguished family has been cruelly deceived.’

  He saw with grim pleasure that he had struck home. Anna must have known that the game was up in respect of the concealment of the enemy, Marvell. She must know that was a hanging matter, with no possible mercy to be expected. She had not flinched so far, the bitch. But she could not have known – indeed, only those who had had the luck to read young von Arzfeld’s letter to the sister could have known – that her own wretched misdoings, her immorality, her lies were now also on the table. It wasn’t necessary, of course, but it was, Schwede reflected with satisfaction, justice that her sins had all been brought home. He had watched her face as he spoke. He knew that he had won. He rose and spoke formally and politely.

  ‘Arrangements will be made by the Kreis authorities for your own well-being; Frau Langenbach. Frau Anna Langenbach will be accompanying a police officer from this place. She will not be returning.’

  The old lady stared at him. She had taken in more than he – or Anna – suspected. She said only one word, softly,

  ‘Franzi?’

  ‘The boy will be taken care of,’ Schwede said smoothly. ‘Arrangements have been made.’

  Many hundred miles to the east another interview was that day being conducted, another duel fought, another defiance organized against powerful odds.

  ‘Why do you not join your friends in the fight against Fascism? They are being very cooperative, very wise. They understand what is truly good for your country.’

  ‘They must do what they think right, Colonel. So must I.’

  The Russian Colonel’s tone was wheedling, his voice soft. He smiled often and looked at his stubby fingers. He had the air of a man with all the time in the world. He spoke excel
lent German.

  ‘Rudberg, you are, perhaps, being arrogant in believing you are an infallible judge of what is right – when so many think differently. Perhaps they have more understanding of the facts, the situation. May this not be so?’

  The strongly constructed wooden hut in which the interview was taking place was warm – indeed, the contrast in temperature with the bitter cold outside was grotesque. They were, Toni Rudberg knew, about two hundred miles south-east of Moscow. To be warm was extraordinary, and for this reason he was not unhappy that the session should continue for some time. He knew the arguments which would be deployed, the alternating cajolery and menace. He gave the impression of considering the Colonel’s last words. He knew this particular Colonel. There had been many such occasions. Some of his colleagues were so obviously longing to shoot you that it seemed control might snap if another minute elapsed. One had to be careful with those. This one, clearly, was immensely bored. He must regard interviews of this kind as providing not unwelcome relief to the monotony of winter. Most of them, quite simply, drank.

  ‘I am sorry if I appear arrogant, Colonel. I do not know how a man can act rightly except by trying to obey his own conscience.’

  ‘What you call conscience,’ said the Colonel agreeably, ‘is simply a matter of how your reactions have been conditioned by your upbringing, your training. It is, therefore, capable of itself being developed. Changed. To suppose that conscience is anything else is a bourgeois illusion.’

  Toni said nothing but registered interest. He knew that a significant number of German officer prisoners had decided that their lives would be a good deal more comfortable – and probably longer – if their consciences were developed in the way recommended. There were some famous names among them, too, and by all accounts they were leading lives of ease. No doubt a good many – probably most – were simply determined to survive and, like Toni, were clear that Hitler was not going to last long. Others might have persuaded themselves that the future really did belong to Communism – and that anyway, as Bismarck had said, ‘Germany should have no enemies to the east.’ They had come, these gentlemen of the ‘Free German Officers League’, of the ‘National Committee’, and tried to make others see matters as they did. Toni, sceptical about most things, was unsure exactly why he found the idea of joining them so repellent. It certainly wasn’t because of his oath to the Führer. The Colonel pursued the subject.

  ‘Your comrades have spoken to you?’

  ‘Some of them have done so, Colonel, as you know.’ Toni suddenly felt faint. Warmth had at first seemed delightful. Now it seemed to have produced a reaction, a sort of shock. He knew that hunger, cold and absence of communication had produced a weakened body and jangling nerves. Still, he had survived so far. Two years of captivity. Two years alone.

  ‘Your comrades made no impression on you?’

  It had been incredible to hear their voices, to speak to other human beings again. It had been distasteful to hear what they had to say.

  ‘I was interested, of course.’

  The Colonel changed his tack. His voice became harsher.

  ‘The Soviet forces are about to conquer Fascism. This is February, 1945. The Red Army has already entered Germany. It can only now be a question of a few months before your country will be liberated.’

  Toni looked attentive. He had no idea of whether there was a shred of truth in any of this. He wished he was not so close to retching.

  ‘When that liberation takes place – and it has started – the Soviet Union will recognize its friends among the Germans. There will be some who will be rewarded for their friendship, who will enjoy positions of responsibility. Others –’ The Colonel laughed, as if in high amusement. He looked at Toni with quizzical enjoyment. ‘Don’t you think that’s something to reflect upon? You were a Major, after all. You know about responsibility.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ agreed Toni. The Colonel suddenly seemed indistinct and remote. Toni felt sweat on his face, and put everything he could still command into remaining upright.

  ‘Pray God,’ he was conscious of thinking, ‘that he doesn’t light a cigarette.’

  The Colonel lit a cigarette, reeking, pungent. He opened a new line of persuasion. He seemed to consider, as if puzzled.

  ‘Do you like solitary confinement, Rudberg? You know it’s been ordered for you so-called General Staff Officers. And there are no instructions to alter this – whatever the world situation. It will simply continue. Would you not prefer different treatment?’ Toni tried to make out the outlines of the Colonel’s face. It was becoming blurred again.

  ‘There are courses of instruction,’ said the Colonel. ‘There is an anti-Fascist school. You could study. You would find it very interesting.’

  Toni collapsed at that moment. He fell heavily to the floor of the wooden hut. A handful of snow was slapped in his face to revive him and he soon found himself again plodding feebly under escort towards the compound holding his own cell, through deep snow with aching limbs unaccustomed to movement, face exposed to the icy malice of the east wind.

  Chapter 24

  ‘I’m delighted – what wonderful news, Mrs Marvell.’

  It was a poor telephone line and necessary to shout most sentences twice. Robert Anderson was, indeed, delighted. The Marvells had received a letter from Anthony. It was the last day of February. The letter had arrived with commendable speed, dated 19th of the month.

  ‘Of course he can’t say much but at least it means that he’s alive, he’s in a camp somewhere. As you know, dear Robert, when you got back and came here and told us all about it at the beginning of January we couldn’t help fearing that something ghastly had happened to him after you parted.’

  ‘I know. And you know how much I hated leaving him.’

  ‘Thank Heavens you did leave him! Still, it’s been a bad two months! I expect the dear boy gave himself up and was put in punishment cells, as you told us would happen. And couldn’t write! Brutes, aren’t they! But still, he’s alive, and it won’t be long now, we’re sure of it. We’ll tell you if we hear again.’

  ‘Please do. I’m going back to the other side again quite soon, you know.’

  ‘My dear, not going back already!’

  ‘I want to. Apparently they need people with legal training to join the War Crimes Commission, which will be functioning in the occupied territory once we move into Germany.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound a pleasant job, Robert.’

  ‘Pleasant – no, certainly not. But I think it may be worth doing. I’ve had five weeks’ leave, you know, and I’m disgustingly fit again.’ He arranged to spend a night at Bargate the following weekend.

  That Saturday, after dinner in their small sitting room upstairs (Bargate had been abandoned by Americans but was still for the most part under dust sheets) John Marvell said,

  ‘Well, Robert, so you’re going to be one of our avenging angels!’

  Robert did not particularly relish the description.

  ‘I hope it’s going to be better than vengeance. Crimes have been committed – horrible crimes. I don’t think that’s in dispute.’

  ‘Probably not,’ said John, ‘but I doubt if the victors are the best people to try the perpetrators. When one thinks about the Russian front – about what the Soviets have done to people in their power – one’s gorge rises at the idea of them sitting in judgement on anyone. For them, if not for us, it will be a matter of simple revenge.’

  Robert thought it best to change the subject. His somewhat Puritan temperament was disturbed by the feeling that moral fervour might seem close to humbug in John Marvell’s eyes. He said, with some diffidence,

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard nothing of your daughter? Of Marcia? I know what a worry it’s been, the whole thing.’ Robert had met Marcia often in the old days, Oxford days, London days. He found her fascinating. How long ago it seemed!

  Hilda stitched away at her needlework. John said, ‘Yes, a worry all the time, naturally. But she’
ll survive. I’ve always had complete faith that she’ll survive. Marcia will have done right in her own eyes, however hard it has been, and will be, to understand it.’

  Hilda said, ‘And now Anthony’s survived, too. We’re very lucky, in a way.’

  Oflag VI prisoners’ trek to the east began on the last day of February, 1945, the day Anthony’s letter reached Bargate. There was no formal warning beyond the announcement that all prisoners would parade next day, with their authorized belongings for ‘a routine move’. Some of this move would be performed on foot, most by train. Enquiries of the camp guards – with whom, as in Oflag XXXIII, relationships had been established varying from tolerant detestation to corrupt geniality – produced no information. They had, it was clear, none to give, were ignorant and fearful of their own future. It seemed that most if not all of the staff was to accompany the prisoners. It also seemed that, at any rate as an Officers’ Prison Camp, Oflag VI was closing down and reopening, name, staff and all, in a new place. This was a migration.

  ‘Our chaps will be across the Rhine in a few weeks and here soon after,’ said one of Anthony’s messmates confidently. As in all camps there were plenty of illicit wireless sets and news on the progress of the war was as good as Allied communiqués permitted. The prisoners were comfortably aware that they were significantly better informed than their captors. They did not, however, know what their captors planned for them. ‘Are we going east, Fritz?’ Every guard was bombarded with the same question that day. The answer, invariably was a sour shrug of the shoulders. Yet where else could they go? The Russian offensive seemed to have come to a halt in East Prussia, in Silesia, on the Austrian border. Presumably the next heave would take it to Berlin, to the Elbe, to the heart of Europe. Meanwhile, within the shrinking confines of the Reich, there was more room to the east than in the west. But not much.

  ‘They’ll want to keep us as bargaining counters as long as possible,’ said Matheson, a lugubrious Scot from Dornoch who played a useful part in camp life, being so pessimistic in all circumstances that his fellow prisoners found it essential to contradict him by voicing exaggerated hopes and thus actually sometimes felt them.