A Kiss for the Enemy

by David Fraser

  There had been another burial party the evening before. A few tears of exhaustion rolled down Anna’s cheeks. They came rarely. Ilse Meier looked at her with something more like animation than Anna had seen in weeks.

  ‘Hold on! We’ve got to hold on! Do you know what – I got it from the Sow!’

  The Sow was a wardress of huge dimensions, less energetic than most, with whom Ilse seemed to have established some sort of rapport. When unobserved by colleagues the Sow could sometimes be seen speaking to her with something not far fom normality.

  ‘I got it from the Sow. The British are already across the Weser! A few more weeks – perhaps a few more days – and they’ll be here! And then this stinking hole will be cleared, and if any of us are alive we’ll get out.’

  The prisoners had no access to information about the war. Engrossed as they were in the fierce business of surviving from a dawn to a dusk they were only sluggishly aware that a war was being fought – and on German soil.

  ‘Across the Weser,’ hissed Ilse Meier, ‘and it’s 21st April. My mother’s birthday! And they’re not far from my home. And not many kilometres from here.’

  ‘They’ll come for me soon, now, Ilse –’

  ‘If they come for you we’ll hide you, pretend you died, pretend you’re in the cess pit with the rest. Hold on, Anna Langenbach!’

  Anna looked at her. For the first time since February and arrest, for the first time in that vile place, she felt a tiny spark of hope.

  ‘Hold on, Anna Langenbach! Hold on!’

  Chapter 25

  The General’s Office, sumptuous with dark nineteenth-century panelling and heavy furniture, had been the study of a rich german industrialist. Senior members of the staff occupied spacious premises in adjoining rooms. Only a short driveway separated the house – the villa, as all knew it – from the factory itself. The factory had, remarkably, escaped allied bombing. It was now the temporary home of divisional headquarters, whose vehicles were parked in orderly rows on the tarmac in front of the factory gate, camouflaged nets folded away since 8th may, 1945, paint now being applied liberally to coachwork, to headquarters sign boards, to twin flagpoles on which union jack and divisional ensign fluttered in triumph. german forces in the west had surrendered to field-marshal montgomery on lüneburg heath. There had been seven weeks of nominal peace in europe. The army was sprucing itself up. Long years of drabness were now behind it. The Victors reckoned they had the right, and no small opportunity, to cut a dash.

  The factory manager – the proprietor, owner of the General’s study, was not in evidence – had, from the first day, assured Divisional Headquarters of all possible co-operation. As if by magic, everything the Staff demanded appeared, every task commissioned was instantly performed. Timber, expert carpenters, workmen skilled at every sort of construction or repair reported immediately the factory manager gave the word. He had quickly made himself indispensable: the ubiquitous, indispensable Herr Hanke.

  ‘He’s a good chap, is Hanke,’ said the General’s Aide-de-Camp to nobody in particular, after Herr Hanke had appeared with two charming watercolours of wildfowl which he suggested the General might like hung in his office: the General was reputed to be keen on ornithology. Hanke was assiduous in such thoughtful gestures. He studied the tastes and foibles of the British intruders with a lover’s eye, an eye which missed nothing.

  ‘Hanke’s a splendid man,’ said the ADC. ‘He’ll get one anything. He was anti-Nazi, apparently, so he’s very cheerful now. I suspect most of the stuff he produces for us he simply takes from old Party members, tells them to hand over or else! It’s best not to enquire too closely. He certainly delivers the goods!’ And Herr Hanke, who had always managed the factory under the ‘Herr Direktor’ with unobtrusive efficiency and had never played a prominent part in political life, had indeed destroyed his Party card without a second of regret on 3rd May. ‘That’s over,’ he said to himself, ‘Alles Vorbeil And there were many of them I never liked.’

  Hanke had, moreover, a close cousin, a woman who had worked at the local Party office for years, a secretary of long standing. He sought her on that same 3rd May when the British Army were already surging through the neighbourhood, when nearby towns and villages were already crowded with strange, khaki uniforms, when rumours already abounded of capitulation. Hanke found his cousin, a conscientious spinster, a devotee of the National Socialist ideal, a believer: she was in tears.

  ‘Friedrich, it’s over. It’s the worst day in the history of the world. What can we do?’

  Hanke immediately told his cousin Hannelore what to do. She was aghast.

  ‘I can’t – the Party leadership – it would be destroying years of work –’

  ‘There is no Party leadership. You should now – now Hannelore, do you hear me? – at once, destroy the records and the membership lists. It’s not a great deal of paper. It can be done.’

  ‘They’re irreplaceable!’

  ‘I hope so. Are they duplicated?’

  ‘In Berlin,’ said Hannelore. Hanke reckoned that anything in Berlin stood a fair chance of being destroyed itself, by now. Anyway, the list of Party members in Kreis Klempen was unlikely to be of urgent interest to the conquerors of Berlin. Hanke told himself that he had never, at any time, done anything which could be challenged in law or morality, but it was an excellent opportunity to expunge ‘complications’.

  ‘You must do what I propose immediately.’

  ‘Oh, Friedrich, it’s like sacrilege, my own work –’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. There’s nobody here but you. If you can’t do it, give them to me. I’ll get rid of them.’

  Accustomed to authority from childhood, always a little in awe of bustling, competent Cousin Friedrich, she had submitted. It might, Hanke reflected, save a lot of trouble. In this he was right.

  ‘Hanke will get one anything,’ the General’s ADC said daily. ‘He’s a splendid man!’ The General had already become agreeably used to the possibility of making lavish demands for his office and quarters. He had developed a taste for saying to the ADC–

  ‘Try to get some –’

  The ADC would look blank.

  ‘You know – I’m sure they’re obtainable. Get hold of Hanke, he’ll know. I’d like them by Thursday.’

  And Hanke would know. In those few weeks which had elapsed since the end of the War in Europe, those weeks and months before the Army began its shrinkage to a peacetime shape and function, before it reverted to more regular, more conventional, more restrained and inhibited ways of life, there was a flowering, a triumph, a vulgar exuberance. This was victory. In shattered towns, in villages packed with desperate refugees from East Prussia and Pomerania, the vanquished – yellow of skin, thin, hungry, lethargic – looked on, expressionless. In the countryside the farmers and their people concentrated again on the possibilities of the harvest.

  The General’s duties were various. He was responsible for a large tract of Germany in which a British Control Commission was busy trying to recreate something of the fabric of government, handicapped by the laudable injunction against employing ex-Nazis – who, inevitably, comprised the ablest administrators. He had the tedious task of clearing up what had until recently been a battlefield: unexploded mines, ammunition of all sorts, the litter of a victorious as well as a defeated army that disfigured the landscape. He had a host of duties associated with ‘security’: the war was only recently won, the victors could still hardly accustom themselves to the fact, and no risks could be taken with dissident elements of the population if they existed. Then there were the non-Germans. He had three camps, housing between them seven thousand ‘Displaced Persons’ – the human flotsam of war. Human flotsam, produced by German conquest, German forced labour and, latterly, German retreat: human flotsam from every tribe in Europe, Poles, Latts, Serbs, Slovenes, Croats, Ukrainians – flotsam that had to be sorted, categorized, interviewed, despatched (if possible) to whatever authorities were established in its country of or
igin. In many cases this human flotsam was reluctant – reluctant to the point of suicide – to return to wherever the Allied authorities benevolently decreed.

  ‘They’re afraid, sir,’ the General’s staff told him, ‘afraid to go back to the Communists, afraid of the Russians. They won’t go unless at the point of a gun. And often not then.’

  The General sighed over the refractoriness of humanity, leaves blown untidily over the map of Europe by the gales of war.

  The General had, as well, to discharge the ordinary military business of his Division. He had to ensure that the Division was fit to do whatever the future required of it amid the somewhat distracting atmosphere of peace, the temptations of conquest after the tensions of battle. He had to live, also, with a certain amount of anxiety as to whether he would be commanding his Division very long. A temporary Major-General, his rank in the Army was only that of Lieutenant-Colonel. War and a huge expansion had brought rapid advancement to young men like him. Soon, after Japan had been beaten, there would be contraction, reversion to a peace establishment, reduction in rank … He turned his mind to more immediate matters.

  The General rang the bell on his desk and the Deputy Assistant Adjutant-General came in. The morning, the first in the office for three days, was to be devoted to administrative and disciplinary matters. It was 27th June.

  ‘This is rather a nuisance, this Marvell case,’ said the General, opening the folder handed to him, ‘but I’ve had a word with the Corps Commander personally. He’s happy that I deal with it myself. Nobody wants it to go to Court Martial: that would be ridiculous. I’ll make it clear to Marvell he won’t get another chance. I take it he’s here?’

  On 19th May a small boat sank within twenty yards of the west bank of the Elbe. Shortly after seven o’clock in the morning two dripping figures emerged from the river and collapsed on a small strand of river beach.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ said Marcia twenty minutes later. ‘I never thought that boat would get more than half-way.’ The boat had been a miracle, a last hope, found abandoned on the east bank, overturned, clearly unsound. They had taken two discarded slats of timber from a ruined house to use as paddles. They had launched it and paddled out into the strong north-flowing current. The wind was in the east, and helped them. Marcia said,

  ‘It’ll drift us over to the west bank if we can keep afloat.’

  Dawn was just breaking. Hearts in mouths the girls had reached midstream

  ‘How far could you swim, Lise?’ Neither of them was a powerful swimmer and the current was strong. The Elbe is wide.

  ‘Keep paddling, Lise!’

  Then the boat had swamped. They had swum, struggled, clothes dragging them down, swallowing great quantities of Elbe water, sure that they were drowning. Suddenly Marcia found blessed stones beneath her feet, slipped, swallowed more water, somehow slithered to the bank. Lise, a little stronger, was just ahead. They lay, retching and gasping. Sun, merciful spring sun, began to warm them. It promised to be a dry day.

  One hour later the girls walked into a farmhouse. Around them flat, featureless country extended to a low line of wooded hills on the western horizon. They believed that in this part of Germany there were no Russian troops west of the river. The immediate terror, the threat of rape, mutilation, murder which had hung over them for weeks as they struggled westward – this terror was, perhaps, over. They were not sure. Fear had become part of life. But as they first spied the farm from a little distance and saw a young woman come out of the house to hang clothes on a line they sensed something which might be safety.

  At the farmhouse an older woman, suspicious, listened to their explanations. There were no men around.

  ‘We’ve escaped from the east. We got across in a boat. It’s sunk.’

  The woman nodded slowly. In spite of her bedraggled appearance Lise spoke with a certain authority. At the farm they had by now seen a good many refugees. The state of some of them beggared description. This one seemed to have got away with it, skin and confidence unimpaired.

  ‘You’d better take your clothes off and dry in here for a bit. Where are you trying to get to? There are soldiers everywhere – Americans, English. It’s best for girls like you to be careful. We’ve not got much food, but there’s some coffee –

  ‘Is the war over?’

  ‘Yes, thank God!’ said the woman. ‘Ten days ago it must have been. But only He knows what will become of us all now.’

  Three hours later the girls were feeling something like life in their limbs, sitting in the kitchen, huddled in blankets. Their clothes were wrung out and drying in the fresh May breeze outside. Lise had no idea beyond somehow getting to Arzfeld. She had no money and nothing she could use as money. She was still in a state of shock, overwhelmed with relief at having apparently escaped from that zone where the Red Army was bloodily rampaging. Lise sipped her mug of ersatz coffee and tried to think coherently. She asked the farm woman about their whereabouts and found she was failing to take in the answers. The names of places meant nothing to her. Half of her mind was still alert for the sounds of vehicles driving up, of drunken shouts, excited cries, presages of a sickening fate.

  Marcia was silent, deep in her own thoughts.

  There was the sound of vehicles driving up. There were shouts. Lise went rigid.

  Marcia jumped up and ran to the window.

  ‘My God, soldiers!’

  ‘What sort?’ hissed Lise.

  ‘Well, not Russians, anyway!’

  The bang on the door was peremptory and the farm woman answered it. A figure stood in the doorway, blocking the light. He was wearing a steel helmet and a short khaki jacket, ending at the waist. Several others appeared behind him. In the lane by the farm gate were two armoured cars. The figure in the doorway began shouting.

  ‘Hey, any men here? German soldiers? Deutsche Soldaten, huh? Verstehen?’ His manner was rough and suspicious but he did not induce fear. The farm woman looked nervous and resigned but there was no panic in the air, no stench of terror. She shook her head.

  ‘Best have a look around, Lieutenant,’ said the soldier standing immediately behind him. He had seen Marcia and Lise and liked what he saw.

  ‘That’s right. Sergeant Fox, get the vehicles turned round. We’ll have a good look round. There’s Heinie soldiers dressed as farm boys in every barn from here to the Rhine. Out of the way, mother!’

  Marcia had wrapped the blanket round her as securely as she could. Her hair was still damp. There was colour again in her cheeks. She got up from the kitchen chair and marched up to the lieutenant.

  ‘Are you an American officer?’

  He looked at her with surprise, and a good deal of appreciation.

  ‘That’s right, sister. Out of the way, now.’

  ‘Could you please help me,’ said Marcia. ‘I am British. I am a refugee and I urgently need to make contact with the British authorities. Please tell me how I can do so. This girl with me is a brave, anti-Nazi German who has saved my life. We need help.’

  Anthony spent 19th May in London. He had been flown to England two days after the German capitulation. The liberation of Oflag VI had been an extraordinary episode. First there had been the arrival of the Russians. The prisoners had for several days found themselves free to come and go as they wished. The guards simply disappeared. They did not remain to meet their own end at Russian hands. They were not, as in some places, overpowered by their prisoners and incarcerated in their turn. They disappeared. They were no longer there.

  ‘Strictly speaking,’ observed Anthony to his messmates, ‘they’ve deserted.’ Bressler kept to his own quarters.

  The prisoners made up parties to investigate what was happening in the neighbourhood. The war seemed to be pretty well over. The wireless was listened to now without hindrance and news bulletins were posted by the prisoners themselves. Visits were paid to several villages already over-run by the Red Army. The visitors returned much shaken. ‘Not that I’ve got much sympathy for them,’ someo
ne would say, ‘but Fritz was certainly right. The stories weren’t exaggerated. Not good when you actually see it. Not good at all.’

  Then, on the second day of this extraordinary period of suspense, a vehicle had arrived with a British officer – a British officer who knew about them and who had instructions. There was, they learned with joy, to be no delay in their repatriation. Agreement had been reached with the Russians. Some of the camps over-run in Poland and East Prussia would take longer to clear: the Russians, it was said, were ‘being a bit difficult’. But in their case Anthony and his fellow captives were within a short distance of American lines. Transfer points had been agreed, transport was made lavishly available and hurriedly converted bomber aircraft flew them to England. On 10th May Anthony, for the first time since October, 1942, was in his mother’s arms.

  Spring came warm and early that year in England. John and Hilda had slightly extended their living quarters: they were using the inner hall again. The heart of the house was beating. Anthony found that he could sleep, and for days did nothing else.

  It was just ten days later that John Marvell said, ‘I suppose they’ll give you quite a decent stretch of leave? Any idea what the future’s likely to be after that?’

  Although it was a warm day the inner hall needed life restoring to it and Hilda had lit a fire, which smoked atrociously. The smell was delicious: there had never been a shortage of firewood at Bargate. Anthony gazed at the fire.

  ‘Yes, a decent stretch of leave, I hope,’ said his father again.

  Anthony said abruptly –

  ‘I’m going back to Germany next week. I’m going to report to the Battalion.’

  Anthony’s old battalion from North Africa had invaded Sicily and then been withdrawn from the Mediterranean to take part in the campaign in North West Europe. They were now somewhere in central Germany, part of the ‘British Liberation Army’: exactly where, Anthony knew not.