‘We are not expecting anything of you, m’sieur, except the truth,’ said Elissa in her quiet way. ‘Could you describe them?’
‘No, I couldn’t, they were already too far away. With my eggs. And a chicken or two as well if I hadn’t come out. But whether you like it or not, one of them looked like a German soldier to me.’
Major Kirsten interposed.
‘Why did he look like a German soldier?’
‘He was wearing a German greatcoat.’
‘I see. And they were running together?’
‘Together?’ The farmer stared sourly at Major Kirsten.
‘Side by side, like thieves who were comrades?’ suggested the major.
‘How else would two thieves run off?’ The farmer was heavily sarcastic, conceding nothing to German omnipotence except the necessity of answering. ‘They were together, they ran off together, and that’s all I know. Except,’ he added on a note of growling satisfaction, ‘one of them was a German thief.’
‘In that case, allow me to restore our good name,’ said Major Kirsten blandly, and dropped a little French silver into the farmer’s large hand. ‘And thank you for your help.’
The farmer’s expression was one of indifference. To him, all Germans were intruders, and a few coins could not change his mind about that. All the same, he pocketed them.
Major Kirsten and Elissa began the walk back to the car.
‘Very intriguing,’ murmured the major. ‘They ran off together. Is it possible that Sophia has now accepted they’ve a common interest and might as well run hand in hand?’
‘Major, you can’t be serious,’ said Elissa. The March sky was again a mixture of cold clouds and blue patches, and somewhere a plane’s engine was droning. ‘How could they have a common interest? Sophia must hate the man by now.’
‘No doubt. But they’re both in flight; he in the hope of vanishing, and Sophia in the hope of landing in the arms of what she thinks is love.’
‘Perhaps it is love,’ said Elissa, who had made much the same comment before. ‘You are saying flight is their common interest?’
‘We know they spent the night together, and we know they didn’t leave until dawn. We’ve guessed they’re heading for Douai. Now we can be certain of it. Elissa, there was no suggestion from the farmer that Sophia was under coercion. In fact, if they did snatch some eggs, I’ve a feeling they’ll have managed to cook them together and eat them together. We human beings are very unpredictable, and frequently behave in a way our friends don’t expect us to. We can even puzzle ourselves. Could any of us be certain of how we would react to a situation we had never envisaged?’
‘With all due respect, Major,’ said Elissa, ‘I’m certain I would never run hand in hand with an enemy of my country.’
‘You might if you were in a disoriented state. Consider this particular situation.’ Major Kirsten paused while Elissa climbed a gate and he followed. ‘Two people, a British airman and a German general’s daughter, have been indivisible since yesterday morning, mainly because he has seen her as useful to his purpose. Together, they’ve travelled in a car, shared a room, stolen a distributor head, slept in a farm building and raided a chicken house – from which they ran together. What effect has all that had on a traumatic relationship? Has it made them strange allies?’
‘You’re worrying me,’ said Elissa.
‘I’m worrying myself. It’s my guess now that they’re on a cross-country wander to get as close as they can to Douai in order to try to enter it after dark, which is what I’m sure they were attempting last night, but by car. They were trapped on that road to Douai. So, we’ll use our car to make up the time they’ve gained on us and decide at what point to take to our legs ourselves. If we can, we’ll try to get between them and the town.’
‘Yes, Major.’
‘Miss?’ said the German soldier again, since Sophia had not responded.
‘You are speaking to me?’ asked Sophia in her fluent French.
His own use of the language was laborious as he said, ‘We are looking for a man and a young lady.’
‘Excuse me?’ she said. She saw other soldiers outside the barn, watching the approach of the Luftwaffe search party.
‘A man and a woman,’ said the spokesman, just as laboriously. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘You are looking for a French couple?’ said Sophia, and stuck the pitchfork into the pile of hay. She felt the prongs strike solidity, but there was no movement. The pitchfork, buried deep, stood up.
‘Not French, no,’ said the soldier, while his comrades, rifles unslung, began to prowl again. One poked at the pile of hay, disturbing the pitchfork, which fell sideways. Sophia, nerves screaming, picked it up and made a resentful gesture with it. The man grinned and moved away. Simulating irritation, Sophia thrust the pitchfork back into the pile.
‘You’re asking if they’re here?’ she said.
‘I ask, have you seen them?’ said the spokesman impatiently. He was not in the best of tempers. None of them were. This business of chasing an elusive fox was exhausting and unrewarding. All day yesterday, and probably all day today. It wasn’t as if they were young. They weren’t. Germany was in no position to supply young men for garrison duties. Mangling his French, he said, ‘Tell me who you have seen.’
‘I’ve seen only my father and Jacques,’ said Sophia. ‘Jacques is the only one we have to help us, and even he is too old to be of much use.’ She slid loose hay across the floor with her booted foot, towards the pile.
An officer arrived, a middle-aged lieutenant. The soldier spoke to him. He gave Sophia a look, then gestured to the loft. Two soldiers climbed up to it. Using their rifles and boots, they began to search the large mounds of hay. Sophia shrugged and continued clearing the floor of fallen straw, adding it to the pile with her pitchfork. The officer watched her, a frown on his face. He seemed no more enthusiastic than his men. Sophia, heartbeats erratic, thrust the fork into the hay yet again, but this time used it to lift out a heap.
‘Are they going to be long poking about?’ she asked the officer. ‘I’ve got to get all this up there.’
The officer ignored her complaint. In the loft, the two men kicked at the hay. Sophia tossed her forkful back on to the pile in seeming disgust. The scarf kept her bright hair hidden. The black boots on her feet, obviously men’s, would, she hoped, be accepted as practical.
‘Mademoiselle.’ The officer spoke sharply.
‘Yes? Yes?’ She looked at him. He did not seem to think much of her dirty face. She prayed her nerves weren’t showing. Heaven help me, what am I doing, what am I doing? The man they want is under this hay, and I must say so.
‘Have you seen any strangers, any strangers at all?’ The question was put in German.
‘What is it you’re saying?’ she asked.
The officer conjured up a few words in French.
‘Have you seen a man and a woman on your land today?’
She wanted to cry out, to tell him to look instead of asking questions.
‘I’ve seen no one except my father and old Jacques. I’ve already said so. Search all over if you want to.’
‘Even if you’d seen a thousand British airmen, you’re not the kind to say so,’ said the officer, but in German. ‘You’re a dirty-faced French slut.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Sophia, fighting a surge of hysteria.
‘You’re an unwashed peasant,’ said the officer, and his men grinned at Sophia’s look of mystification.
‘Excuse me?’ she said again.
‘Nothing,’ he said, and looked bad-tempered as the two men came down empty-handed from the loft. ‘Nothing, mademoiselle.’ He accorded her the favour of using French.
‘If it’s nothing,’ said Sophia, ‘perhaps your men would help me get this spilled hay back to the loft instead of standing about.’
The officer understood enough of that to take instant offence.
‘That’s work for you, not German soldiers!’ He glared
at her, and Sophia wondered if he had been given a detailed description of her, including the colour of her eyes. Her heart was sick and tortured, the soldiers were watching her and the officer shouting at her. Then he turned and strode from the barn. A soldier spoke to a comrade, and Sophia heard herself described as a French ratbag in need of a good wash, and that she had feet as large as an elephant’s.
Outside the barn, the Luftwaffe search party had arrived. The two groups mingled and conferred. Sophia, knees perilously weak, stuck the pitchfork into the hay once more and leaned on it. Beneath the pile, Captain Marsh lay still. A hovering soldier said, ‘What are you like when you’re washed, are you pretty?’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Sophia, racked with nerves and guilt and self-contempt.
The soldier, close to fifty, gave her a smile that was not unkind.
‘You’re pretty,’ he said. And although he assumed she could not understand German, he added for good measure, ‘Yes, under your dirt that’s what I think you are – pretty.’
She put on a look of incomprehension. He wandered away. Another soldier appeared beside her and stirred the pile of hay with a lazy boot. Sophia lifted the pitchfork and shook it at him.
‘That’s it, make a mess of it,’ she shouted.
The soldier, being the one who spoke painful French, laughed at her. He took hold of the pitchfork and wrested it from her, and Sophia knew he was going to scatter the pile. At that moment his officer shouted an order for reassembly. The soldier threw the fork down and vacated the barn with his comrades. The two search parties joined forces and moved away to take up the hunt on a new line, towards Douai. Sophia did not stir, and not until two minutes had passed did she speak.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ The voice was muffled.
‘Well, I am telling you not to move, not yet.’
‘Haven’t they gone?’
‘Yes. But I think they may come back. I think the officer wasn’t very satisfied.’
I am completely mad, she told herself. Sanity, in conflict with emotions, had disintegrated. She had betrayed Germany and herself.
She went to the entrance, the boots so heavy on her feet. She experienced no surprise when two soldiers came towards the barn from the left, walking quickly. One of them was the man who had taken the fork from her. They passed her without a word and entered the barn. Sophia went in after them.
‘Now what do you want?’ she asked.
There was no answer. They climbed smartly up to the loft. Sophia knew why. Their officer, dissatisfied, had thought he might catch her out. Of course, he had been looking for two people, not one. In accepting her for what she looked like, he had retained his picture of a British airman and a young woman in a black leather coat. Two people could not have hidden in that pile of hay, but there were possibilities about the loft.
The two soldiers rooted around, talking irritably. They spent little time on the disturbed hay, seeming more suspicious of the boarded walls. They hammered at them with their rifles, and searched for a section that might open. Sophia waited silently until they gave up and came down. Ignoring her, they investigated the lower walls. Finding nothing, they left abruptly, hurrying to catch up with their comrades. They had been looking for a place where two people could hide, not one. Yes. She could have helped them. She had chosen not to.
In a mood of bitter self-dislike, she prodded with the pitchfork and called to Captain Marsh. The large pile of hay heaved and broke apart. He came to his feet and brushed off clinging straw. He looked at her, his expression very concerned.
‘Is Sophia your real name?’ he asked.
‘My name is for my friends to use, not you,’ she said.
‘I understand. You’ve put yourself into a very uncomfortable situation.’
‘That worries you?’ she said coldly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m not an authority on your country’s laws in wartime, but I’d say you’d have been put under arrest if your soldiers had found out I was in that hay, no matter whose daughter you were. It was a risk you shouldn’t have taken.’
‘Then you should have stopped me, shouldn’t you?’ she said agitatedly.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I should have.’
‘You could have struck me down and made your run.’
‘Struck you down?’ he said in astonishment.
‘Yes. You’re very quick to use violence.’
‘Not to that extent.’
‘If that means you’d hesitate to actually strike me, I’m grateful.’
Captain Marsh, having spent a nerve-racking time under the hay marvelling at the incredible risks she was taking for him, shook his head at her. It was not difficult to understand that her nerves had been stretched even tighter than his.
‘All your feelings are very natural, and you’re entitled to relieve them.’
‘I’m quarrelling as much with myself as you,’ said Sophia. She took off the leather apron and put it back on its hook. She sat down on the pile of hay and removed the clumsy army boots. She unwound the scarf and her bright hair sprang free. He took the boots and scarf, and handed her own boots to her. She put them on, laced them up and rose to her feet. She brushed straw from her dress. He helped her into her coat, his expression still concerned. She refused to meet his eyes. ‘Are we to go on our way now?’ she asked.
‘First, thank you for what you did,’ he said. ‘It was damned uncomfortable under that hay, but I don’t think I suffered half as much as you did. Second, do you want to go as you are, with your face still dirty?’
‘Oh.’ That vexed her. A charade was a charade, but when it was over what woman liked to be told her nose was still painted red?
‘Allow me,’ said Captain Marsh, and gave his handkerchief to her. She cleaned off the dust and dirt, using her handbag mirror to inspect herself. Her lips grew tight, for he was smiling at her. ‘You’re really quite beautiful, aren’t you?’ he said.
Colour suffused her, angry colour.
‘Oh, that is almost indecent!’ she cried.
‘It was said, Sophia, without—’
‘You’ve no right to say things like that at all!’ She was stormy and fretful. ‘If you can forget you’re at war with my country, I can’t. You sided with France for your own ends. Now you’re trying to ease your conscience about your treatment of me by telling me something I don’t wish to hear – not from you.’
‘It was nothing to do with my conscience.’
‘I don’t care. I’d rather have your incivilities. Go away from me, go away!’
‘Yes, that would be the wiser thing to do now. Goodbye, and good luck.’
Quite sure she was mad beyond recovery, she called out as he walked from the barn.
‘Come back! You promised me – come back!’
But he went on. She ran after him. He gave her a slightly exasperated look.
‘Sophia, this is becoming absurd.’
‘You promised to get me to Douai – you know this area far better than I do – you’ve seen it all from the sky – and there are soldiers looking for me as well as you.’
‘But we shouldn’t go together, not now,’ he said. They were out in the open, recklessly exposed and he was striding fast, Sophia finding it difficult to keep up with him. ‘There’ll be too many questions asked of you, and no one must suspect you aren’t a completely loyal German patriot. You risked too much back there. We must separate.’
‘You promised to get me to Douai,’ said Sophia again, ‘and that’s all I’m concerned about.’
Captain Marsh slowed up and looked at the view. It was still rural, with its dips, its meadows, its farmlands and its patches of woodlands. Douai was only a few kilometres away. The search parties were out of sight. In the distance, where evergreen copses prevailed, he caught a glitter of reflected light. It was too far off to define its source, but he thought there were outlines foreign to the surroundings. He did not like being out in the open. It made him feel vulnerable. He had
sold too much of his soul to throw away his chances now. Any moment one search party or the other might reappear. Where were they? Scouting well ahead in the direction of Douai? He began to stride out again.
‘Must we go so fast?’ asked Sophia.
‘It’s my nerves, Sophia,’ he said with a smile, but he slowed, and they trudged over fields, Sophia suffering guilt and despair because of her inexplicable need to share this journey with him to its bitter end.
What kind of a fighter pilot was he? Skilful and deadly, probably, although he had not been a match for Richtofen. Fritz in an air battle would be a reckless cavalier. That was why she must marry him. He might have so little time left before he was shot down, and while she could she must as his wife give him love and make him happy.
It disturbed her then, that what should sound so right to her now actually seemed naive and even adolescent.
It was adolescent because it was sickly and prudish. If Fritz wanted her, she must not run around looking for a pastor who would marry them. What could marriage mean to him when his chances of survival were so limited? If he wanted her, she must simply give herself to him.
But the decision did not make her feel less disturbed.
‘Two centimes for your thoughts,’ said Captain Marsh.
‘My thoughts are not your concern,’ said Sophia.
‘We must do better than that, or we’ll come to blows again,’ he said, intent on reaching the shelter of the evergreens. ‘We can improve on meaningless chatter, I hope. I find you very interesting—’
‘I don’t want you to talk to me like that,’ she said, newly agitated. The guns began to rumble ominously, and she wondered if they were German guns, heralding a major bombardment of that sector of the British lines which Ludendorff meant to smash on the opening day of his offensive, according to the conversational Captain Vorster. Captain Vorster had also said Ludendorff was planning to drive a huge wedge between the British and French Armies. Thinking of that, it was curious to hear herself say, ‘What is so interesting about me?’
Love for a Soldier Page 14