by Stuart Clark
German troops now attacked daily, bolstered by reinforcements, whereas Lemaître and his colleagues were being whittled away with each bullet and bomb that fell in their midst. Soon they would be a skeleton force. Then one morning, new noises joined the battle.
There was a heavy bark of guns, deeper and more menacing than anything Lemaître had heard before. He looked along the dyke and saw the unspoken question on other faces. Only the sergeant was grinning, preening his grey moustache.
‘It’s the British: they’ve got warships anchored off the coast. Those rounds’ll plough up the German lines for us and no mistake.’ He sealed the good news with a wink.
Inevitably the Germans answered in kind, but their weapons could not possibly reach the ships, not even the giant howitzers they had rolled up a few days earlier. So, as had become the norm, they concentrated on the defensive lines in front of the town. Yet as the day wore on, there was no doubt in Lemaître’s mind that the bombardment had lessened. Even the grenade attacks were more modest, designed it seemed to harass rather than break through.
Occasionally the enemy gunners would lift their sights and target the town itself. Lemaître would watch from the temporary safety of the frozen earth as one building after another was chipped away. When a shell really found its mark a whole building would collapse, sending billowing clouds of brick dust through the streets and thick fingers of smoke up into the sky.
Yet it all felt rather desultory, and Lemaître found himself warming to the notion that perhaps the invaders had lost heart. Those with field glasses had a different story to tell. The bombardment had shifted merely northwards, intensifying the battle along the river. Lemaître felt helpless and spent the afternoon fretting about Jacques.
The night battalion arrived on schedule as the town was turning into silhouettes. Now that the battle had moved away, the raucous accompaniment of the guns had been replaced by an unsettling quiet. The only sounds were coming from the battalion dogs, roused to barking by some unknown phantom.
‘All right, boys, let’s get ourselves out of here for the night.’ The sergeant counted them out of the trench with a slap on each shoulder and the squad withdrew under the light of a heavy rising moon.
Lemaître and the others trooped off, keenly aware that their backs were turned to no-man’s-land. They knew better than to relax before they were well hidden by the buildings towards the rear of the town.
Lemaître was about to round the corner into the market square when noise assaulted his senses. Sudden and absolute, it was as harsh as a physical blow. He hit the ground, unsure whether he had been blown off his feet or dived instinctively, and grabbed his helmeted head to hold the protective headgear in place. He buried his face in the dirty street, eyes squeezed shut, and felt the rain of debris pummel his body.
Dust filled his nostrils, threatening suffocation. His eyes sprang open and he hauled himself to his feet. Piles of rubble and bricks surrounded him. Moonbeams cut through the skeleton of what had been a home until a few moments ago, their silver light slipping through a shattered ribcage of broken banisters.
His knuckles were smarting, and a quick inspection told him they were badly skinned. He flexed his fingers and then wafted his hands in the cooling air to soothe them.
Others were rousing too, spectres moving through the settling clouds of pulverised mortar. Lemaître mentally counted off the faces one by one.
‘Where’s the sergeant?’ he called.
They organised a search and began combing the debris. Lemaître used his feet to topple any pile that looked big enough to hide a man.
‘He’s here,’ came the shout.
Lemaître slithered over the uneven debris to where they were hauling out the sergeant by his armpits to prop him against a wall.
Lemaître squatted to study the avuncular face, hoping for some glimmer. There was nothing except a frozen look of profound annoyance. Lemaître bowed his head and prayed. Whatever had made the sergeant more than just flesh had already departed.
After a fitful night, Lemaître and the remains of his squad were ordered out of bed earlier than any of them had feared. There was a sense of urgency bordering on panic in the town. Men with shovels were reinforcing the defensive mounds and soldiers were forlornly counting their ammunition, looking around to see if they could possibly have dropped any.
The news was not difficult to discover. Yesterday’s offensive had been successful; the Germans had broken through further north and crossed the Yser. Diksmuide could be surrounded in days.
‘We’re done for,’ one of the squad muttered, and spat on the floor.
Lemaître and the rest were hurried to a schoolroom where the small desks had been shoved into a pile so that the men could crowd in.
A map was pinned over the children’s drawings that lined the wall. It showed the bridgehead of Diksmuide, sticking out like a nose to the east of the Yser. The waterway ran more or less north to Nieuwpoort, where it emptied into the North Sea. To the west of the river was a railway, marked by a line that curved away from Diksmuide on a circuitous journey to the port. A blunt pencil had been used to hatch the crescent-shaped lowland between river and track. The commander used his filthy fingernail to tap this shaded area.
‘This is the last line of defence. Flood the polders here, and we’ll save Nieuwpoort.’
Flood the polders! Lemaître could hardly believe his own ears.
The commander pressed on, speaking quickly. ‘The Germans will have no choice but to turn southwest, and that will take them straight into the greater assembly of allied forces. There’s a full moon in two days’ time that will bring a high tide capable of turning these fields into a swamp. We must be ready for the coastal sluices to open. And that means that we have the most important duty of our lives to perform.’
He swept his gaze around the grubby soldiers, making brief eye contact with every man in the room before continuing.
‘The railway is built on an embankment containing twenty-two culverts. These keep the fields drained of excess water and must therefore be blocked before the sluices are opened. They must be completely blocked if the flooding is to succeed. No mistakes.’
Lemaître’s body prickled. He thought of the great machine of the German army pressing down on them. It was relentless, virtually invincible; supplied directly from the Rhineland, rotating its troops away to rest for days or even weeks at a time; it was impossible to beat man for man, but damming the culverts so that the sluices could be opened – that could be done.
‘Lemaître!’
He stepped forward automatically. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I hear you were studying engineering before you volunteered. You’ll be in charge of a squad.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Now was not the time to confess that he was veering towards physics because the mathematics needed for engineering had proved too simple to hold his attention.
At dusk, the squad of a dozen men made their way along the tall railway embankment. Rifles were strapped across their backs, shovels and pickaxes stowed in the dogcarts rattling along beside them.
The fields were bare after the autumn crop and hard underfoot from the frosts. If the plan succeeded tonight, it could be years before these lowlands were drained again.
Lemaître called his squad to a halt at the first culvert and peered inside. The drainage channel was only tall enough for a man to crouch low, but it was deep, extending about five metres through the embankment beneath the track. They would not have to fill its entire depth but they would have to completely block the entrance. He estimated it was probably two hours’ work, and thought briefly of the other squads sent to other sections of the line.
The men swung their picks but they made little impression in the frozen soil. Lemaître raised his estimate for each culvert to three hours; it was going to be a close thing. Around him the icy air carried the sounds of distant battle. He moved his shovel quickly, urging his men to do the same, and the culvert filled steadily.
&
nbsp; As the night fell, a false dawn of battle-fires and the white flash of explosives lit the eastern horizon. He glanced around and saw another light, much closer. It was the yellow glow from the window of a small, whitewashed farmhouse sitting in the middle of the field. The moonlight caught hold of a thin grey twist of smoke rising from its chimney.
He sighed; he would have to warn them to leave. As he passed the dogcarts, he noticed the dogs quivering with cold.
‘Exercise them,’ he ordered a recruit. ‘We can’t risk losing the dogs.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lemaître cut off over the field until he arrived at a worn track that led to the clapboarded farmhouse.
He knocked on the door, calling, ‘I’m a friend, a Belgian.’
The door opened to reveal the farmer holding a cumbersome old shotgun, levelled and ready. Lemaître jumped back, hands raised.
‘Please! I’ve come to warn you. This whole area’s to be flooded.’ The farmer’s eyes narrowed.
‘It’s our only hope. The enemy’ll be here tomorrow or the day after. We have to flood the polders to stop their advance or all of Belgium will be in their hands.’
A frightened woman, huddled in a shawl, appeared from behind her husband. ‘But this is all we have.’ Her desperation was palpable.
Lemaître turned for the gate. ‘I’m so sorry, but you must go. I will pray for you.’
When he returned to his men he found that they had made good progress; some had stripped off their woollen jackets to work in their shirts or vests.
‘Good work, lads. I’ll have to leave you to your own devices more often.’
Lemaître helped as they delivered the last spadefuls and set about compacting the earth with the flats of their shovels, fashioning an earthen buttress over the drain. Lemaître checked his watch: two hours and fifteen minutes. He nodded in satisfaction: better than he had hoped.
‘Let’s move on.’
They were working on the third culvert when a rickety cart, pulled by an old nag, creaked past. It was piled haphazardly with belongings, including an upturned rocking-chair and a bundled clothes-line. Lemaitre recognised the occupants and watched them pass, hoping for some acknowledgement, but the farmer and his wife remained stony-faced, their gazes fixed firmly ahead.
By the time the squad reached the final culvert, it had become increasingly difficult to walk. The ground was clawing at them and caking their boots in mud.
They’ve opened the sea gates already, thought Lemaître. ‘No time to slow down now, lads,’ he called. ‘We’re nearly done. The battle’s nearly over.’
They set to with a renewed urgency and, having completed the task, marched the final distance into Nieuwpoort. The nearer they approached, the more swamped the conditions became. Before long the dampness began to climb the wool of Lemaître’s uniform trousers. Around him ovals of water dotted the furrows, shining silver in the moonlight, and the dogs whined as the carts became mired.
He had no choice but to order the men to lift the carts and carry them on their shoulders. Others took charge of the dogs, allowing them enough leash to bound over the worst of the quagmire.
When they finally trudged into Nieuwpoort, Lemaître thought he would sleep for a week. He reported in at the sentry post and arranged for the dogs to be kennelled. Then he followed orders and ushered his squad into a church hall so that they could be debriefed.
They had a day’s rest before the battalion commander again summoned them to the hall. He looked exhausted, his tiny eyes half shut, and Lemaître feared the worst. Yet when the commander spoke, he said, ‘Congratulations. It worked. The Germans have broken off the attack.’
Around him the cheering reached to the rafters. It was as if they had won the war. The men slapped each other on the back, punched each other on the arm and mussed one another’s hair.
Lemaître raised his voice too, but then his mind filled with images. Sinking into the mud, the Germans would have been sitting ducks. It did not take long to find those in the camp who had seen the ensuing slaughter. Regrouped and ready, the Belgian troops had killed thousands of men until the Germans had sounded the retreat. Lemaître would be busy with his prayers tonight.
8
Berlin
The night was turning to stone around them as they waited on the top step in front of the Habers’ front door. Even through his woollen overcoat, Einstein could feel the icy barbs touching his skin. He stepped forward and rang the bell a second time. As before, no one answered. He turned to Elsa with a shrug.
‘Are you sure you got the right night?’ she asked.
He ignored the question. He was already on edge from having agreed to take her with him. Their relationship was the worstkept secret in Berlin, yet he still felt nervous about publicly acknowledging it.
She chattered on. ‘You know what you’re like for forgetting things.’
He pointedly ignored that comment too. ‘No lights on.’ He gestured towards the house. ‘What could have happened?’
‘Well, we can’t stay here. It’s freezing.’ Her fleshy face was already pale with cold.
‘You’re right. Let’s leave a note and be on our way.’ He began patting around his pockets for a scrap of paper and a pen when a squat figure appeared from the night, waddling hurriedly along the street. ‘Walther?’
Nernst stepped fully into the lamplight.
‘Walther, when did you get back? I thought you were still at the front.’
Nernst’s breath came in giant gasps. ‘There’s been an explosion at the university – in Fritz’s lab. Someone’s been killed.’
‘Killed?’ Elsa shrieked.
Einstein scuttled down the steps. ‘Where’s Clara?’
‘She’s gone over there. To the university.’
‘Then we must go too,’ declared Einstein.
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ said Elsa uncertainly.
Einstein was already hastening off down the street. ‘Go home and wait for me. Walther, what was Haber working on?’
An uncomfortable expression crossed Nernst’s face. ‘Perhaps best you don’t know.’
There was a cordon blocking their way fifty yards from the laboratory. Einstein hesitated until he glimpsed Clara, down near the entrance. He ducked the rope and approached. Her arms were clasped around her body. Her lips were drawn into a tight line and she was staring at the wooden blocks of the corridor’s floor. Einstein feared the worst and quickened his pace. Nernst jogged along beside him.
Einstein almost shouted in relief when he caught sight of Haber. He was standing in the doorway to the chemistry lab, contemplating the wreckage. A desk had been turned to matchwood and there was extensive charring on the ceiling. The blast had smashed all the windows and scattered a number of metal canisters across the floor.
Haber barely acknowledged them. He seemed haunted by the presence of his wife, who flicked Einstein a look but said nothing. She was studying her husband so closely that it was clearly not with concern but something more hostile.
Haber stood aside as a pair of men in medical uniforms carried out a stretcher. The person on it was anonymous, covered head to foot by a white sheet.
‘Poor Detlev,’ moaned Clara.
Haber swung to glare at her. ‘He was killed outright. He wouldn’t have known a thing.’
She met his gaze with bright contemptuous eyes and he turned his back. He began to clear away the canisters, handling them as carefully as newborns.
At the sight, Einstein felt a chill, colder than anything the night had to offer.
*
Einstein was already sitting in the restaurant, studying a simple typed menu, when Freundlich burst through the entrance, setting the door blind rattling against the glass. The two men exchanged greetings and soon the astronomer was reliving his captivity as if it had been some kind of Boy Scout misadventure. ‘I don’t mind telling you, when they called my name from the ranks, I thought I was a dead man.’ He told how his group had been led away b
y soldiers but, instead of facing a firing squad, they had been shipped off north-eastwards – he could tell that from the stars through the carriage windows on the guarded train. Only when they were taken to the German embassy had he realised that they were being repatriated.
‘The observatory is virtually empty these days,’ said Freundlich.
‘Even Karl has volunteered for the army.’
‘Schwarzschild? I don’t know him that well.’
‘You should get to know him better; he’s an expert mathematician. I think he’s very interested in your work.’
Einstein laid down the menu. ‘Then he’s the only one who is. Most of them dismiss it.’
‘Is it going badly? I thought you were so close.’
‘So did I.’
The blind alley he found himself in had become obvious just a few days before, when he had realised that the equations he was using to describe the curvature of space would not yield the correct precession of Mercury’s orbit.
‘I need to start again with better equations,’ said Einstein, ‘find a set that makes the answer the same, regardless of the observer’s state of motion. Acceleration is the key to this. But for the moment, I’m back to square one.’
The waiter appeared and Freundlich hurriedly picked up the menu. Pork was the most obvious and cheapest thing. The authorities had started slaughtering pigs because their feed took food away from the human population. The slaughter was also serving to put cheap meat on the table again, or on non-Jewish ones at least.
‘Do you?’ asked Freundlich.
‘I’ve eaten pork since I was twelve and my intellect began to question blind assumptions,’ replied Einstein, and ordered the pork belly.
With a look, so did Freundlich. It came in heavy gravy with a rather meagre lump of bread.
‘At least a quiet observatory must be a good place for concentration,’ said Einstein.
‘On the contrary, my duties are doubled. I’m doing all their work as well. I have no time to think about anything any more.’ There was clear resentment in Freundlich’s voice. ‘Albert, if something doesn’t happen – if you do not help me – I fear that I may never find the time to organise another eclipse trip.’