Down the main road we marched, ignoring the splashes from passing armoured cars and German lorries bound for the port. The streets were empty of French pedestrians. Once I caught a side-glimpse of a dark-haired woman carrying an umbrella, but she lowered her head and hurried out of sight as we passed. Some of the buildings looked deserted, the shutters swinging, windows broken. I daren’t look too hard; it took all my effort to keep moving. The arm holding the rifle ached like the devil already, and my thighs were burning.
Though the road signs had been uprooted, a painted shop sign on a butcher’s told me we were in Octeville, the Avenue de Normandie. From an upstairs window, a brick sailed towards the men in front. It landed short and broke into bits, but was ignored by the troop. I had the impression of men moving out of sight. Thank God for our helmets. I passed several burnt-out cars, but I couldn’t stop to wonder, for the noise of stomping feet had become just background to the pain burning in my legs and feet, and the straining muscles of my arm. To my shame, I could hear myself panting audibly as we came to a bridge and turned left onto a forest track.
There the ranks split into columns of two and broke into a jog. The man next to me was breathing evenly, eyes fixed ahead, the picture of health, his cheeks pink and smooth. Beside him, I laboured to keep up, sweat pouring from under my helmet to sting my eyes. ‘Shan’t give up,’ I chanted in my head, over and over. My legs were slipping to jelly and there was a stitch tightening like a wire in my side. I gritted my teeth. How much longer?
Another mile. Tall pines passed either side in a never-ending blur. I couldn’t go on. I was stumbling now and the obligatory pack thumped against my back, winding me with every step. How had I got so unfit? The men in front kept up the relentless pace. But I knew I couldn’t stop. To do so would be to show myself up as unworthy, as weak. Another mile. Two. My feet stung, raw from the rubbing of the new boots; the shoulder under the rifle was on fire.
Finally the trees cleared and we emerged onto an old railway track. A glance to the left showed a burnt-out German tank and an overturned English armoured car. Beside it lay untidy brown heaps, which I somehow understood to be dead Englishmen.
Don’t look, I told myself.
From there, we came to a road. When the order came to march again in the dreaded goose-step, my legs would barely lift. The men behind me fell into ranks either side. One of them cast a disgusted eye on my overheated face, glanced at my legs stumbling out of time on the tarmac.
At long last the hotel came back into view. I’d never seen a more welcome sight in my life.
‘You!’ One of the officers fell into step beside me as we turned into the yard. ‘Fall out left.’
I staggered from the line and tried a half-hearted salute. Stopping was as bad as jogging. I was pouring with sweat, my collar drenched with it. The uniform stuck to my back.
‘What’s your name?’ The officer who’d pulled me out had a long nose and blue eyes under white-blond eyebrows.
‘Huber, sir.’
‘You make us look untidy.’
The officer behind caught up, and my shoulders sank. Leutnant Obenauer.
‘What’s up here?’ Obenauer asked. ‘Trouble?’
‘This man can’t march.’
‘Not surprised,’ Obenauer said. ‘He says he’s had no training.’
‘Why not?’
‘Kommandant Zweig’s orders.’
‘The bugger. Does he expect us to train him?’
Obenauer shrugged, in a slightly pleased sort of way. ‘Probably.’
The officer glanced at the backs of the men lining up in neat ranks. ‘Then you can have him, Obenauer. Make sure he’s up to it by tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Oberleutnant Jessel, sir.’ With that, Jessel walked off after the platoon.
I waited for Obenauer’s orders.
‘Well, Herr Bäckermeister,’ Obenauer said, using the term ‘master baker’ with a supercilious smile. ‘You look a mess. And I don’t like cleaning up other people’s messes.’
I wished I could catch my breath enough to reply to Obenauer, but I also knew that, a) I was too bloody unfit, and b) to do so would be fruitless and only lead to more trouble. I knew his type. He was like my brother, Horst. Nothing would be gained by going against him. He was a man who thrived on lording it over people. If Obenauer was anything like Horst, he’d do anything rather than suffer an injury to his pride.
‘Have you nothing to say?’
I squared my back and stared impassively over Obenauer’s shoulder.
‘Well. I don’t intend to get into trouble with Jessel. So you have half an hour to tidy yourself up. Wipe your face. Clean your boots. After that, you will practice marching drill in the yard.’
Such bliss to take the weight off my feet. It seemed bizarre to be in uniform. My mind ran over how I’d got here. How, once in neutral waters, the Jersey boat had dumped me on the German motorboat like an unwanted catch of fish. My papers said I was being repatriated, and I suppose to Jersey I was an embarrassment and they were glad to be rid of me. From the formal greeting on the motorboat, I was offloaded in the port, where a group of German soldiers hauled me aboard a docked troop carrier: all grins, full of the news of the failure of the Maginot Line. Their air of righteous confidence was infectious: that everything was to go the German way, that the English were running, defeated, in their tiny boats, scared of the weight of German tanks and men.
Now I was one of those men. If I could ever get fit enough.
The half hour flew by too quickly. I examined my heels. Not good; they were blistered and bleeding, but with no bandages to hand, I had to improvise and put on a second pair of socks. It made my eyes water to force my sorry heels back in those boots. Each step was a torture. Wincing, I washed my face at the sink, shying away from the mirror and the pathetic creature trying to comb his hair with trembling hands. I thought of Father, who’d served in the Great War. He’d be ashamed of me.
Half an hour later, Obenauer was already waiting as I marched over, determined not to limp. He ran through the orders: ‘Vorwärts! Im Gleichschritt! Marsch! Im Laufschritt, marsch! Beine höher!’ Forwards. Goose-step. Quick march. Legs higher.
I refused to be defeated. I stoically did as ordered. I’d done a few rounds of the yard before Obenauer was joined by a few of his friends. Their laughter carried across the yard, and the sound of it sapped my remaining strength.
Obenauer preened himself and yelled even more ludicrous orders. ‘Right turn! Forward march! About turn!’ all followed in quick succession.
‘Make the fat pig jump, Fritz!’ one called.
I heard him but ignored it.
‘Hinlegen!’ came the order.
Lie down? What the…? I stopped, unsure whether to obey or not. I was tired of this game.
‘You heard me!’ Obenauer yelled. ‘Lie down!’
I let my knees give way and lay flat on the ground. Peals of laughter came from Obenauer’s friends.
‘Up!’ came the immediate call. I stood, a sudden flare of anger burning in my chest. I was half up when the order came again.
‘Lie down!’
Damned if I would. I ignored it and continued to stand up.
‘Lie down!’ Obenauer yelled again.
I pulled myself slowly upright. ‘This isn’t training,’ I said quietly. ‘You’ve had your fun. I had a long journey here and this is my first day. So give a chap a break, lads, won’t you?’
‘It’s my first day,’ Obenauer mimicked in a babyish lisp. His friends tittered, enjoying the joke.
So, reasonable requests were not going to work. Still, I’d tried. I took a deep breath. ‘If you want me to do more, you can take it up with Kommandant Zweig. I’ll answer to him.’ I turned and began to walk away.
I felt an icy shock as a pail of cold water hit me with a clout from behind. I paused only an instant but kept on walking, the water dripping down my neck. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my face.
I pushed
my way into the lobby, which was full to bursting with a crowd of soldiers cramming down the stairs into the dim hallway. Someone had lit paraffin lamps, and the smell of paraffin mixed with the savoury smell of frying onions.
‘Still raining is it?’ a cheerful voice asked me. The older recruit from the stores. ‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘Time to eat.’
‘I’ll just go and get dry,’ I said, wiping the wet from my face.
‘No time, friend.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. I winced. Every jolt made me ache all over. ‘A chap told me if you don’t get in the first sitting, there’ll be nothing left. Come on, you can dry off later.’
We queued by the trestles in the dining hall with the rest. The smell of food made me realise I was ravenous, and surprisingly, the food was plentiful: a German-style meal of potatoes and a veal stew with hunks of black bread. I couldn’t help thinking that more salt and real peppercorns would have made it far more appetising.
‘I’m Helmuth,’ my shorter companion said. ‘Helmuth Schulz. You new? Where’d you do your training?’
Again that question. I decided to say nothing. ‘Huber. Siegfried,’ I said, ‘but everyone calls me Fred.’
The other man raised his eyebrows, waiting for more. A brief silence. Perhaps he saw evasiveness in my eyes. He filled the gap. ‘Me, I’m from Frankfurt,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t take me at first. Thought me too old. But in the end I convinced them they needed me. I can mend their boots if nothing else.’ He laughed, a deep belly laugh that put crinkles round his eyes. ‘I’m a cobbler,’ he said. ‘Well, was. In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m a soldier now.’
I laughed, though almost immediately I’d categorised the man as provincial, a bit lacking in intelligence. I hated that about myself; that I was so quick to judge. And I didn’t want to reveal what I did for a living because it was too hard to explain that I wasn’t just an ordinary baker, but a skilled pâtissier. It would sound patronising. And if I told him I was a baker, it would make me seem like a working man, when I wasn’t. Not really. Not with a university education and a training in Vienna that nearly broke my father. Instead, I asked him, ‘You married?’
‘Yes. A good girl. Ingrid. She didn’t want me to join up.’
I nodded, and waited. He seemed to want to talk.
‘She’ll come round, once we’ve sorted out France. She deserves a better life. Her father lost everything in the crash of 1923. His savings, her dowry, all made worthless overnight. What should have bought her a house — well, after, it would barely buy half a loaf of this bread.’ He waved the slice in front of my face.
‘Must’ve been awful.’
‘Terrible. Ingrid couldn’t get over the shock of losing everything. They had to move from their fine big house into a small apartment, a rabbit hutch of a place. That’s how we met. I was next door.’
‘Must’ve been fate,’ I said.
‘She was so beautiful, and I never thought she’d say yes. I overheard her one day as her father went out to beg for bread. She said, “But we are better than this, Father.” I couldn’t bear it. So I offered to marry her and told him I’d work night and day to build up my little business, and one day I’d keep her in the manner to which she was accustomed.’
‘And did you?’
‘Ha! What do you think? I was so naïve. A stupid youth, full of big ideas. No. The white Jews swarmed in from the east and took over our neighbourhood. They were the ones with the money; they bought up all the best shops. The big houses with gardens. We just couldn’t get premises. Oh, Ingrid hasn’t ever complained. But I saw it in her face every day, that life had disappointed her. She’d sit in her best silk dress, gazing out of the window of our shabby apartment, as if to look inside it offended her. It broke me. Just broke me. Every day she’d see the Jewish women walk by in their jewels and furs. That’s when I joined the party. I saw that National Socialism was the answer.’ His face was pink with heat and enthusiasm.
‘Do you have children?’
‘Not yet. But we will. And when we do, they’ll never again become victims of someone else’s money and power. And with luck, Hitler’s vision will spread all over Europe — we are bringing our forward-thinking to our neighbours.’
Did he mean France? I was uncertain about the idea of Germany taking over France. I loved French culture, and particularly its food. I cleared my throat. ‘Do you think we’ll be staying here for good? I mean, will France be under German rule from now on?’
He rubbed a knuckle up the side of his nose, surprised at the question. ‘I expect so. Some things we’ll keep, I think, like better food and wine, and better beaches. Prettier women!’ He laughed. ‘But the rest — the French inefficiencies, all their moral indecency, their lack of discipline — well, we’ll soon clear all that up.’ Helmuth paused and leaned towards me, embarrassment creeping over his face. ‘I saw,’ he whispered. ‘In the yard.’
I felt my face grow hot. So I was to have no pride. I pretended not to hear and wiped a chunk of bread over the greasy lines on my plate.
‘I was at the window and I saw what they made you do. It wasn’t right. The new Germany doesn’t need men like him. We’re supposed to be setting the French an example.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Forget it.’
Helmuth’s mouth twitched as though he might say something else, but in the end he kept silent and tucked in to his stew again with enthusiasm, tearing at the bread with his teeth.
When he’d done, he said, ‘It’s good to meet you, Fred. I’m glad there’s another new boy like me. We’ll stick together, eh?’
I smiled, hoping he didn’t detect my lack of enthusiasm. I stood up, shivering in my damp clothes. I had to get away. Away from this man who’d witnessed my humiliation. ‘Goodnight then.’
‘I’m for an early night too,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to getting my orders tomorrow. Don’t know what my duties are till then. You?’
‘No. No idea.’ I was about to walk away when he kept me talking.
‘As you can see, there’s no electric or gas to read by. Our boys took it all out. Thank God for our army kitchens, eh?’
I laughed politely.
‘Goodnight then. You should get into your fatigues before you catch your death,’ Helmuth said.
I quashed the irritation that he was telling me what to do. He obviously meant well. ‘You’re probably right. Goodnight, Helmuth,’ I said.
‘Hey Fred, better check the chalkboard by Reception before you go up,’ he said. ‘Routine schedule for the week’s posted there.’
I gave a nonchalant wave as I went. Out of the dining hall, I limped to the board and saw a timetable chalked in neat capitals. Reveille was at 5.30am. Later there was foot drill, artillery drill and briefings in the hotel. Perhaps then I’d meet Kommandant Zweig. But for now I was too tired to think. I peeled off my boots and uniform and climbed under the itchy grey blanket. I expected to sleep, but there was no chance. I heard the other men stumble in, laughing and jesting, smelling of schnapps. Much later, I heard snores from a neighbouring bed. I thought of my bedroom at home, Céline’s comforting arms around me and the lazy tick of our hallway clock. Finally, just as the dawn light crept through the window, I fell into a fitful sleep.
A piercing bell woke me. I squinted at the clock on the wall. Five o’clock. German time, I realised. The room was full of figures scrambling in the half-light, throwing on their clothes, smoothing down their beds. I glanced towards Obenauer’s bed, but it was already empty. Gingerly, I swung myself out of bed; every muscle had tightened overnight. One ankle was swollen; how had I done that? The thought of more marching filled me with dread. The other men were intent on dressing and making beds. No sign of Helmuth; he must be billeted elsewhere. Most of the men were of a type, thinner versions of me — pale, straight-nosed Aryans with fine blond hair.
I hurried to dress like the others, fastening my still-clammy jacket with fumbling fingers. I reached under the bed for my boots.
My hand felt empty air.
I’d left them just there, behind the door, I knew I had. Cursing my aching thighs, I groaned as I crouched down, then crawled under on hands and knees. Nothing.
‘Has anyone seen my boots?’ I asked.
Seven pairs of eyes turned to look. One of the men wore a half-smile, and I suddenly understood. Another of their little jokes.
‘Maybe you left them in the Lokus?’
Muffled titters.
‘I don’t need to take my boots off to pee,’ I retorted. ‘Has Leutnant Obenauer taken them?’
The men shrugged. ‘It’s not our fault you’ve lost them.’
‘Then I’ll go to the stores, explain someone’s taken them, and ask for another pair.’
This answer was met with indifference. I glanced at the clock. Five fifteen. I’d have to be quick if I was to get out on parade. I lurched for the door, but was forced aside as the others elbowed past.
Hobbling, trying not to feel foolish in my socks, I hurried to the stores. The door was locked. I couldn’t go on parade without boots. For a moment I leaned against the wall, defeated.
A soldier approached purposefully along the corridor. From his peaked cap, I realised he must be of a superior rank.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you on parade?’ The voice was cold, impersonal.
‘Sorry, sir. I know this sounds a little odd, but someone took my boots.’
By now, the square mountain of a man was right in front of me. ‘Why would anyone want your boots?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
‘Well what do you expect me to do about it?’
‘I was hoping —’
‘There’s a penalty for losing property of the Reich. I suggest you find them as soon as possible. Now get out of my sight.’
The Occupation Page 4
