Weaver tt-4

by Stephen Baxter

'I don't know,' she said simply.

  'And you want me to deceive Julia, somehow, so you can get close to Trojan, and Kamen. Is that it?'

  'Pretty much. Why, does that give you a moral problem?' She laughed. 'I mean, you're sleeping with an SS officer!'

  'What is this – blackmail?'

  'No, no. I'm just trying to understand.'

  'I don't pretend to understand it myself,' he admitted. 'Call it lust if you want. Must say I thought I was past all that.'

  'Maybe it's the uniform,' she said archly. 'And what does she want? I mean, she could have her pick of iron-muscled young SS officers, couldn't she? No offence, but-'

  'I think she's lost something too,' he said. 'She's lost her soul, mucking about with all those bloody Germans. Her English soul. So here she is with me. I mean, you can't get much more English than a copper, can you?'

  'You're a decent man, Sergeant,' said Doris. 'If I can see that, she must.'

  'Best not to talk such rubbish.'

  'All right. But the question is, will you help us?'

  'I don't know. You clowns in the auxiliaries-'

  'Look, if you won't do this for Mary – and you certainly won't do it for me – won't you think about it for the sake of Hilda's memory?'

  George felt his fists bunch. 'Don't you bloody talk about Hilda!'

  XVI

  In the end, it was well after eleven by the time Ernst turned up at the Royal Victoria Hotel, a little way out of the centre of town at St Leonards. And she was later still.

  He had booked a table in the restaurant, and he sat, self-conscious as he waited. An unctuous waiter came to take his order, speaking in smooth German; Ernst asked for a bottle of French wine, for he thought it would please Claudine. The waiter brought him a list, the names in German and the prices in Reichsmarks and sterling, and Ernst picked a bottle, more or less at random.

  There were plenty of uniforms here, mostly higher rank than his, and a few civilians, business types perhaps, come to investigate the investment opportunities the Reich insisted were to be found here in the protectorate, all blandly ignoring the curfew rules that confined lesser folk. One civilian sat alone at the table next to him, drinking brandy, reading a German-language edition of the Albion Times. Everybody spoke German, including the staff, although Ernst detected the stiff strain of an English accent a few times, expensive British types mingling easily with their conquerors.

  And then she came in, swaying through the polished wood of the hotel bar as if she owned the place, defying the curfew herself. She wore a slim-fitting dress and what looked like silk stockings, bright red stilettos, a powder-blue jacket, and a small hat like a trilby set at a teasing angle. Her lips, red like her shoes, were the brightest thing in the room. She drew glances, covert and otherwise, from every man in the room. But she made straight for Ernst.

  He stood as she approached. 'I can't believe you're here – I mean-'

  'I know.' She leaned over the table, letting him kiss her cheeks.

  He smelled perfume and face powder, a scent that wasn't like the schoolteacher he had known in Boulogne at all, but under it there was something, a deeper animal scent that he had never forgotten. She sat easily, crossing her legs. She snapped her fingers, and a waiter brought her a glass and filled it.

  He said, 'It's so strange seeing you here – it's so different.'

  'Well, nothing's the same, is it? Even if you stand still, it all changes around you. That's the war, I suppose. Look, have you got a light?' She produced a slim case of cigarettes.

  He fumbled for a match. Oddly he was reminded of the incident in the car, when Heinz had offered Alfie a cigarette. He had lodged the children with an aunt in Hastings for the night; he would take them home tomorrow. It was hard to think of that strange other family of his now; it was another category of reality, he thought, separated from the universe that contained the woman before him. 'I've never seen you dressed so well-'

  'Though you'd rather see me undressed.'

  The forwardness of that took him aback. 'A schoolteacher's pay must be good under the Reich.'

  'Well, I wouldn't know,' she said.

  'You gave up your teaching? What are you doing now?'

  'Oh, you know, this and that. A bit of translating; there's plenty of opportunity. It's just all so different now, Ernst. I mean, to be a teacher in the middle of all this – how is one meant to explain the war to a child?'

  'You used to say teaching was the highest calling.'

  'Well, we all say things that don't stay said, don't we?' There was a slight edge to her voice. 'Are you staying here, in the hotel?'

  'Oh, no. This is much too grand for me. I've lodgings for the night, a "bed-and-breakfast.' He used the English phrase. 'And you?'

  'I'm in a sort of hostel. Look, if we want to go somewhere the hostel will probably be best. The people are discreet – you know.'

  Again that seemed oddly forward. He glanced around the bar, hoping that nobody was overhearing. The man with the newspaper sipped his drink, his face concealed.

  She reached out to take his hand. 'Oh, let's not be shy. Look, I've been longing to see you. I got all your letters. I kept them.'

  'You did?'

  'What an extraordinary time you've had. You should turn it into a book one day.'

  'Well, it's not over yet. Besides – I meant those letters just for you.'

  'I know. I imagined you thinking of me, even under such circumstances. I was touched.' She was looking into his eyes; she was as lovely as ever.

  Yet there was something insincere about her. He saw it, in that moment. He pulled back.

  'Why, Ernst, what's the matter?'

  'I'll tell you what's the matter.' The dapper civilian at the next table folded up his newspaper. 'He's smelled my aftershave on you, that's what.' It was Heinz Kieser.

  'Heinz, you bastard, what are you doing here?'

  'Spying on you. What do you think? I wanted to see if the lovely Claudine really existed. There are no secrets in the barracks, you know! And now here she is, and well, well.'

  'Look, just leave us alone, will you?'

  'And guess what,' Heinz went on, 'it turns out I already knew her after all. Except she didn't tell me her name was Claudine, did you, darling?'

  'Go to hell,' she said.

  Ernst said, 'I don't understand. What are you talking about, Heinz?'

  'She's en carte.' He used the French phrase. 'Why don't you show him, Marie? Show him your card. Come on!'

  Claudine dragged hard on her cigarette, glaring at him.

  Heinz grinned and stood up. 'My work here is done, I think. Look, don't take it bad, son. We've all been there.' He patted Ernst's shoulder, but Ernst brushed him away.

  When he had gone, Claudine stared at the tip of her cigarette. 'Well. This is awkward.'

  'You don't have to explain. You don't owe me anything.'

  She looked up at him, and anger flared in her pretty, blank eyes. 'Maybe you owe me something, though. Shut up and pour me more wine.'

  He obeyed.

  'It happened after you left for the barges.'

  'What did?'

  'I was denounced for my relationship with you. Hard-faced bitch at the school, it was. Probably jealous. Or frigid.' She laughed. 'I got my apartment walls daubed with paint, slogans.'

  He nodded. 'Such people use the word "Jerrybags, in England.'

  'Do they? Well, I hated them, hated those who would speak out against others that way. What did they know of my heart? So I rebelled further. I took another lover.' She looked at his face. 'I'm sorry. Not a lover. I didn't love him… I just did it to get back at those who insulted me, really. A childish rebellion, yes? Still, he was there, and our time together was – acceptable. He gave me gifts, as you did. And after the denunciation I could no longer work at the school.'

  'Oh. So he paid you.'

  'It didn't mean anything. But then he was posted east, and off he went, bleating about his wife and two boys. I never heard from h
im again.'

  'But you needed the money.'

  'Another man came. A friend of the first. He said he had heard Hansie talk of me, and, well… That was how it started. All word of mouth, and all gentlemen, if I may say so. I think they cared for me, each in his way.'

  'And then?'

  'And then the resistance came. Bastards,' she said with sudden vehemence. 'What brave men they are, to target a woman alone. Much easier than fighting the Germans.'

  'You were attacked?'

  'They would have cut my face, if I hadn't got away. Well, the police came to me, and when they found out, you know, they passed me to the military authorities. After that it was all very smooth.' She looked at him. 'You're in the Wehrmacht. You know how it works. The army runs the houses. The girls are given their cards. I was checked for infection, and interviewed.' She laughed at that. 'Interviewed! They prefer respectable girls to whore for their soldiers. Well, I passed the test.'

  'And you came to England?'

  'The authorities are importing French whores for the men here. Think of that! The English are so cold they can't even prostitute themselves properly. Churchill should make a speech about it. And at least the resistance here are leaving the foreign girls alone.'

  'So you came for the Wehrmacht,' he said. 'For work. Not for me.'

  'No! Oh, Ernst, no. You are so straight in your thinking. It's either one thing or the other with you, isn't it? Nothing in between. Look, I wanted to see you. I still do.' She leaned forward. 'Why don't we get out of this place? We could go to the hostel.

  He stood in a kind of panic, shoving back his chair. He tried to calm himself. He took his wallet, drew out some Reichsmarks, and put them on the table, under the wine bottle. 'Will you be able to get back by yourself?'

  She looked confused. 'Yes – there are taxis – oh, Ernst, don't go.'

  He looked down at her, so beautiful, her bright red lips still shining bright. 'I'm sorry.' He turned on his heel and walked away.

  XVII

  9 November

  The prisoners were woken by bugle blasts.

  They gathered for the morning appell. The Nazi flag and the flag of Albion snapped high on their poles, lifted by a chill breeze under a bright blue sky. Bundled in their shabby greatcoats, the men stamped their feet and blew on their hands.

  The camp commander announced briskly that the regular Sunday work details would be suspended. Muffled cheers. Once again it was some kind of memorial day. But then Danny Adams announced the British troops would hold a parade and a minute's silence at eleven a.m.

  'Oh, it's not just any old memorial, old chap,' said Willis Farjeon, standing beside Gary in the rank. 'This is Armistice Day, when we all down tools to remember our fathers who fell in the War to End Wars. Nice clean military memorial, the kind the Nazis embrace to their bony little hearts-'

  'Put a sock in it, Farjeon,' murmured the SBO in his broad scouse. 'And besides, I suspect you and the other superior-breed types might not be spending the day with us after all.' He nodded over to where the commander and his senior aides had been joined by a couple of SS officers, who were, in the usual German fashion, consulting lists.

  The men whistled at the SS officers, and called out obscenities in a variety of languages, and those nearby nudged Gary and Willis. The stalag standing joke was that all SS men were in fact raging faggots, and that the racial selection processes had actually been about looking for pretty boys. 'Don't worry, Wooler, I hear Himmler's pecker is even smaller than Hitler's. You won't feel a thing.'

  Willis camped it up in response. Gary just stood there.

  But it turned out it wasn't all the stalag Aryans who were asked for today. The SS party came over to the British group and spoke briefly to the SBO. He turned and beckoned to Gary. 'Just you, Wooler.'

  Gary came out of the line. One of the SS officers stepped forward to meet him.

  'Oh, Christ,' somebody groaned. 'It's the SS bird. It's not fair.'

  From beneath a black peaked cap, a startlingly beautiful face smiled at Gary. 'So you're Corporal Wooler. I've been hearing about you – and your notorious mother, whom I actually met once. We have high hopes for you, Wooler. You're a significant figure. The American fighting for the British. The neutral who refuses a safe passage out of the stalag. You've made yourself prominent, among the Prominente!'

  The accent was pure upper-class English. 'My God. What are you?'

  Her smile broadened. 'I am SS-Unterscharfuhrer Fiveash. But you can call me Julia. We've quite a day ahead of us, Corporal. Come now.' And she turned and walked away.

  Gary glanced at the SBO, who nodded.

  Behind him the men, recovering their nerve, got into the catcalling. 'You lucky dog,' shouted Willis Farjeon. 'You lucky dog, Wooler!'

  He was led to the gate, where he was briskly searched, first by an SS man and then by stalag guards. The guards, knowing the prisoners' tricks, were a lot more thorough, but he was spared the indignity of a strip search and a cavity inspection.

  A small group of staff cars was waiting outside the stalag gate. Julia Fiveash sat in one of these, behind a Wehrmacht driver. The car door was open, and she patted the seat beside her. Gary joined her, bewildered.

  The cars pulled away, and formed up into a small convoy. They were heading east, he saw from the angle of the sun, towards the coast. Gary reflexively considered the possibilities of escape. This was no steel-barred truck; this was an open car, and he could just hop over the side. But he had no doubt that weapons were trained on him.

  Fiveash said, 'We don't have far to go – a couple of miles.'

  'Where to?'

  'You'll see.' Fiveash was watching him. 'So how do you feel? What are you thinking? Come, Corporal, I hope you won't cling to that name, rank and serial number routine; I do want us to get to know each other.'

  How did he feel? He ran a fingertip along a seam of the leather seat cover. The car was gleaming inside and out, and the woman beside him was crisp and sharp in her jet-black uniform. It was a bright, fresh English fall day, and the car, bowling along, threw up a rooster-tail of leaves that smelled of wood smoke. 'I haven't been in any sort of vehicle outside of a steel-walled prison truck for a year. I feel grimy. Hell, I am grimy.'

  'Well, you don't need to be grimy. Not any more.'

  Soon they approached a cluster of buildings, gathered around a crossroads.Gary's first impression was of whitewashed concrete. It was nothing like the compact little villages of Kent; it looked new, alien, as if it had been dropped from the sky. And it didn't look like another prison, at least, though there was a fence of chicken-wire and barbed wire around it.

  They stopped at a barrier, where an SS-schutze, a private, checked papers handed over by the drivers.

  Gary studied the sign before the barrier. 'Nova Rutupiae." What the hell kind of name is that?'

  'Latin,' said Fiveash. 'Or at least some Party scholar's idea of Latin. Rutupiae, you see, is the old Roman name for Richborough. So it seems appropriate. You know Richborough; you've been working there. I'm told that you will be able to see the invasion monument from the podium of Rutupiae's thingplatz.'

  The barrier was raised. They were driven through into the fenced-off inner area, where they climbed out of the car.

  'Of course the fence is such a bore,' Fiveash said. 'It will be such a relief when the armistice is signed, and we can tear down all these barriers, even the First Objective itself – don't you think? Now, come, follow me, we've a lot to see.'

  She set off briskly. He followed. They were tailed, reasonably discreetly, by a couple of SS men.

  XVIII

  They walked along a kind of street. The buildings were white-painted with rendered walls, flat roofs, shuttered windows, little scraps of lawn neatly cut. But the houses were odd, built like long halls, stretching back from the street. There was no sense of individuality about them, as if they had been stamped out of a mould in some factory. And none of the houses looked occupied; they all had their shutters
closed.

  There was nobody about save more SS, and a party of workers, shabby, exhausted, shuffling along under the watchful eye of guards. Gary wondered if they were prisoners on labour detail. None of them looked at him.

  'These are residences, obviously,' Fiveash said. 'It's a pity they weren't built in a more sympathetic style, but for now labour and materials are understandably short… The larger building is the manor house, where the controlling SS officer will reside.'

  'What the hell is this place?'

  'A village,' Fiveash said. 'Some of the Ahnenerbe thinkers call it a colony", but that word has regrettable overtones. This one is meant as a model of its type – a show home, a demonstration of the possible. This is a lebensborn village, Gary. Now come and see the public facilities.'

  At the heart of the 'village' were unopened shops with their functions displayed on hastily painted signs, and a space with sheds and stock-yards, like an agricultural market. There was even a British pub, mocked up in concrete and white paint; it had no name, but the sign outside carried a stern portrait of Hitler. What Fiveash called the sportplatz was a complex of arenas and facilities, including a soccer pitch and a shooting gallery. There was a large open field which Fiveash said would be a cemetery – very important in this community, she said, a place to honour the dead. 'It's all very Iron Age,' she said drily.

  The most imposing facility was the thingplatz, an arena like an open-air theatre with a raised podium. Flagpoles soared, and Gary saw searchlight mounts. You could hold a hell of a rally here. All this was brand new, unused; Gary could smell paint. The only colour amid all the white was the vivid green of the lawns.

  'You're one of the first candidates to see this.' Fiveash smiled, her teeth dazzling white in the sun. 'You may not feel this way now, but you're honoured. Really, you are!'

  She led him back through the village to the residential buildings, and opened up one of the houses. Inside the decor was functional – more white paint, with false pillars to mask the concrete, and solid-looking furniture of wood and leather. The house was in two halves, he found, looking around, with a family living area at one end, and an open space at the far end that Fiveash said was meant as a barn.