by David Fraser
The circumstances, too, were enjoyable. The last battles had found Frido’s Division in Brittany. Thence they had advanced south, crossed the Loire, reached the great vineyards of the Gironde. And an armistice had been signed. There was peace. Most of France was to be left to French administration. It seemed reasonable to hope that the war would soon be over. Few people could understand why England refused to accept the verdict of arms in which the majority of sensible Frenchmen appeared happy to acquiesce. Why could the English not do the same? Then everybody could go home.
It was not to be. Instead there was talk of ‘fresh operations’. A new training programme was initiated. Leave was confined to an occasional day pass. The life of the troops was still comparatively austere. The focus of public interest shifted to the Luftwaffe. If the English couldn’t understand that a page of history had finally turned they would have to be taught.
‘You’ve been to England, you know them, von Arzfeld,’ Frido’s brother officers would say. ‘What’s the matter with them? Why the hell do they want to continue this war? It could be over. Nobody’s threatening them if only they’ll agree with the outcome here.’
Frido would shrug his shoulders. The English were certainly obstinate. They were, he thought privately, most unlikely to accept as final the result of Sichelschnitt, the German offensive in France and Flanders. He had, on his visits, found the English very agreeable; largely uncomprehending of the way history and events appeared to other nations including his own; firm in their prejudices, whether rational or no; but most agreeable. He suspected that one of these English prejudices, at the moment, was that the fight against Germany must go on – somehow, somewhere, for some reason; and felt pretty sure that after the air battles of the late summer this prejudice was likely to be ineradicable. He thought of Oxford, of his conversations with Anthony Marvell, of his visit to Bargate. He was disinclined to confide to his fellows the opinion that the English distrusted the Führer so deeply that they regarded negotiation with his Government as impossible. It was best to keep that sort of explanation to oneself.
Frido himself had, from its beginning, profound reservations about the War. He had always been upset by the strident mixture of populist heroics, peaceful protestations and sudden, brutal reversals of policy which had marked the Nazi era, had led to the invasion of Poland and had now made the Germans masters of Europe to the Channel ports. He often felt a sense of doom, of the whole German nation, family, friends, comrades, moving – chattering, laughing, singing – towards some unimaginable fate, deceived and self-deceiving: while even those who were not deceived had, it seemed, long given up hope of changing the course of events. Frido often thought of contemporaries of his father, old soldiers, rare visitors who sometimes appeared at Arzfeld, talking to Kaspar with long faces in low voices –
‘Of course it’s mad – quite mad.’
But at other times – and Frido was too honest not to admit it – there appeared to be not only exhilaration but justice in the way matters had gone. One did not have to be a National Socialist, Frido reflected, to feel some satisfaction in this hour. The French had triumphed for so long, boasted so loudly, behaved often so viciously, exacted from others with such lack of compassion when victorious. Deep in the collective memory of Frido’s family and neighbours were two – perhaps only two – other historic occasions, other summers which could compare. Once, one hundred and twenty-five years before, Hanoverian regiments had helped Wellington smash Napoleon’s Grand Army on the field of Waterloo, join hands with the Prussians at the end of the day and finish for ever, as it was thought, French domination over Europe. And Frido could remember vivid tales of the second occasion, could remember listening in his childhood to Grandfather, General von Arzfeld, a white-moustached veteran who would be ninety-one were he alive to see this day. Grandfather von Arzfeld had enthralled small grandsons with his recollections of a September day in 1870, of German regiments, hot, exhausted, dazed with victory as the evening came, as they realized, half-disbelieving, that these Frenchmen, disorganized, shattered, their Emperor’s sword surrendered to the King of Prussia, were, indeed, the all-conquering French, brought to the dust at Sedan. Frido remembered every sentence of his grandfather’s descriptions, could see in imagination the camp fires blazing, could picture the sweat-streaked faces and blue uniforms of the landser illumined by the flames, could hear the great hymn ‘Nun danket alle Gott’ go up from every throat, from every part of the field as darkness fell. Such moments dent the painted surface of history like the forceful imprint of some triumphant, giant thumb. Frido could not suppress the feeling that he, too, had witnessed the making of a mark.
Life still held private moments. There had been exchanges with Marcia. Frido’s first letter from her had taken three weeks to arrive – not abnormal for the field post office he was to learn. He guessed at once it was from Marcia – the handwriting could have been perpetrated by no German, and she had promised to write. He tore it open – simple, affectionate, short – small bits of news about Lise and his father. Could he attempt greater intimacy, risk professions of warmer affection? He doubted it. It was impossible to put that sort of thing in a letter if one had made no move when with the girl! And Frido had made no move. He answered, miserably aware that it was a poor effort. But ‘please keep on writing to me,’ he ended, ‘life without letters from you would be much colder and emptier than it is.’ So Marcia wrote again. Now his heart gave its familiar jump whenever he saw her spidery writing on an envelope. And he hoped every day.
Then had come the unexpected moment when he was given a two-day pass and permission to visit Paris. It was the desire of every German soldier to do so: so far Frido had been unlucky, and had not pushed his application. His heart was at Arzfeld, and he hoped for Christmas leave. But the chance was too good to miss. As he signed the register at the hotel in the Avenue Foch a hand took his arm.
‘It is! It must be the brother of Werner von Arzfeld. I am Rudberg! Toni Rudberg!’ And of course Frido had to respond with friendship and correctness. They had mutual relations. Rudberg spoke as one who knew Werner.
And was he Marcia’s lover?
They chatted. ‘We’re in the north,’ said Rudberg. ‘I’ve been to Paris quite often I’m delighted to say. I’m getting to know it pretty well!’ He chuckled.
‘Almost everything said about French girls is true. They’re enchanting! Just imagine that some people are actually posted here!’
Frido nodded politely. He felt puritanical, unsophisticated.
‘Let’s lunch together tomorrow! I insist. I know we’ve got a lot to talk about. My cousins in Vienna are always talking about Arzfeld, about your family and your home.’
Of course Rudberg knew exactly the best place to lunch. They talked at length about the events of May and June. It was now the middle of September.
‘Well, what about the next step? Are we going to cross the ditch? Or are we going to be able to shake hands with the English and all go home?’
‘Neither, I think,’ said Frido. ‘It doesn’t look as if the Luftwaffe have had things their own way. Unless the sky is clear of English planes I can’t see the attempt being made. And it gets later every week.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. And won’t they come to terms, then? Won’t their honour be satisfied?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t think they’ll agree to let us be – agree to the order of things we’ve imposed here –’
‘A perfectly honourable armistice? Fair, generous terms for France?’
‘The British won’t see it like that. They’ll demand restitution of everything before they abandon the war – Polish frontiers, everything –’
Rudberg shrugged his shoulders.’
‘I expect you’re right. Then it looks like a long, rather unprofitable business. We can’t exactly get to grips with each other now they’ve all bolted from France! I can’t see them coming back. And if we can’t go there, what next?’
‘I suppose it’s up
to the Luftwaffe. And I suppose the Italians will carry on attacking them in Africa, for what that’s worth.’
‘Ach – the Italians!’ said Rudberg with one of his chuckles that wrinkled his entire face, most attractively. ‘The Italians!’
Then he said, ‘Let’s go on talking about the English. There were some dirty things done at the end in France. There’s been an inquiry over one incident, but it didn’t really establish anything or lead to punishment. There’s no doubt our dear “Totenkopf” Division, our SS friends, lined up a lot of Tommies, machine gunned them! Not quite in harmony with what we’ve been taught about the honour of the Wehrmacht!’
‘Disgraceful!’
‘Yes, but the “Totenkopf” say that the English shot some prisoners of their division first. At Arras.’
Frido made his remark about credence given to atrocity stories. He added,
‘Anyway, it excuses nothing. Even if true.’
‘Of course not, my dear Arzfeld! But military discipline doesn’t entirely drive out human nature, does it! Even in the Wehrmacht!’
Frido, pacific, humane, self-questioning, felt the presence of Kaspar von Arzfeld and a long line of forbears behind his shoulder.
‘If by “human nature” you mean acts of cowardly brutality, outside the rules of war and inspired by vengeance, then my answer is “Yes, military discipline should most certainly drive it out!”’ He felt priggish, uncompromising and angry. Toni Rudberg was laughing.
‘Well said! In the best “Prussian tradition”! I’m not sure, however, that it’s going to be that sort of war. But I like talking about human nature – with all its frailties, it’s more agreeable to contemplate than military correctitude if you don’t mind me saying so! Of course you’re right, my dear fellow, but I’m sure you understand me. And now let me ask you something.’ His face, so quick to change expression, looked suddenly serious, almost for the first time, as he said –
‘You know, I am acquainted with the lady to whom your brother was betrothed. I believe that she is now living at your home, is that not so?’
Frido knew that he knew it was so.
‘I would very much like to see her again. And, of course, to meet your family.’
‘There is only my father, Colonel von Arzfeld. And my young sister.’
‘Yes, of course. Well, it looks – if we don’t “jump the ditch” we were talking about – it looks as if I shall get a week’s leave at the beginning of October. I had it in mind to ask your father if I could travel to Germany and visit Arzfeld. I would have written in July, after the armistice, but everything has looked so uncertain. Still as you’ve probably heard, there’s likely to be demobilization of some classes. If you ask me, things quite soon are going to be nearly normal again.’
Frido said, ‘My father, naturally, would be happy to hear from you. If you call at Arzfeld I am sure he will make you welcome.’ He managed to make this sound as cold as possible.
‘My lovely little Marcia,
Well, imagine! I have met your little Frido von Arzfeld, the one you’re always rather tender about and describe like a small brother that needs protecting. He is rather like a small brother that needs protecting! He’s incredibly immature, very stiff and pompous, very proper in all his reactions. He made me feel old and wicked and cynical. I didn’t find it particularly easy to talk to him.
Now listen! I told Frido v A that I “might be on leave” in early October: that I would like the chance to meet his family and “see you again”. I had to say that, of course; even Frido isn’t so dim-witted as to think I’d spend leave in Germany except to try to see you! I said I “might write” to your host, Colonel v A. He was very stiff about it. I thought, if I didn’t mention it, that when he’d heard I’d been to Arzfeld (as I shall!) he’d reckon me a deceitful rogue for not indicating my intentions to him. I expect he reckons that anyway! I also wanted to see how he would react to mention of you (don’t worry, my darling, my mention of you was very correct). I expect he’s in love with you himself and hasn’t dared say so. Or has he?
Anyway, if I get this leave in October (and it might even be by the end of September) I shall find a “Gasthof” to stay in, fairly near. I’ll bring a friend with me who’s got a sister working in Hameln: that’s our ostensible reason for a visit “to take a few days off and explore a different and beautiful part of the Reich”. Then I shall come and bow to your Colonel. And you and I, my sweetest girl, will make opportunities to meet. I wish you could come to Paris! But until things get a little easier I’m afraid it’s out of the question for you …’
Marcia sighed. The letter had taken a fortnight to arrive. It was already the last week in September!
After Werner’s death she had been sure that never, ever, would she love as she had loved him. She was oblivious of all but his loss. The appalling events which were engulfing Europe seemed remote, impersonal. War with the Poles had been quickly over: its sole significance was that it had taken Werner from her. War with Britain and France appeared totally unreal. So vivid had her life and experiences in Vienna been that they had largely blotted out her recollection of how people in England felt about the Germans and Austrians among whom the most passionate year of her life had been spent.
There was, of course, a large measure of self-deception in this. At heart Marcia recognized her situation as both false and miserable. She, an English girl, had refused to go home when war appeared almost inevitable. She had, without compulsion, remained in the enemy camp. At the crucial moment, desperately in love with Werner, she had evaded contact with her cousins in the British Consulate General, she had told herself that the war scare would ‘blow over’, she had adopted a formula about it all being a misunderstanding, an episode which would soon be straightened out by history. The Polish business would be finished; Werner said so. Britain and France would find some framework in which new agreements could be made and peace return.
But Marcia knew very well in her heart that this was nonsense. Hard as she tried she could not shut out from memory the image of her father’s grave face, and to her ears would come the sound of his voice, hating war, inexpressibly sad, saying, ‘This man wants war. He is on the march,’ with the quiet, unspoken conviction behind it that, at whatever cost, Britain should oppose such ambitions. To the death. This was no misunderstanding to be cleared by diplomacy, by compromise. This would, in all probability, be a fight to a finish. She sensed it without hope. It was an impossible sense with which to live at ease. It could only be made tolerable by the nurturing of illusions. An essential part of these was the pretence – and she sometimes managed to persuade herself, for a little – that the war was a charade which both sides had to present for domestic consumption until they could find some face-saving way of ending it. Meanwhile – and in consequence – they would try to do as little damage to each other as possible. Behind the bluster of Governments, the apparent inactivity on the Western front gave some colour to this view.
But then came the incredible, the overwhelming events of May and June, 1940. It was no longer possible to imagine that the war would soon draw to a negotiated end. Astonishingly, the Germans among whom she worked seemed to regard this as now much more likely.
‘The thing’s finished. The French have been taught a lesson, that’s all. They never wanted to fight us, the ordinary Frenchman. The Jews, yes, perhaps – so now the French have seen sense there can be no possible reason for the British to want to fight us. What about?’
Marcia avoided all argument but she heard it swirling about her. Sometimes there had to be agonizing equivocation. The Party line would be voiced, even with courtesy, by some.
‘Of course, Fraülein Marvell, we know ordinary English people don’t want this war. The Jews are very numerous there, that’s the trouble isn’t it? And the sort of circles who profit from war! We had them here last time, I can tell you!’ Many people had been kind. Others had made savage remarks in a way which she was compelled to hear. Secretly, she wept often.
But it was not in Marcia’s nature to brood. Ebullient and by temperament optimistic, her fits of natural depression, even despair and self-accusation, alternated with times of happiness. Mainly instrumental in producing those times were two people. One was Toni Rudberg.
Toni had first appeared at his cousins’ home in Vienna at Christmas 1939. His name had been mentioned before that. Countess Rudberg had sighed and nodded in a knowing sort of way –
‘Ah! Toni!’
He was her husband’s nephew. She said to him,
‘Your nephew Toni is a captain in this Panzer Division here, but he’s not been to see us! He’s not fighting in Poland any more. I expect he’s busy.’
Count Rudberg nodded. ‘Toni will come to see us if he’s back here at Christmas time.’
His wife sighed again. She seemed to anticipate trouble. Marcia lived with them a life closely akin to widowhood. Many months must elapse in Rudberg eyes before it would be decent to bring her existence before a wider circle of acquaintances or family. And Countess Amalie sometimes looked at Marcia speculatively. There was no doubt, she was very, very pretty this little Engländerin.
But at Christmas Toni had appeared. Then he had reappeared. Then he had contrived, Marcia was not sure how, to take her out to dinner without raising Countess Rudberg’s eyebrows. He was by now again stationed in Vienna.
