by Peter Watson
Ivan put the uniform on and began to do up the buttons.
“Err…no,” he said quietly. “I think you’ll find it’s an Oberstleutnant uniform, a lieutenant colonel’s jacket.”
“What?” said Duncan, momentarily flummoxed. Then, “Oh!” he said. “You’re right. My mistake. I’m confusing these two, Madeleine has the Stabsoffizier uniform. Well done, Ivan, thank you for correcting me. As you can see, it’s easy to—”
Ivan shrugged. “When you are playing blackjack in a casino, and you have what we call a shoe, there are sometimes as many four packs of cards in it. Sometimes, when they are shuffled the shuffling isn’t always as complete as it might be, and for a while some cards are dealt in the same order as the time before. Some gamblers have amazing memories and can remember those sequences, or most of them. A good croupier has to do the same—otherwise the punters have an advantage for a while. You train your eye for detail, visual detail.”
“So have you memorized all officers’ insignia?”
“Yes. It’s easy for me.”
“And what else can you remember?”
“The layout and the letters of the one-time pads,” said Ivan. “The geography of northern France—all the towns in the right order. There has to be a visual element—for example, I can remember the faces of all the card sharps who came through Monte.”
Duncan turned to me. “That’s a talent we may be able to use, sir.”
I nodded. “We may need you in interrogation, Ivan; I’ll speak to my superiors about it. But let’s get on now.”
Duncan turned back to the class.
“Now, back to you, Madeleine. This one has green and yellow flashes at the collar—it’s a field commander’s uniform, an Oberstarzt, as Ivan has correctly pointed out.”
Madeleine was no less swamped by her jacket than Katrine had been and the laughs started again.
“Enjoy yourselves,” said Duncan, laughing himself. “But remember, this is not a game; you really do need to register these ranks—and you will be tested on it later, and you won’t all have Ivan’s memory. Now, take off the jackets you are wearing and try on some others. Remember, it’s the flashes at the collar and the epaulettes that tell you the most.”
The recruits milled around, taking off and putting on the various jackets.
“In the field, you also need to know,” said Duncan, putting one jacket back on its hanger, “from the rank of the uniforms you see, what that rank implies for the number of troops that are likely to be in that particular area. It could be very important. For example, if you observe someone in a field officer’s uniform, that is likely to mean—”
“Achtung! Achtung! Meine Damen und Herren. Achtung! Achtung!”
Duncan broke off, surprised.
We all turned to where the shouting was coming from.
Madeleine was standing on a chair. She had buttoned up her uniform and put on a German military cap, one of a number we also had, and now she held under her nose the end of a small black comb—a perfect impression of Adolf Hitler’s moustache.
We fell silent.
She raised her right arm.
“Liberty ist Stunk,” she shouted.
“Freisprach ist Stunk.”
Erich, the choirmaster, started humming a tune that I recognized but couldn’t place.
The others also recognized what scene Madeleine was playing and they were laughing all over again and joining in.
“Wienerschnitzel und Sauerkraut!” cried Ivan.
“Baloney,” replied Katrine solemnly. They redoubled the laughing.
Madeleine had caught Charlie Chaplin’s “Great Dictator” perfectly. The film had been on show for a couple of years by then.
They all went on speaking the gobbledygook, gibberish German that Chaplin used in the film for a little while longer, and then they joined in with Erich in humming the same tune.
“What is that?” I asked.
“The Prelude from Wagner’s Lohengrin,” said Erich. “Chaplin thought Wagner was just as Stunk as Hitler. That’s why he chose it as the score.”
Still laughing, Madeleine wound up the gibberish and got down off the chair.
Katrine went up to her and hugged her. “Brilliant,” she said. “I’m glad you are on our side.”
—
THAT NIGHT AT DINNER, we were all seated at the same table, as had become our habit. There was no talk of the course—everyone had had enough of shop talk throughout the day—and the conversation ranged over a wide selection of subjects—sport, theatre, the BBC’s music coverage, American films, the weather inevitably.
I looked around me.
“Where’s Madeleine?” I asked Katrine.
She shook her head, sheepishly I thought. “I don’t know.”
“And Duncan?”
She shook her head again.
I sipped my drink.
Just then there was a commotion at the other end of the room and the main double doors swung open.
From beyond the doors, out of sight, there was a weird kind of whirring sound, a sort of heavy breathing, and one or two moans. Then, all at once, a very plaintive version of “Happy Birthday” was struck up, and into the room marched Duncan, surrounded—that was the only word—by a set of bagpipes. He was blowing into the tube—I didn’t know its technical name—and squeezing the bag with his elbows. In no time the wailing sound filled the dining room, bouncing off the walls, disturbing the water in our drinking glasses, and even rattling the cutlery.
Behind him was…what can best be described as a cascade of sparks, falling from a plate held by Madeleine. She held the cake—for that is what must have been below the sparks—high in the air and she was singing “Happy Birthday to Ivan” at the top of her voice.
As they advanced through the room, everyone joined in, except for Ivan, who looked both pleased and embarrassed.
Duncan came to a stop right in front of Ivan, as Madeleine ran out of words. The sound of the bagpipes died—like an animal in pain—and he stood to one side as Madeleine laid the sparkling cake in front of Ivan.
He stared at the sparkles, and then at Madeleine.
“How did you know it was my birthday, and where did you get those…whatever they are?”
“This is an incendiary device we have tampered with,” said Madeleine. “It’s been neutered, sort of,” she grinned, “by Duncan. As for your birthday, that’s easy. You use the numerical version—twenty-one, three, fourteen—in your lock in the locker room. March 21, 1914—so I worked out that you’re exactly thirty today. It’s a big birthday. Did you hope to get away with it?”
“No, no. I didn’t think anyone would be interested. I’m touched.”
“Craigie made the cake,” Madeleine said. “Cut it carefully, there’s a surprise inside.”
Looking mystified, Ivan stood up and picked up a knife. He stuck it uncertainly into the middle of the cake, which by now had stopped fizzling. He cut until he recognised a resistance to the knife. Now he cut around the shape.
Next, he picked up a spoon.
We were all watching. Whatever was inside was going to be as big a surprise for us as for him. What on earth had Madeleine been up to?
He dug into the cake with the spoon. What he came up with was solid, a rectangle or oblong, about half an inch thick.
He smeared away the covering of cake, to reveal a paper wrapping.
He took that off.
Whatever was inside was carefully encased in waxed paper, entirely untouched by the treatment it had received.
“I know what this is,” said Ivan. “It’s a pack of cards. I can recognize cards a mile off.”
“Well done,” said Madeleine softly. “But what sort of cards?”
He undid the waxed paper wrapping. And took out the cards. He handled them expertly, as only he could, shuffling them in his fingers.
“There’s something very special about these cards,” said Madeleine. “See if you can spot what it is.”
Ivan inspected the cards
in his hands. “All the backs are the same, that’s normal. Views of the highlands and islands, I suppose. Let me look at the faces.”
He turned the cards over and fanned them out. We all looked on.
“They seem quite normal to me.” He flicked the cards through his fingers as only a professional could do.
“All the royal cards look normal, the Jacks are a bit elaborate…” He carried on playing with the cards.
“Hold on, what’s this? A blank face?” He looked at Madeleine. “Is this what you mean? A card with nothing on it?”
She nodded and smiled. “Yes, have you not heard of this?”
Ivan shook his head, clearly mystified.
Madeleine was delighted. “Craigie the cook told me. It’s something every professional croupier should have—I found them in Drumlanrig. A proper Scottish pack of cards has no nine of diamonds—”
“Why on earth not? I don’t get it,” cried Ivan. “What’s the point?”
“Well,” said Madeleine, “there are several explanations but the best version, I think, is the one that says that, in the days of James VI, the crown of Scotland was robbed of nine diamonds and, because no one owned up to the theft, the king made his subjects pay for the missing jewels out of their taxes. In that way, the nine of diamonds became known as the ‘curse of Scotland,’ and all Scottish playing cards from those days have no nine of diamonds, just a plain face. It’s a nice touch, don’t you think? I thought that, as a professional card player, you’d like a Scottish set of cards. As a memento of your time here.”
Ivan took a step forward. I thought he was going to embrace Madeleine but he was clearly too shy. “Maddie, you are a treasure.” He held up the cards. “That was—this is—a wonderful thought, a real memento of this place. I don’t know how many sets of playing cards I have but this will go to the top of my list, never out of my sight for long. I…I only wish I had nine diamonds to give you.”
Madeleine laughed. “There’s a thought. But these are just playing cards, Ivan, hiding in a cake. You can take them to France and no one will know what they mean, just you and us.”
Ivan looked at me.
“Do you give us any memento, after we finish the course? Any sign that we have been here?”
I shook my head. “Think about it. If you were found with something like that, in France, it could sign your death warrant.”
He nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” He waved the pack of cards. “But this, this is something I shall always have with me. There’s something imperfect about this pack. One card is missing. I like that. It tells us not to expect too much. In its way, it’s comforting.”
He turned back to Madeleine. “I don’t know whether you intended to give me something comforting, but you did. You, above all, will be the person I remember from this course.”
—
WE STOPPED AT THE TOP of the hill. Ahead of us the tarmac sloped gently down the valley side to meet a small river. Off to the right stood a cluster of stone buildings with tall chimneys, like huge sticks of chalk. Blue smoke drifted from their tops.
“That’s Benkillan,” I said, pointing to the mountain opposite. As we looked, cloud shadows swept over the brown and purple shoulder.
“Let’s rest for a while.” I dismounted from my bicycle and Madeleine did the same.
It was about ten days after the recruits’ experiment in living off the land and just a couple of days after Madeleine’s wicked impression of Adolf Hitler and her rendering of “Happy Birthday” to Ivan. The recruits’ progress along the course was steady. We had by now covered explosives, other sabotage techniques—how to immobilize vehicles, for instance—more radio transmission, using both one-time pads and their poetry codes, the principles of blowing up boats, should any of them be sent to harbours, the promised political instruction on the relationship between communists and Gaullists, as I had warned Madeleine, and the organisation of circuits for maximum security.
Now, in the later part of the course, the recruits had one afternoon free each week. This was the second excursion Madeleine and I had been on; we had only just discovered the bicycles in a shed in the rear courtyard.
We stood for a moment, watching the cloud shadows move across the hillsides, as the smoke from the chimneys rose in lazy curls.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked Madeleine. “We can free-wheel down the hill, almost as far as Gleneyre.”
“Race you!” she squealed suddenly, remounting her bike and pedaling furiously. In no time she was twenty yards away.
I gave chase.
The clouds cleared, and although it wasn’t a very warm day, the wind was slight, the view was magnificent—and the road was empty but for us. Sun glinted on the frame of Madeleine’s bicycle.
The purple in the heather of Scotland always seemed to me an improbable colour for a plant and the great swathes of it on Benkillan, across the valley, were iridescent today. A pity there was none in the parts of France our recruits were going to. Heather is a spongy covering to parachute in on.
My bicycle was picking up speed and I was gaining on Madeleine. I was a good bit heavier than she was, so gravity was on my side.
As I closed in on her I could see that she had taken her feet off the pedals and was holding her legs forward, so that the wind generated by her speed blew straight up her body—she obviously liked that sensation. She held her head back as the wind ran through her hair, redder than the rocks on Benkillan. Every so often she let out a Whoop! I have never seen anyone as happy as she was at that moment.
I braked and stayed behind. I liked the view exactly as it was. She was going away soon. It was a scene I wanted to savour—and remember.
Just as our walks on the beach were not just walks on the beach, so a bicycle ride in the mountains was not just a bike ride. She had agreed to come when I had suggested it, so it was a step forward. There is always a moment, a stage, in any relationship, when behaviour comes before words. I didn’t dare ask about her relationship with Erich and she didn’t volunteer anything. But she was here today and, so far as I could tell, she was loving it.
As was I.
There was a war on, somewhere, but we had that road, and those mountainsides, to ourselves and, for now, it was enough. She was absorbed in what she was doing, absorbed in living. Her ability to do that was a gift, a gift she was sharing with me.
I was as full with life on that bike ride as I have ever been.
At the bottom of the valley the road flattened out and Madeleine let her bike roll all by itself until it stopped. I came alongside and we both slipped off our saddles and stood with our legs astride the machines.
“I won!” she cried triumphantly.
“You could have gone faster, if you’d made yourself smaller. Less wind resistance.”
“What? And miss all that wind rushing past me—in my hair, making my eyes water? In my mouth, up and along my thighs? That’s something you men never have, the pleasure of riding a bike in a skirt.” She grinned. “It’s quite sexy.”
We leaned our bicycles against one another, in a precarious arrangement and turned to look at the site before us.
Madeleine twisted her head so her hair was off her neck. “I know what this is. It’s a circle—a circle of standing stones. This is some ancient cult site, isn’t it? From thousands of years ago.”
I nodded. “It’s called a cromlech. It’s possibly an ancient observatory, from a time when the heavens were more active than they are now, when comets and asteroids were more common, and when interpreting the action of the heavens was the religious leaders’ main work. There are a few of these in Scotland—usually in remote locations, like this one.”
She looked around her. “Some of these stones are ten feet tall and more. Where do they come from, and how did they get them here?”
I leaned against one of the stones. Given their size they were quite solid.
“They come from about forty miles away. They must have been rolled here, on logs, I suspect,
across the valleys. They could never have built carts strong enough to carry them, even after the wheel had been invented.”
Madeleine passed the palm of her hand over the surface of one of the stones. “Are they carved like this, or are they naturally occurring?”
“I’m not an expert but I’m told that some of the surfaces are so smooth and regular they must have been cut. But with what, no one knows—as I understand it, smelting hadn’t been invented then, so there were no metal tools.”
Madeleine moved around, skipping now and then, like a child, in and out of the arrangement of stones, running her hands over them, feeling the smooth patches, fingering the sharp ridges.
“Are there any carvings here? Or ancient paintings?”
“Look over here,” I said, walking across to a large flat stone set into the ground. “See that?”
She followed me, and peered down.
I pointed. “A local historian showed these to me a year or so ago. Are these circles that have worn away, partly, or are they the letter ‘C,’ repeated one inside the other? Or, since they vary in thickness, do they show the various waxing and waning phases of the moon? See? No one really knows what they are supposed to represent.”
Madeleine fell to her knees and, again, ran her fingers over the marks.
“Philippe would have loved this spot,” she said softly in English. “A-may-zing.”
“Philippe?” I said.
She looked up at me sharply, her eyes becoming larger and rounder. “What did you say? What did I say?”
“You said Philippe would have loved this spot.”
She bit her lip. As she did so, our bicycles fell over.
Madeleine ran across and bent down and began to disentangle them.
“Come on,” she said, holding the two sets of handlebars apart, “We’ve got that hill to climb. It will take all our breath. We can talk later.”
And, without waiting for me, she leaned my bicycle against one of the standing stones, mounted hers, and set off back along the road we had come by.
—
SOMETIMES THE MOST INTIMATE CONVERSATIONS can take place in the most crowded places. That night was the snooker competition final and everyone turned up after dinner to watch the match. Besides the four players and the referee, all the kitchen staff were there, plus the recruits who would be dropped into other countries—Cyprus, Italy, Greece, and so on—and their instructors, even the drivers and the gardeners. There were getting on for forty people in that one room.
