Weaver

by Stephen Baxter

  What choice did she have? And, she had to admit, a large part of her longed to be out of this damn war zone.

  None of the handful of people on the bus met Mary’s eye. They were mostly women, some quite expensively dressed, and a couple of men, youngish, who sat near the front. What had they done to deserve this privileged treatment? Were they more foreign nationals, or collaborators of some kind?

  The driver settled at his wheel. A second German soldier sat behind him with a weapon across his lap. The bus pulled out, turned, and rolled through the gatehouse.

  As they passed through Battle Mary saw that the people she had walked with, after a night out in the open, were being prodded to their feet by German soldiers. She couldn’t bear to look for long; she turned away in shame.

  It was not yet seven a.m.

  XXVII

  George set off for work at the town hall. He was due at eight a.m.

  It was a bright September day, a Monday morning, sunny and clear, with just a hint of chill in the air. There were no planes in the sky, and the noise of the war was distant. The only vehicles on the roads, dodging heaps of rubble, were German trucks. A bakery was, astonishingly, open, and a lengthy queue had formed, mostly old folk, all clutching their ration books. A couple of nervous-looking German soldiers watched them, rifles hanging from their shoulders. The town stank of sewage and dust, but the breeze off the sea was fresh, and he thought he could just detect the wood-smoke smell of autumn leaves.

  He felt as if he was floating. He wasn’t sure he’d slept a wink.

  And he’d been got out of bed by a phone call from the mayor, news about the invasion. Since dawn, elements of the Germans’ second echelon had been landing, all along the coast. Their losses were ferocious, the Navy and RAF pounding away, worse probably than the first wave. But nevertheless some of them were getting through. And they were managing to land their tanks and heavy equipment at ports like Folkestone, though their engineers had to clear the harbours of rubble. ‘Things will get worse before they get better, George,’ Harry Burdon had said gloomily.

  George’s head was spinning after all that had happened. The worst of it was worry for his daughter, his little girl in her WAAF uniform, caught up in the middle of a lethal conflict. He’d heard nothing of her since Friday, when they had parted in the middle of a row. But he had his duty to fulfil. He took deep breaths of the fresh air, trying to clear his thoughts.

  When he got to the town hall the mayor was just arriving. He was carrying a suitcase. ‘Morning, George. Sleep well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose, Harry. You?’

  ‘Tossed and turned. That bonkers business at the Abbey.’

  ‘Why the suitcase?’

  ‘Well, I’m moving in. Orders of the SS. Me and my family. They don’t use the word “hostages but that’s what it amounts to.’

  ‘Hmm. We have to behave or you come to harm, is that the idea?’

  ‘That’s it. Of course since no bugger cared for me before the war I’m in a pickle, aren’t I?’ He smiled, but it was forced.

  ‘It’s bloody, Harry.’

  A German truck drove up. A couple of soldiers got out, quite young, one bespectacled, talking rapidly. They hauled cardboard file boxes out of the back of the truck and walked up to the door, still talking. They entirely ignored Burdon and George, until they realised that the door was closed. Then they broke off and stared at the two of them.

  George said, ‘Let me—’

  ‘No, no,’ the mayor said, red-faced. He pulled the door back and held it while the two Germans passed through, without further acknowledgement.

  George murmured, ‘It’s going to be a long day.’

  Harry Burdon plucked George’s sleeve. ‘Listen, George,’ he murmured, ‘Never mind little pricks like those two. There’s a bit more news.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Never you mind. Churchill’s talking to the Americans. There may be some kind of deal. That’s what I’ve heard. We’re not done yet, lad.’

  Harry Burdon was a round, sleek sort of man, tall and a bit overweight, with a full head of greying hair and a penchant for old-fashioned waistcoats and fob watches. He looked like a munificent businessman from Victorian times: competent, solid, successful in his modest way, willing to give something back through his elected office. And yet now, behind Harry’s unprepossessing figure, George glimpsed a shadow world of secret communications channels - covert phone lines, wireless sets tucked behind panelled walls. He was a man who knew who to trust. And he was a man who was preparing to accept the grim realities of his own new position, as hostage and servant of the new authority, and do what he believed was his duty.

  ‘Thanks, Harry,’ George said warmly.

  ‘Just keep your pecker up. Now come on, let’s get on with it.’

  Inside the town hall the Germans were already hard at work. They were appropriating offices and setting up their own trestle tables in the hallway.

  ‘Efficient, aren’t they?’ Burdon said.

  ‘This year the Germans have had plenty of practice at the art of occupation.’ It was Julia Fiveash, walking towards them. ‘And they seem to have an instinct for paperwork. Of course these particular fellows know this is a cushy job compared to fighting on the front line, and they’ll go at it the more enthusiastically for that ...’

  She was beautiful, you could never deny that, with that shock of blonde hair swept back from a fine face, and a smile like a film star. The crisp SS uniform on an athletic body only set off that beauty. She had an unhealthy appeal, George thought, a deadly allure. But, he reminded himself, she was English, an upper-crust over-privileged Englishwoman in that black Nazi uniform, here to lord it over her own people.

  George said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mayor, Unterscharfuhrer, I should report to my station—’

  ‘Oh, I think you should stay right where you are, Constable,’ Julia said evenly. ‘Standartenfuhrer Trojan specifically requested your presence. He liked you, I think.’

  George growled, ‘Why?’

  ‘For the way you did your job - and for that very lower-class English surliness.’ She laughed at him. ‘He believes you are a man with whom he can do business. Although he thinks you deserve a decent rank - sergeant, perhaps. I’m sure we can fix that for you. Marvellous, isn’t it, the way war opens up opportunities? Perhaps we should talk in your office, Mayor Burdon?’

  Harry Burdon led the way. Julia and George followed.

  Julia said, walking, ‘I need to impress on you both the importance of the work you will be doing here. The military commanders are not interested in running Hastings. They prefer to manage the town through you, through the appropriate local authority. Do you see? There is a great deal to be done; I’m sure you are aware of that. The first priority is to restore the harbour, such as it is. And to requisition the fishing fleet.’

  ‘For landing supplies,’ Burdon guessed.

  ‘That’s it. The estimate is that nine thousand tons a day will have to be imported from the continent in the first days of the occupation. Much of it will come through the larger ports, but Hastings will play a part too.’

  They had to be desperate if they were relying on a tiny port like Hastings. And as it happened George knew the fishermen along the Stade had already sabotaged the winches that hauled their boats up the sharply sloping beach.

  ‘After that we must consider the needs of the civilian population. The restoration of food supplies for one thing, accompanied by an appropriate system of rationing. Water, power, gas. We’re aware that many citizens who fled to the countryside will surely soon return. We must prepare for them. And so on.

  ‘The first step in all this is to gather information. That is the German way: everything orderly, everything thoroughly legal. Now. You hold census records here? And of course there is the identity card system. We will need a record of every inhabitant currently in situ in the town.’

  George glared at her. ‘What for? Work gangs? L
ooking for Jews, are you?’

  Harry snapped, ‘George.’

  Julia stopped and turned to George. ‘Josef was right. You really are a feisty one, aren’t you, Constable?’

  And she stepped closer to him, breaking an intangible boundary of separation. The polished buttons on her uniform brushed his chest, and he could smell her fresh breath, a smell like apples about her hair. He was almost trembling. He was twenty years older; he could have been her father; she was everything he despised, about the English as well as the Germans. But, by Christ, she caused a heat in his loins he hadn’t felt for a long time.

  She knew exactly what she was doing to him. She laughed in his face. ‘I think it’s going to be a pleasure working with you, Constable - George, is it? - I really do.’ She stepped back, mercifully. ‘But for now your duty is to fetch me a coffee.’

  There was a roar, and the building shook. George turned. An immense shadow passed the half-open door. Somewhere a German cheered. And then another shadow passed, another engine’s roar, and another.

  ‘It is the second wave,’ Julia said. ‘Landing all along the coast. Panzers, George! Panzers, on English soil. Now we will see some fun. Come, we have work to do. The first priority is to assemble work parties who will transport rubble from the town to fill craters in the airfield runways ...’ She stalked away.

  ‘Never mind,’Harry murmured. ‘Remember Churchill and the blooming Yanks. Let’s go and fill in her forms, eh?’

  XXVIII

  A few miles north of Battle the bus was pulled over. They had just passed a fork in the road; Mary had no real idea where they were.

  A group of people were waiting here by the side of the road, women with kids, some men, perhaps a dozen in all. One man was in a wheelchair. Mary glimpsed a WAAF uniform among the group. More passengers, evidently. Two German troopers stood with them, just kids, very bored.

  The soldier riding shotgun climbed down and spoke to his counterparts outside. They argued; Mary saw that the soldiers outside had a heavy rucksack that must have contained a field radio unit. Then the shotgun rider called up to his driver, who stood and turned to face his passengers. ‘Out,’ he said, his English barely comprehensible. ‘Off bus. Comprenez? Um, understand?’

  One of the young men at the front spoke up. ‘Why the bloody hell? We’re supposed to be taken out of your zone altogether. By my reckoning we’ve come no further than Peter’s Well. What’s going on?’

  The soldier fingered his revolver. ‘Off bus. Military. Soldiers. Understand?’

  Mary sighed and stood up. ‘Come on, guys,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we have a choice.’

  The passengers followed her lead, and one by one clambered down to the road. The young man who had protested moved stiffly, helped by his companion. The WAAF girl hurried forward to take his other arm. ‘Let me give you a hand.’

  ‘Thank you, miss. My bloody kidneys packing up, that’s what it is, you see, and I was stuck in hospital - careful, Bill. Funnily enough I used to drive a bus like this when I was a bit younger, before following my father into his accountancy firm ...’

  Mary stared at the WAAF, whose bright red hair, unruly, stuck out from under her cap. She couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘Hilda?’

  Hilda’s eyes widened. ‘Mary? Oh, my word!’ She rushed forward and they embraced. Hilda’s hair was mussed, her eyes hollow, her uniform dusty and torn. ‘We do keep running into each other, don’t we?’

  They stepped aside from the other passengers. ‘Are you all right? I haven’t seen you since—’

  Hilda smiled, and lifted her left hand, waggling her ring finger. ‘I know. Bit of a shock, wasn’t it? Little did we know old Hitler was about to spring an even bigger surprise.’

  ‘What happened to you? How do you come to be here?’

  ‘Well, I made it to my station. I shared a ride with Ben Kamen—’

  ‘I know, you were in my car.’

  ‘Don’t know what happened to him after that, poor chap. Or your car, actually, sorry about that! We were shutting the station down. Unfortunately we were a bit slow getting out of there before the Jerries arrived. Do move fast, these chaps.’

  ‘So they captured you.’

  ‘They copped the lot of us. We were all held at the base. We heard talk that we were to be shipped to some camp. But they processed us - interviewed us one by one - trying to find out about our radar, you see. And when they discovered I was married to an American - would you believe, I had my wedding certificate tucked into my gas-mask pouch, it had all been that quick - they said I wouldn’t be held.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘These big flat-footed Germans are being very careful about not offending America, Mary! You must have seen that. I protested, frankly. I wanted to stay with my colleagues. I’m a WAAF first, not an American’s wife. But the Germans would have none of it. So here I am, on my way to Tunbridge Wells! I suppose they even arranged for you and me to be on the same transport.’

  ‘How thoughtful,’ Mary said drily.

  ‘So what about you? How’s Dad?’

  Mary told her about the nights of bombing, and what had become of her following the invasion.

  ‘Wow. King Harold! These Nazis really are crackpots, aren’t they? Almost funny in a way. I bet Dad was laughing his socks off at them.’

  ‘Maybe. But he’s stuck back there now, in Hastings. He’s going to have to work with them.’

  ‘Um. Well, he’s got a clear head, my dad. He always said he became a policeman so he could stop harm being done to the most vulnerable.’

  ‘He’ll have plenty of chances to do that in the coming days.’

  ‘Yes...’

  There was a rumble of vehicles coming from the south; they turned to look that way. The bus-driver soldier approached, arms outstretched, and shepherded the passengers off the tarmac. Then an argument ensued among the Germans, evidently about whether the bus was far enough off the road.

  Hilda said, ‘So this is why we’ve been turfed off the road. Speaking of the Germans and their speedy movements—’

  In moments the tanks were on them, a line of them roaring past the parked-up bus. Mary and Hilda shrank back with the others. The tanks barely slowed down, and Mary had the impression that they would just have knocked the bus aside if it had been necessary. Close to, the tanks were huge, powerful, and the roar of their engines, the dust they kicked up, their sheer rushing mass made an overwhelming physical presence. When the tanks had passed, support vehicles followed, troop carriers and mobile artillery. There were no horse, no men on foot; this was a mechanised unit of the kind that had spearheaded the blitzkrieg that had shattered whole nations in Europe.

  The column took minutes to pass. Mary saw Hilda counting silently as the vehicles passed, a bit of observation. The German soldiers whooped and clapped. The other passengers just watched with hostility, resignation or fear.

  As the noise died away and the dust settled, Hilda whispered to Mary, ‘I think I heard the soldiers say that was a unit of the Seventh Panzers. On their way to Guildford.’

  ‘Guildford?’