Weaver

by Stephen Baxter

  Ernst felt he had no choice. ‘Of course she can come.’

  ‘Yes!’ Viv clapped her hands again. ‘I’ve got to work out what to wear ...’ She ran out of the room.

  ‘Look.’ Irma took her purse from a pocket of a coat which hung on the door. ‘Take some money.’

  ‘No, it won’t be necessary—’

  ‘Just in case.’ She pressed a bundle of occupation marks into Ernst’s hand.

  Alfie was listening to the news from the wireless. ‘Dad, what’s “Operation Barbarossa?’

  Fred didn’t know, and Ernst had to admit that nor did he. They all listened to the wireless, and learned the almost unbelievable news that Hitler’s Germany, in spite of a non-aggression pact, had, the previous day, invaded the Soviet Union.

  II

  When the car horns sounded Ernst and Viv hurried out of the farmhouse and down the muddy track to the road. It was a little after ten.

  The army convoy was a queue of vehicles, two light armoured trucks topping and tailing a dozen staff cars. You always travelled in convoy. Nine months after Sea Lion, the resistance groups the English called ‘the auxiliaries’, spawned out of the Home Guard stay-behind units, were still capable of doing damage.

  Josef was in the lead car, after the armoured vehicle. It was typical of him to drive himself. ‘Brother!’

  Ernst approached, with Viv holding his arm. Carrying a little picnic basket, she was wearing her mother’s big sunglasses, her best shoes and a green crepe dress. Ernst knew how hard she and her mother worked to keep the flimsy material from creasing and tearing. The sun was behind Viv, and caught her pale red hair. As they walked the line of the convoy she was greeted by wolf-whistles and a few obscenities, not words Ernst had taught her in their occasional language classes. Though she smiled back, he could feel how tightly she clung to his arm.

  Josef got out of his car, took her hand and kissed it. ‘Fraulein, I am delighted.’ Ernst saw her eyes widen. Josef’s SS uniform, black and silver in the bright light of the summer’s day, looked impossibly glamorous. Josef winked at Ernst.

  Josef helped her into the back of his car, while Ernst sat up front. With a roar the convoy pulled away, raising dust from the track.

  From the farm, two miles north of Battle, the convoy soon joined the main road north towards Tunbridge Wells, and drove steadily through the green heart of Sussex. They made rapid progress across country which had been such a scouring challenge for the advancing armies back in September. Now there were only the farmers busy on their land, and at this rate it would take the convoy only a couple of hours to get to the line before Guildford. But there were signs of the war. They passed fields scarred by bomb craters and heaps of wreckage that might once have been planes, and ruined vehicles hulked by the roadside, still lying where they had been shoved aside in those remote days of September, rusted after a winter’s rain.

  Josef glanced at Viv in his rear-view mirror. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Good for you there is no room in the barracks. You struck lucky in your billet, you dog.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ Ernst said, colouring. ‘She’s only fifteen.’

  Josef shrugged. ‘Listen to me. In some of the coastal towns, in Hastings and Rye, you won’t find a virgin over twelve, no matter how much you pay. It was the same in France. Oh, come on. Look, this wretched country will soon be empty of its young men. Those who weren’t taken prisoner in the war are to be shipped off for labour. England is a country of old people, children, and women - and us, the only men. It is only natural that she, a blossoming beauty, should look at you.’

  ‘I told you,’ Ernst said hotly, ‘it’s not like that.’

  Josef just laughed. ‘So if you’re not poking the daughter, how about the mother?’

  ‘She’s pregnant.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nine months gone, nearly. She must have caught about the time of the invasion.’

  Josef glanced sideways at him. ‘Funny coincidence, that.’

  An old English car approached them head-on, driving stubbornly on the left, in defiance of the occupation rule. Of course the German column did not deviate. At the last moment the English car veered away, and Ernst glimpsed a shocked face behind a stern handlebar moustache, before the car ended up ramming itself into a ditch. The German troops cheered mockingly, and made Churchill V-for-Victory signs at the crashed car.

  Viv laughed prettily. ‘What a lark!’

  Ernst said, ‘These English aren’t like the French, are they? Defiant.’

  ‘Well, the English haven’t experienced occupation, not for a thousand years. It’s all new to them.’

  ‘Churchill’s still a hero to them, even though he was forced to resign over the invasion.’ He was thinking of Fred Miller and his ‘Nar-zees’.

  ‘We all cheered when that old warmonger was pushed out, after barely six months in office after a lifetime of waiting for it, ha! But it wasn’t the shame of the invasion, you know, but pragmatism. There are necessary dealings between England and the protectorate. Churchill adamantly refused to discuss even such matters as prisoners and wounded with us. So he had to step aside for Halifax, an altogether more reasonable gentleman. Churchill’s still stirring up feeling against us, though, especially in America. The sooner some collaborator puts a bullet through his thick skull the better.’

  ‘Sometimes the whole business of occupation seems absurd,’ Ernst admitted. ‘I mean, what are we doing here, so far from home? Who are we to lord it over these people?’

  Josef glared at him. ‘You always have to think, don’t you, Ernst? Look, let me give you a bit of advice. Don’t go native. If you want a girl, fine. Just remember who you are.’

  Ernst, as always irritated at being lectured at, changed the subject. ‘It’s the issue of the prisoners you are going to discuss at the Objective today, yes?’

  ‘That among other things.’ Josef theatrically stifled a yawn with his gloved hand. ‘Face to face, me and some pompous British oaf, mediated by a gum-chewing American and a Swiss or two. I have to admit the Americans provide the best lunches, however. Of course it is all a distraction from my work for the Ahnenerbe. You must come visit my installation at Richborough.’

  ‘Still hoping to seduce Himmler with this nonsense of manipulating history, are you?’

  ‘We’ll see if it’s nonsense in due course,’ Josef said, not offended.

  ‘If your work’s so important, what are you doing trailing all the way out here?’

  ‘We’re all stretched a bit thin these days, aren’t we? Now that half the detachments stationed in Britain have been reassigned to the eastern front.’

  ‘You know, I heard nothing about the war against Russia until this morning.’

  Josef grinned. ‘Well, neither did Stalin. It is in the east that the truth of this war will unfold, Ernst - not Germans against English or French, but the volk against the Slav. It is magnificent, they say. Three army groups are on the move, in a front a thousand miles long - think of it.’ He winked at Ernst. ‘But spare me from serving there!’ He glanced back at Viv, who smiled at him. ‘What do you think, shall I drive a bit faster and see if I can make her skirt ride up?’

  ‘You are coarse, Josef.’

  III

  It was nearly noon by the time they reached the First Objective. In this region the line tracked the main road that ran up from Portsmouth through Petersfield to Milford, and then south of Guildford to Reigate. The barrier itself was a sculpture of wire and concrete that stretched from horizon to English horizon. Watchtowers and searchlight batteries loomed over the fences on both sides. Josef said, ‘The shade of Emperor Hadrian himself would be awed by such a monument.’

  This was the protectorate’s demarcation line, which it was illegal for any subject of the occupation to call the ‘Winston Line’. It cut off a slice of south-east England, running from Gravesend on the Thames estuary and south-west towards Portsmouth. The wall roughly corresponded to the first operational objective of Army Gr
oup A during the invasion, hence the name that had stuck to it among the German forces. The advance had been halted there when German stormtroopers found themselves facing Americans in their hastily erected bases. It had been Churchill’s final masterstroke, in the panicky days after the invasion, to give away such bases to the US all along the objective line; in September 1940 the Reich was unwilling to go to war with America, and the Panzers’ advance had stalled.

  There was no armistice, and perhaps no possibility of one. England and Germany bombed each others’ cities, a desultory campaign of misery - though wise heads said the ‘blitz’ would have been worse if not for the presence of German troops on English soil, and British subjects under German occupation. At sea, U-boat packs hunted down the supply convoys that crossed the Atlantic, and the Royal Navy harassed the much shorter supply lines to Albion from the continent. Overseas the war was being waged by proxy in a variety of theatres. In southern Europe Britain had opposed Hitler’s assault on Yugoslavia and Greece, and Britain had defeated the Italians in Egypt, forcing Hitler to commit the Afrika Corps under Rommel. But once the initial German advance had been halted there had been little active fighting on the British mainland.

  And so the situation had held, already for nine months, and the ‘Winston Line’ had solidified. London, to the north of the line, was in the territory held by the Halifax government, but it was a city held hostage by immediate peril. The government itself had evacuated to York. Ernst had once seen a newsreel of the line as filmed from the air at night. In a country plunged in blackout darkness, the First Objective was like a double wound, parallel lines of light slashed across the passive countryside, extending from coast to coast. It was a genuine division which bisected counties, severed towns from their suburbs, and cut families in two, often quite arbitrarily.

  And yet Ernst, by nature an optimist, clung to the line as a symbol of hope. It was the one place where the British and the Germans, two nations at war, were managing to work together peacefully, finding solutions to benefit the most vulnerable. Perhaps the future could be built on such impulses, rather than war, occupation and conquest.

  The convoy broke up. The vehicles pulled off the road onto concrete hard-standing areas, and the passengers jumped down. A bridge had been laid across the ditches here and a gate cut into the Objective. Civilians queued on both sides of the gate, waiting to be processed, men, women and children with bags and bicycles, prams and pets. Once the shock of invasion was over, there had been a mass movement of people back from the English territories into German Albion: refugees wanting to return to their homes, livelihoods and families.

  Surrounded by soldiers, Viv was restless, increasingly nervous. A country girl, she had seen little even of the disruption military life had brought to the towns.

  Josef got out of the car and took a slim briefcase from the boot. He pointed through the wire. ‘See over there, the Stars and Stripes? That’s the Americans. Shalford Base.’

  ‘I fought my way here,’ said Ernst. ‘This is where the advance stopped, for me. This very spot.’

  ‘I know. Few men got any further. That’s why I brought you here. Look, the Swiss flag is flying over that camp too.’

  ‘What have the Swiss got to do with it?’

  ‘Protecting Power for the POWs.’ He slapped Ernst on the shoulder. ‘My business will probably only take a couple of hours. Look around. Enjoy your picnic with your little girlfriend. Which reminds me.’ He dug inside his jacket. ‘A letter for you. You might want to keep it from your sweetie over there.’

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  He grinned. ‘Your other lover. Claudine, was she called? It’s good news. She’s coming to England!’

  ‘You read it?’

  ‘Censorship, my boy. A military requirement. Behave yourselves, now.’ And with a nod to Viv, he walked towards the gate.

  Suddenly planes roared low overhead. Ernst flinched, a reflex that was a relic of the days when he had been under attack from the air. The planes were a schwarm of Messerschmitt 109s, patrolling the line on the German side. And there was a countering roar from the British side, Spitfires augmented by Mohawks of the USAAF.

  IV

  For all her bravado, Viv had been intimidated by the troops at the Objective, and the bored, mildly hungry looks they gave her. She stayed subdued all the way back to the farm. Ernst, Claudine’s letter clutched closely to his heart inside his jacket, was distracted himself, and had little to say.

  Viv brightened up once she and Ernst were back home. She practically skipped down the rough track to the farm. They were back not long after six o’clock, and the smell of the roast filled the house. Ernst went off to wash, relieved to be free of Viv for a few minutes. His room was the best in the farmhouse, with a view to the south; it had once been Fred and Irma’s own bedroom. As he changed into a fresh shirt, he heard Viv brightly chattering about her day, how she had been chauffeured by an SS officer, and how she saw Americans through the wire like monkeys in a zoo. Elsewhere in the house Alfie was practising his violin. He played ‘Lill Marlene’. On Saturdays he busked in Battle or Hastings, playing for pfennigs from homesick soldiers.

  When Ernst came downstairs Fred was sawing away at the lamb joint with a carving knife that had been sharpened so often it had been reduced to a sliver of steel. Irma stood at the oven, stirring a pan of gravy. Plates heaped with vegetables, potatoes and cabbage, stood beside her. She looked quite exhausted.

  Ernst produced one more present: a bottle of wine, imported by Wehrmacht stores from France. ‘So we can toast the health of the King.’

  ‘I’d prefer a beer,’ Fred growled. But there had been very little beer about for many months; all of Albion’s grain was requisitioned.

  ‘And there’s a present for you on the table, Obergefreiter,’ Irma said over her shoulder.

  Ernst looked. It was a book, a paperback, printed on cheap, pulpy paper. He read the title. Pied Piper by Nevil Shute.

  ‘It was in our last parcel from the family in London,’ Irma said. ‘Story of an old man who has to flee the German invasion of England. He saved some children on the way. You might like the detail. Good story, too. Just a little something for you—’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh - I didn’t check if it is on the verboten list.’

  ‘I will enjoy it,’ Ernst said quickly. ‘Perhaps it will improve my English also.’

  Relieved, she turned back to the gravy.

  Ernst sat beside Fred as he carved. With Claudine’s letter upstairs he felt bright, lively, eager for some conversation. ‘So, Fred, how are you this evening? Where is the new wireless?’

  Fred’s farmer’s hands were huge; the knife looked small in his fingers as he sliced through the steaming meat. ‘I told you. Gave it to old Joe down the road, so he can bugger it to pick up the BBC.’

  Ernst tut-tutted like a mother. ‘You’ll get it confiscated, you reckless fellow.’

  ‘You’ll have to find the bloody thing first, won’t you?’

  ‘Any news of Jack?’

  Irma turned, ladling her gravy. ‘Alfie and I went down to Hastings. They’re talking about releasing more cadres. Great War veterans. Postmen. The sons of doctors.’

  Fred grunted. ‘The sons of bloody doctors. It’s always who you know in this country, even under the Nazis. I was a POW in the last lot. I’d give up my liberty again if I could swap places with Jack, I’d do it in a second, I’ll tell you that.’

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ Ernst said.

  Fred stared at him. Then he stood back from the joint and looked at the knife in his hand. ‘Sometimes I can’t believe what I’m doing. I got my kneecap shot off at the Somme. Now here I am not thirty years later carving a bit of lamb for the benefit of the bloody Wehrmacht, while some black-hearted Nar-zee arse in Kent or France is working out whether my son, my son, is to be allowed to come home again.’