Greiser stood there, staring at him, and it was Kleist, getting to his feet, who said hoarsely, "Do as he says, Ernst."
Greiser obeyed and Martineau said, "Good. You are, of course, a disgrace to everything the Reich stands for. This I shall discuss with your commanding officer later. Now leave."
Greiser tried to give Kleist his arm. The big man shoved him away and walked off through the trees. Gallagher turned and shouted to Mary Vibert, "Go on girl, go up to the house."
She turned and ran. Sarah took out a handkerchief and wiped blood from Gallagher's mouth. "I never realized what a deadly combination Jersey was with the Irish."
"A fine day for it, thanks be to God." Gallagher squinted up at the sun through the trees. "Better times coming." He grinned and turned to Martineau. "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette on you? I seem to have left mine at home."
W 9
. Jiartineau and Sarah drove down through St. Aubin and along toward Bel Royal, passing a number of fortifications and gun positions on the way. The sky was very blue, the sun bright, and yet on the horizon, beyond Fort Elizabeth, there was a dark curtain.
"Rain," she said. 'Typical Jersey spring weather. Wonderful sunshine and then the squalls sweep in across the bay, sometimes only for a few minutes."
"It's warmer than I'd expected," he said. "Quite Mediterranean." He nodded at the gardens as they passed. "Especially with all those palm trees. I didn't expect those."
She leaned back and closed her eyes. "This island has a special smell to it in the spring. Nothing quite like it anywhere else in the world." She opened her eyes again and smiled. "That's the de Ville side of me speaking. Hopelessly prejudiced. Tell me something. Why have you taken off your uniform?"
He was wearing the leather military trenchcoat, but underneath was a gray tweed suit with a waistcoat and white shirt with a black tie. The slouch hat was also in black, the brim down at the front and back.
"Tactics," he said. "Everybody who is anybody will know I'm here, will know who I am, thanks to Muller. I don't need to appear in uniform if I don't want to. SD officers wear civilian clothes most of the time. It emphasizes our power. It's more frightening."
"You said our power."
"Did I?"
"Yes. You frighten me sometimes, Harry."
He pulled the Kubelwagen in at the side of the road and switched off. "Let's take a walk."
He helped her out and they paused as one of the military trains approached and moved past, then they crossed the track to the seawall. There was a cafe there, all closed up, probably from before the war, a huge bunker not too far away.
A new unlooked-for delight was music, two young soldiers on the seawall, a portable radio between them. Below, on the sands, children played, their mothers sitting against the wall, faces turned to the sun. A number of German soldiers swam in the sea, two or three young women among them.
Martineau and Sarah leaned on the wall. "Unexpectedly domestic, isn't it?" He gave her a cigarette.
The soldiers glanced at them, attracted by the girl, but turned from his dark stare. "Yes," she said. "Not what I expected."
"If you look closely you'll see that most of the soldiers on the beach are boys. Twenty at the most. Difficult to hate. When someone's a Nazi, then it's explicit. You know where you stand. But the average twenty-year-old German in uniform"-he shrugged-"is just a twenty-year-old in uniform."
"What do you believe in, Harry? Where are you going?" Her face was strained, intense.
"As I once told you, I'm a very existentialist person. 'Action this day'-Churchill's favorite phrase. And that means defeating the Nazis because they must be destroyed totally. Hitler's personal philosophy is unacceptable in terms of any kind of common humanity."
"And afterward, when it's all over? What happens to you?"
He stared out to sea, eyes very dark, leaning on the wall. "When I was young I used to love railway stations, especially at night. The smell of the steam, the dying fall of a train whistle in the distance, the platforms in those great deserted Victorian palaces at night, waiting to go somewhere, anywhere. I loved it and yet I also used to get a feeling of tremendous unease. Something to do with getting on the wrong train." He turned to her. "And once the train's on its way, you see, you can't get off."
"The station is ominous at midnight," she said softly. "Hope is a dead letter."
He stared at her. "Where did you hear that?"
"One of your bad poems," she said. "That first day I met you at the cottage the brigadier was reading it. You took it from him, crumpled it up and threw it into the fireplace."
"And you retrieved it?"
"Yes."
For a moment she thought he would be angry. Instead he smiled. "Wait here." He left her and crossed the line to the Kubelwagen and opened the door. When he returned he was carrying a small Kodak camera. "Helen gave me this. As the film is four years old she can't guarantee the results."
He walked up to the soldiers. There was a brief exchange in which they put their heads together for a moment, standing stiffly to attention. Martineau gave one of them the camera and returned to her.
"Don't forget to smile." He lit a cigarette and turned, hands in the pockets of the trenchcoat.
Sarah took his arm. "What's this for?"
"Something to remember me by."
It made her feel uneasy and she held his arm even more tightly. The young soldier took the photo. "Another," Martineau called in German, "just to make sure."
The boy returned the camera, smiling shyly, then saluted and walked away. "Did you tell him who you were?" she asked.
"Of course I did." He took her ami. "Let's get going. IVe got things to do." They crossed the railway track and returned to the Kubelwagen.
Karl Muller prided himself on his control, his remarkable lack of emotion in all situations. He thought of it as his greatest asset, and yet, standing by the window in his office at the Silvertide Hotel, it almost deserted him for the first time.
"You what?" he demanded.
Kleist's face was in a dreadful state, flesh around the eyes purple and dark, the broken nose swollen. "A misunderstanding, Herr Captain."
Muller turned to Greiser. "And that's your version also? A misunderstanding?"
"We were only questioning the girl, Herr Captain. She panicked, then Gallagher arrived. He placed entirely the wrong construction on the affair."
"As your face proves, Willi," Muller said. "And Vogel was involved."
"He arrived on the scene at an unfortunate moment," Greiser told him.
"And he also placed entirely the wrong construction on things." Muller was furious. "Leaving me to get you off the hook when he turns up here this afternoon. Go on, get out of my sight!"
He turned to the window and slammed his palm against the wall.
Following Sarah's instructions, Martineau drove along Gloucester Street past the prison. "One thing," he said. "When we're together in the town speak French. You never know who's listening, understand?"
"Of course."
They could hear music now and turned into the Parade to find a German military band playing on the grass between the statue of General Don, a previous governor of the island, and the Cenotaph. There was quite a crowd standing listening, mainly civilians with a few soldiers.
"Just like Workers' Playtime on the BBC back in the
UK," Martineau said. "Supposed to make people feel better about being occupied."
"Pull in here," she said. "The Town Hall is just at the end."
He parked at the curb and they got out, people turning to stare curiously, attracted by the sight of the military vehicle. Many seemed indifferent, but there were those unable to hide their anger when they looked at Sarah, especially the older women.
Someone muttered "Gerrybag!" as they walked past. It was an ugly word meant to express the contempt most people felt for a girl who consorted with the enemy. Martineau swung around, Vogel to the life, and confronted the gray-haired woman who had spoken.
"You said something, madam?" he asked in English.
She was immediately terrified. "No-not me. You're mistaken." She turned and hurried away in a panic.
Sarah took his arm and said softly, "There are times when I hate you myself, Harry Martineau."
They passed the entrance of the Town Hall with the Nazi flag flying above and a Luftwaffe sentry on the steps with a rifle. They crossed to the other side of York Street and came to Charing Cross. Some of the shop windows were still taped to avoid flying glass, probably from the first year of the war. The Luftwaffe had bombed St. Helier once in 1940. It was obviously the last thing the RAF intended to do, which probably explained why a lot of shopkeepers had cleaned the tape off.
They pausei at a doorway between two shops. The sign indicated that the hairdresser was upstairs. Sarah said, "I remember this place."
"Would you be recognized?"
"I shouldn't think so. The last time I was in here was to have my hair cut when I was ten years old."
She led the way up the stairs, pushed open a door with a frosted glass pane and Martineau followed her in. It was only a small salon with two washbasins and a couple of hairdriers. The woman who sat in the corner reading a magazine was about forty with a round, pleasant face. She glanced up smiling, and then the smile was wiped clear away.
"Yes?" she said.
"I need my hair fixed rather badly," Sarah said in French.
"I don't speak French," the woman replied.
Martineau said in English, "The young lady was a passenger on the Victor Hugo from Granville last night. As I am sure you are aware of the fate of that unhappy vessel, you will appreciate that she was in the water for some time. As she has no English I must speak for her. Her hair, as you can see, requires attention."
"I can't help. I'm booked up."
Martineau looked around the empty salon. "So I see. Your identity card, if you please."
"Why should I? I've done nothing."
"Would you rather continue this conversation at Silver-tide?"
There was fear in her eyes. Sarah had never felt so wretched in her life and waited as the unfortunate woman found her handbag and produced the identity card. It was in the name of Mrs. Emily Johnson. Martineau examined it and handed it back.
"My name is Vogel-Standartenfuhrer Max Vogel. I have an appointment at the Town Hall with Colonel Heine, the commandant. I'll be gone for an hour, perhaps a little longer. While I am away you will do whatever is necessary to the young lady's hair. When I return, I am sure it will look quite delightful." He opened the door. "If it doesn't,
Ill close this establishment so fast you won't know what's hit you."
They listened to him descend the stairs. Mrs. Johnson took a robe down from behind the door and turned to Sarah with a delightful smile. "All right, you dirty little French tart. Let's make you look pretty for that butcher," she said in English. Her smile became even more charming. "And I can only hope you get what you deserve."
Sarah felt like cheering her out loud. Instead she stayed in control and replied in French, "Ah, the coat."
She took it off, handed it to her, put on the robe and went to the nearest chair.
As Martineau crossed to the Town Hall he saw a policeman in traditional British bobby's uniform and helmet standing on the steps talking to the sentry. They stopped talking, watching him warily as he approached.
"Standartenfuhrer Vogel for the commandant."
The sentry jumped to attention and the police constable faded away discreetly. "The commandant arrived twenty minutes ago, Standartenfuhrer."
Martineau moved into the hall and found a table at the bottom of the stairs, an army sergeant sitting there. He glanced up and Martineau said, "My name is Vogel. I believe Colonel Heine is expecting me."
The sergeant leaped to his feet and picked up the phone. "Standartenfuhrer Vogel is here, Herr Major." He replaced the receiver. "Major Necker will be down directly, sir."
"Thank you." Martineau walked away and looked out through the open door. Within moments there was the sound of boots on the stairs. He turned to find a young man hurrying down, an infantry major, no more than thirty from the look of him.
He was all cordiality, but then he would be, pausing briefly to click his heels before putting out a hand. "Felix Necker, Standartenfiihrer."
He'd seen action, that was plain enough from the shrapnel scar running into the right eye. As well as the Iron Cross First Class he wore the Wounded Badge in silver, which meant he'd been a casualty at least three times, the Infantry Assault Badge and a Close Combat Clasp in gilt. It was recognition and familiarity with such items that kept Martineau alive. What they told him about people was important. What they said about this man was that he was a war hero.
