The Welsh Girl (28 page)

collaborateurs horizon-tales
. He thinks of Francoise, of the dinner he pleaded with her to join him for. The meal, he hoped, would make their relationship normal, like a courtship. Proper. And for the first time he sees that she had taken pity on him when she agreed. Pity on him, the conqueror, the occupier!

He'd insisted on the finest food, the best wine. Called for music, left a generous tip.

"I'm in love with you," he'd told her, and she'd nodded perfunctorily, not even looking up from her dinner.

"Do you think you could ever love me?" he'd asked. She'd chewed and swallowed. "
Jamais!
"

"But why?"

She'd searched for the words. "We are enemies,
heinl
Anything other"--she rubbed her finger and thumb together-- "would be surrender."

He cringes at the thought, but makes himself imagine her, the hair tumbling around her ears, the locks bouncing off her narrow shoulders, wafting to the floor like feathers. He hears the women have been stripped in the streets, but it's this nakedness, the nakedness of her head, a nakedness he

never imagined, that appals him. To be
seen
so! "Forgive me,

but she 's just a French whore," Schiller tells him. "She's had worse done to her." But the shame of it seems unbearable, intolerable to Karsten. He can't imagine how she'll possibly survive it. It makes him think of basic training, the way they'd all been shorn that first day, their heads looking so shrunken, so white, as if the skulls beneath them had been revealed already in all their thin fragility.

And he'd been worried about her in the arms of a Tommy! Such selfishness. He hopes now that she has a Tommy, a big, loving one, that she clings to him, drapes her tresses around him, sweeps them across his chest in the night. Someone who can save her hair.

Karsten had once begged her for a lock of it. They'd been

in the corner of a bar, and she'd reached a hand beneath her skirt and pulled out a single pale loop, held it glistening before him, laughing at his stricken face.

It was the only thing she ever gave him for free.

In the night, when he can sleep, he dreams the smell of Franfoise's hair. It's there, faintly, though he can't quite inhale it, can't quite capture it. He dreams of holding her, aches to protect her, cradling her head, feeling its hard ridges instead of curls, the scabs from the scissors, the raw, torn places. Her crown is hard under his chin.

He lies there then, rigid, feeling his erection subsiding in tiny staggering flinches.

Just a French whore, he tells himself. But that's exactly what terrifies him. He can't even protect her. The thought of a single hair on her head being harmed shakes him.

And then he finds it's not Francoise he's thinking of, but his mother. He's never felt more imprisoned.

The boys, who've been gone for a couple of weeks, appear again in the wake of the news from France, inspired no doubt by the newsreels. Karsten studies them with a kind of dull fury, Jim among the rest, but does his best to ignore them. He feels like a fool for trying to befriend the boy.

They're not interested in him anyway. Since the fall of Paris, the camp leaders, the NCOs, have been trying to set an example, polishing their boots and buckles, brushing their uniforms, and resuming drill each evening, bullying as many of the others into joining as they can. It's this spectacle the boys are transfixed by, watching the massed ranks file by on the parade ground, and then seeming to join, forming a column of their own that marches up and down the lane as if the fence were a mirror, in emulation, it seems at first, and then gradually in shambolic parody, bumping into each other, kicking each other up the backside. When the men give their

Heil Hitler, the boys all offer another salute, putting a finger to their upper lips, a ragged line of dirty-kneed Fuhrers.

It's too much for the camp leaders. They've put up with the boys thus far, considered their presence beneath notice. But now they've gone too far. It's a criminal offence in the fatherland, after all, to make fun of the Fuhrer. They go to the major, demand that something be done.

The next evening when the boys appear, goose-stepping, the searchlights swing down on them like huge white clubs. They stand frozen as if stunned by the blow, almost two dozen of them, like actors stricken with stage fright. Karsten sees Jim's white face among the rest. And then there's the scrape of boots on the lane, and a party of guards appears, double- timing it towards them. The boys bolt like rabbits into the trees, the men behind the fence jeering their flight. The guards

press after them, but they're slowed by the heavy undergrowth, the low branches snatching at their caps. Karsten sees one man get caught by his epaulette, as if run through at the shoulder. By the time they emerge from the trees, the boys are far ahead up the slope. The guards watch them go, hands on hips, while from the camp below there's a smattering of applause.

And yet the next night, too, the boys are back, mocking the prisoners, but now also the guards, waving up at the searchlights. The Tommies give chase again only to be outpaced once more, the boys careening away, but only until they know they're out of reach, and then they slow, as if taunting the guards to come on. A couple of boys use the flock as a shield, and the guards seem reluctant to push through the sheep. "They don't bite," someone cries from the camp, but

as the shout goes up, a guard is bowled over by one of the startled beasts, and there's a burst of laughter from the prisoners. Now, Karsten notes, their jeers are for the guards, as they trudge downhill, making their clumsy, cursing way

through the trees, mopping their brows.

The following day brings a change of tactics, the guards going out into the lane in the late afternoon, an hour or so before the boys usually appear. They hurry into the trees and take cover to left and right. There's a murmur among the prisoners; nods and smiles are exchanged. After a long, dull day the air is heavy with anticipation. When the boys appear at dusk, the guards in the towers ignore them ostentatiously-- one even spreads a newspaper over the wooden railing before him.

The boys straggle out of the trees and into the lane, calling abuse, coming closer and closer to the wire. Jim, among others, Karsten sees, has blackened his face with mud or shoe polish--like commandos, he supposes, though the effect is to make the boys seem more like urchins. He pushes himself towards the front of the crowd pressed against the wire, but when Jim sees him, he moves down the line, and after a moment Karsten doesn't bother pursuing him. When the searchlights play down the lane, the boys don't flinch, their shadows wheeling around them. A tiny lad plays a game of chasing the light, running along in it as it moves, until he stops, panting, not more than a yard from the fence, close enough that Karsten can see his little chest heaving.

The boy's cheeks are glowing red, the fine damp hair plastered to his brow, but it's the look of exhilaration on his face, of joy, as if he's forgotten where he is, who they are, that Karsten can't take his eyes off. He crouches down. The youngster can't be more than six or seven, and for a moment he actually beams at Karsten. It's just a game to him. And suddenly Karsten is leaning close to the fence. "Run," he breathes, but still the boy smiles. "Run!" Karsten says more loudly. "It's a trap." The boy frowns, as if puzzled that he can understand Karsten, and then his eyes widen.

There's a shout from the trees, and the guards rise out of

the underbrush. For just a second, the boys are stock-still, and then Karsten is bellowing at them, "Run! Run!" Jim appears beside the little boy, grabs his hand and yanks him away, though not before leaning close to the wire to whisper something. "What?" Karsten calls after him, but by then his shout has been picked up by the other men--though whether in warning or in derision, Karsten can't be sure--and the boys

are off, pumping madly, arms and legs flailing, racing for the gap in the trees where they came from as the guards close in from either side, cutting off their escape. Half of them make it, surging uphill; the rest--
is that Jim among them?
-- turn and scatter.

"No!" Karsten calls, pointing. "The lane, the lane. They won't be coming up the lane." He clings to the fence, pointing, scales the first few rungs of wire to get a better view, watches the children scatter, the guards chase after them, the searchlights weaving. And Karsten finds himself climbing higher and higher to watch them go.

otheram is racing the sunset, the old staff car careening through the Welsh countryside as if he's the one escaping,

not hurrying to investigate an escape. Perhaps that isn't so far from the truth, though, he reckons.

He's working his way north-west, following the Wye into the hills of mid-Wales. Twisting and turning with the road, he's caught flashes of the river through the trees, and once the distant roar of falls, but as he's climbed higher towards its source, it's dwindled to a coppery stream glimpsed only dimly under stone bridges.

He'd been making good time until, barrelling round one tight bend, he'd almost ploughed into a flock of sheep filling the road. For a second he thought he'd driven into the river itself, the rippling white backs flooding the narrow lane like water rushing over rapids. He'd stamped on the brakes, fishtailed to a halt, tearing a spray of grit from the verge. In the abrupt silence of the stalled car, he heard it patter through the grass, watched it skip towards the advancing sheep eyeing him blankly. He'd leaned on the horn then, but they just bleated back at him, and he'd had to sit for long minutes while they broke around him, their flanks brushing the car, rocking it gently. He watched them go in his mirror, until the last bobbing back rounded the bend, then belatedly roared onwards.

He grits his teeth now as he jounces over a pothole, and the broken-down suspension of the Humber jars his bandaged ribs. Beside him on the passenger seat, the silver film canisters jingle-jangle like a giant's loose change.

He'd come down to breakfast late that morning, surprised that he'd finally been able to sleep after his call to Hawkins and the vigil at Hess's door in the small hours.

He found Lieutenant Mills and one of the corporals--not the one he'd woken the night before--lounging at a long wooden table in the kitchen, washing down charred toast with cups of tea from the largest china teapot he'd ever seen. The doctor, his mouth full, pointed to it, and Rotheram nodded.

"There you are," Mills said, swallowing and setting a cup before him. "So what's your plan for today?"

"I'm leaving," Rotheram said simply. "Appears I was wasting my time. Perhaps everyone's. New orders should come through this afternoon."

Mills nodded for what seemed a long time and finally nudged the toast rack.

"Go on," he said when Rotheram hesitated. "The butter's local, and we've also got this." He slid a crystal jar across the table. "Honey. Special rations on account of our guest. Not that he eats half of it--afraid of poisoning!"

Rotheram lifted the lid, dipped his knife and studied the honey before he spread it thickly on his toast and took a bite. The rich sweetness was incredible. He wondered that he could have forgotten the taste. How long had it been since he'd had honey? "Good, eh?" Mills said, and Rotheram nodded as he chewed.

"No hard feelings about last night?"

Rotheram took a mouthful of tea, shook his head. "It's just that I'm not Jewish," he said.

"Course not, old chap."

Rotheram detected a hint of the bedside manner in the way Mills said it, but the mere thought of explaining his history to the lieutenant was exhausting.

Mills was silent for a moment, then brightened. "If you're

waiting for orders this afternoon, your morning's free, yes?" Rotheram looked up slowly;

"Why not come along with us, then?" He gestured to the corporal. "We're taking Hess for a Sunday drive. He likes a little fresh air every so often."

"I don't need another crack at him, you understand."

"I know," Mills said, grimacing slightly, "It's not just for you. The thing is, he asked if you'd come." He laughed awkwardly. "Seems he's bored with our company."

And so, thirty minutes later, Rotheram found himself in the front seat of an open-top staff car, the corporal, whose name was Baker, at the wheel, and Mills with Hess beside him in the back seat. The car reminded Rotheram uncomfortably of Hitler's tourer in the previous night's film.

The drive seemed to restore Hess. He'd been subdued when he climbed into the car, pausing on the running board to tuck his red woollen scarf into the collar of his sweater and wrap his greatcoat around his knees before sitting down. But now Rotheram, half turned in his seat, saw the colour return to the older man's cheeks. Hess noticed his scrutiny.

"How do you like my gift from Mr Churchill?" he asked jovially, indicating the car. "It's just the thing for the beautiful Welsh countryside, wouldn't you say?"

"Why do you think you're in Wales?" Rotheram asked blandly, but Mills broke in with a shrug. "No need to be coy. We ran into some locals at a crossroads on one of these jaunts last month and he recognised the lingo. Bit of a cock- up, really, but at least they didn't recognise him."

It was still chilly, but the sun had come out, and Hess slipped on a pair of dark glasses.

"He recognised Welsh?" Rotheram asked sceptically. He was addressing Mills, but Hess answered, sounding impatient.

"Where else in the British Isles do they speak another

language? In fact, it seems a peculiarly apt place for my confinement."

"How so?"

"Isn't Wales where the ancient Britons retreated to? When the Romans came, I mean. Wasn't this their last redoubt?

Aren't these"--he waved an arm around, but the country was deserted apart from sheep and cattle--"their descendants? Your Mr Churchill, I gather, had plans to pull back here if we had invaded." Hess smiled thinly. "We'd have made you all Welsh. Instead, it's me who's a little Welsh now."

"Hardly the party line, that," Mills sneered. "To think a few months' stay in a country is a claim to nationality."